Northwestern
University Library
Evanston,
Illinois 60201
HEAETSEASE
"'Whoo-h! * as the gust came roaring down furiously upon them, pelting fiercely
with rain."—i'agfe 198.
Frontispiece.
HEARTSEASE
OR
THE BEOTHEE'S WIFE
ILLUSTRATED BY KATE GREENAWAY
3^onbon
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1880
r/ie llhjkt of Translation is lleservcd
LIST OF ILLUSTEATIONS.
"Violet went to the gate with him, while John stood at the
window watching the slender girlish figure under the
canopy of clematis, as she stood gazing after her husband Page 127
" 'Whoo-h !' as the gust came roaring down furiously upon
them, pelting fiercely with rain" . . . , ,, 198
"' Dear Theodora, I am afraid you don't like it, but you must
let me this once thank you'" 225
726040
HEARTSEASE;
OB,
THE BROTHEE'S "WIFE.
PART L
And Maidens call them Love in Idleness.
Midsummer Night's Dream*
CHAPTER I.
There are none of England's daughters that bear a prouder presence.
*******
And a kingly blood sends glances up, her princely eye to trouble,
And the shadow of a monarch's crown is softened in her hair.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
The sun shone slanting over a spacious park, the undulating
gi'ound here turning a broad lawn towards the beams that
silvered every blade of grass ; there, curving away in banks of
velvet green, shadowed by the trees; gnarled old thorns in the
holiday suit whence they take their name, giant's nosegays of
horse chesnuts, mighty elms and stalwart oaks, singly or in
groups, the aristocracy of the place ; while in the background
rose wooded coverts, where every tint of early green blended in
rich masses of varied foliage.
An avenue, nearly half a mile in length, consisted of a qua¬
druple range of splendid lime trees of uniform growth, the side
arcades vaulted over by the meeting branches, and the central
road, where the same lights and shadows were again and again
repeated,^conductmg the eye in diminishing perspective to a
mansion on a broad base of stone steps. Herds of cattle, horses,
and deer, gave animation to the scene, and near the avenue
were a party of village children running about gathering cow¬
slips, or seated on the grass, devouring substantial plum buns.
Under a lordly elm sat a maiden of about nineteen years; at
her feet a Skye terrier; like a walking door-mat, with a fierce
and droll countenance, and by her side a girl and boy, the one
sickly and poorly clad, the other with bright inquiring ©yes,
etriving to compensate for the want of other faculties. &he v/as
B
flEAETSEASE;
teaching them to form that delight of childhood, a cowslip ball,
the other children supplying her with handfuls of the gold-
coated flowers, and retnining a pull of the forelock or a bobbed
curtsey to her smiling thanks.
Her dress was of a plain brown-holland looking material, the
bonnet j^e had thrown off was of the coarsest straw, but her
whole air declared her the daughter of that lordly house; and
liad gold and rubies been laid before her instead of cowslips with
fairy favours, they would well have become her princely port,
long neck, and stately head, crowned with a braid of her pro¬
fuse black hair. That regal look was more remarkable in her
than beauty; her brow was too high, her features not quite
regular, her complexion of gypsy darkness, but with a glow of
colour, and her eyes very large, black, and deeply set, naturally
grave in expression, but just now beaming and dancing in ac¬
cordance with the encouraging smiles on her fresh, healthy, red
lips, as her hands, very soft and delicate, though of large and
strong make, completed the ball, threw it in the little boy's
face, and laughed to see his ecstasy over the delicious prize;
teaching him to play with it, tossing it backwards and forwards,
shaking him into animation, and ever and anon chasing her
little dog to extract it from between his teeth.
Suddenly she became aware of the presence of a spectator,
and instantly assuming her bonnet, and drawing up her tall
figure, she exclaimed, in a tone of welcome :
' Oh, Mr. Wingfield, you are come to see our cowslip feast.*
' There seems to be great enjoyment,' replied the young curate,
looking, however, somewhat pre-occupied.
' Look at Charlie Layton,' said she, pointing to the dumb boy.
* That ball is perfect felicity, he had rather not play with it, the
delight is mere possession.' She was turning to the boy again,
when Mr. "Wingfield -said, not without hesitation—* You have
not heard when to expect your party from Madeira V
* You know we cannot hear again. They were to sail by the
next packet, and it is uncertain how soon they may arrive.'
' And—and—^your brother Arthur. Do you know when he
comes home
' He promised to come this spring, but I fancy Captain Fitz-
hugh has inveigled him somewhere to fish. He never writes, so
he may come any day. But what—is anything the matter?'
'I have a letter here that—which—in Lord Martindale's
absence, I thought it might be better—you might prefer my
(joming direct to you. I cannot but think you should be aware'
—stammered lilr. Wingfield.
• Well,'—she said, haughtily.
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
' Her© is a letter from my cousin, who has a curacy in the.
Lake country. Your brother is at Wrangcrton, the next town.'
'Arthur is well?' cried she, starting.
' Yes, yes, you need not be alarmed, but I am afraid there is
some entanglement. There are some Miss Mosses !
' Oh, it is that kind of thing i said she, in an altered tone,
her cheeks glowing; ' it is very silly of him to get himself
talked about j but of course it is all nothing.*
' I wish I could think so,* said Mr. Wingfield; 'but, indeed.
Miss Martindale/ for she was returning to the children,' I am
afraid it is a serious matter. The father is a designing person.*
' Arthur will not be taken in,' was her first calm answer; but
perceiving the curate unconvinced, though unwilling to contra¬
dict, she added, ' But what is the story?'
Mr. Wingfield produced the letter and read; 'Fanshawe, the
curate of Wrangerton, has just been with me, telling me his
rector is in much difficulty and perplexity about a son of your
parishioner. Lord Martindale. He came to Wrangerton with
another guardsman for the sake of the fishing, and has been drawn
into an engagement with one of the daughters of old Moss, who
manages the St. Erme property. I know nothing against the
young ladies, indeed Fanshawe speaks highly of them; but the
father is a disreputable sort of attorney, who has taken advaii-
tage of Lord St. Erme's absence and neglect to make a prey
of the estate. The marriage is to take place immediately, and
poor Mr. Jones is in much distress at the dread of being asked
to pei'form the ceremony, without the consent of the young
man's family.*
' He cannot do it,* exclaimed the young lady; 'you had better
write and tell him so.*
' I am afraid,' said Mr. Wingfield, diffidently,' I am afraid he
has no power to refuse.'
'Hot in such a case as this? It is his duty to put a stop
to it.*
' All that is in his power he will do, no doubt, by reasoning
and remonstrance; but you must remember that your brother
is of age, and if the young lady's parents consent, Mr. Jones has
no choice.*
' I could not have believed it! However, it will not come to
that: it is only the old rector's fancy. To max© everything
secure I will write to my brother, and we shall soon see him
here.*
' There is still an hour before post-time,* said Mr. Wingfield;
' shall I send the children home ?'
'No, poor little things, let them finish their gamCc Thank
B 2
4
HEARTSEASE ;
you for coming to me. My aunt will, I hope, hear nothing of
it. Good evening.*
Calling an elder girl, she gave some directions; and Mr.
Wingfield watched her walking down the avenue with a light-
footed but decided and characteristic tread, expressing in every
step, ' Where I am going, there I will go, and nothing shall
stop me.*
* Nonsense !' she said to herself; 'Arthur cannot be so lost
to the sense of everything becoming. Such pain cannot be in
store for me! Anything else I coiJd bear; but this must not,
cannot, shall not be. Arthur is all I have; I cannot spare
him; and to see him shipwrecked on a low-bred designing
creature would be too much misery. Impossible—so clear¬
headed as he is, so fastidious about women! And yet this
letter spoke decidedly. People talk of love ! and Arthur is so
. easy, he would let himself be drawn on rather than make a dis¬
turbance. He might be ensnared with his eyes open, because
he disliked the trouble of breaking loose, and so would not
think of the consequence. Nothing could save him so well as
some one going to him. He can read a letter or not as he
chooses. Oh, if papa were at home—oh, if Mr. Wingfield were
but Percy Fotheringham — he who fears no man, and can
manage any one ! Oh ! if I could go myself; he heeds me when
he heeds no one else. Shall I go ? Why not? It would save
him; it would be the only effectual way. Let me see. I would
take Simmonds and Pauline. But then I must explain to my
aunt. Stuff! there are real interests at stake! Suppose this
is exaggeration—^why, then, I should be ridiculous, and Arthur
would never forget it. Besides, I believe I cannot get there in
one day—certainly not return the same. I must give way to
conventionalities, and be a helpless young lady.*
She reached the house, and quickly dashed off her letter:—
'My dear Arthur,—I hope and trust this letter may be
quite uncalled for, though I feel it my duty to write it. I used
to have some influence with you, and I should think that any¬
thing that reminded you of home would make you pause.
' Beport has of course outrun the truth. It is impossible you
should bo ou the brink of marriage without letting us know—
as much so, I should trust, as your seriously contemplating an
engagement with one beneath your notice. I dare say you fin<l
it very pleasant to amuse yourself; but consider, before you
allow yourself to form an attachment—I will not say before
becoming a victim to sordid speculation. You know what
poor Jchn has gone through, though there was no inferiority
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
5
there. Think what you would have to bear for the sake,
perhaps, of a pretty face, but of a person incapable of being a
companion or comfort, and whom you would be ashamed to see
beside your own family. Or, supposing your own affections
untouched, what right have you to trifle with the feelings of a
poor girl, and raise expectations you cannot and ought not to
fulfil t You are too kind, when once you reflect, to inflict such
pain, you, who cannot help being loved. Come away while it
is time; come home, and have the merit of self-sacrifice. H
your fancy is smitten, it will recover in its proper sphere. If it
costs you pain, you know to whom you have always hitherto
turned in your vexations. Dear Arthur, do not ruin yourself;
only come back to me. "Write at once; I cannot bear the
suspense.
' Your most affectionate sister,
' tneodora A. Martindalb,
She made two copies of this letter; one she directed to * The
Hon. Arthur Martindale, Grenadier Guards, Winchester ;■ the
other, * Post-office, Wrangorton.' In rather more than a week
she was answered
' My Dear Theodora,—^You judged rightly that I am no
man to trifle, or to raise expectations which I did not mean to
fulfil. My wife and I are at Matlock for a few days before
jomiiig at Winchester.
' Your affectionate brother,
* Arthur N. Martindale.'
CHAPTEK II.
She's less of a bride than a bairn.
She's ta'en like a colt from the heather,
With sense and discretion to learn.
A chiel maun be patient and steady
That yokes with a mate in her teens.
Woo'cl and Married and A*.
Joanna Baillis.
AGEJTTLEMAN stood waiting at the door of a house not
far from the Winchester barracks.
* la my brother at home, James V as the servant gave a start
of^surprise and recognition.
* No, sir ; he is not in the house, but Mrs.— j will you walk
in 1 I hope I see you better, sir.*
6
HEARTSEASE;
' MucL. better, tbank voil Did you say Mrs. Martindale was
at boirie V
'Yes, sir, Mr. Arthur soon be here. "Wont you walk
inV
* Is she in the drawing-room V
'No, I do not think so, sir. She went upstairs when she
came in.'
'Very well. I'll send up my card,' said he, entering, and
the man as he took it, said, with emphasis, and a pleading
look, ' She is a very nice young lady, sir,' then opened a room
sJoor.
He suddenly announced, 'Mr. hrartindale,' and that gentle¬
man unexpectedly found himself in the presence of a young
jprl, who rose in such confusion that he could not look at her
as he shook her by the hand, saying, ' Is Arthur near home V
'.Yes—no—^j^es; at least, he'll come soon,' was the reply, as
if she hardly knew what her words were.
'Were you going out?' he asked, seeing a bonnet on the
sofa.
' No, thank you y—at least I mean, I'm just come in. He
went to speak to some one, and I came to finish my letter.
He'll soon come,' said she, with the rapid ill-assured manner of
a school-girl receiving her mamma's visitors.
' Don't let me interrupt you,' said he, taking up a book.
' O no, no, thank you,' cried she, in a tremor lest she should
have been uncivil. ' I didn't mean—I've plenty of time. 'Tis
only to my home, and they have had one by the early post.'
He smiled, saying, ' You are a good correspondent.'
'Oh ! I must write. Annette and I were never apart
before.'
' Your sister V
'Yes, only a year older. We always did everything to¬
gether.'
He ventured to look up, and saw a bright dew on a soft,
shady pair of dark eyes, a sweet quivering smile on a very
pretty mouth, and a glow of pure bright deep pink on a most
delicately fair skin, contrasted with braids of dark brown hair.
She was rather above the ordinary height, slender, and graceful,
and the childish beauty of the form of face and features, sur¬
prised him ; but to his mind the chief grace was the shy, sweet
tenderness, happy and bright, but tremulous with the recent
[vain of the parting from home. With a kindly impulse, he
said, ' You must tell me your name, Arthur has not mentioned
it.'
' Violet ;* and as he did not appear at once to catch its un-
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
7
usual sound, she repeated, ' Violet Helen; we most of us have
strange names.*
' Violet Helen,* he repeated, with an intonation as if struck,
not unpleasingly, by the second name. 'Well,* that is the case
in our family. My sister has an uncommon name.'
' Theodora,* said Violet, pausing, as if too timid to enquire
further.
' Have you only this one sister Y he said.
' Six, and one brother,* said she, in a tone of exulting fond¬
ness.
A short silence, and then the joyful exclamation, ' There he
is !' and she sprang to the door, leaving it open, as her fresh
young voice announced, full of gratulation, ' Here's your
brother.'
Guileless and unconscious of evil, poor child! thought the
'brother; but I wonder how Arthur likes the news.
Arthur entered, a fine-looking young man, of three-and-
twenty, dark, bright complexioned, tall, and robust. He showed
not the least consciousness of having offended, and his bride
smiled freely as if at rest from all embarrassment now that she
had her protector.
'Well, John,* was his greeting, warmly spoken, 'You here?
You look better. How is the cough Y
'.Better, thank you.'
' I see I need not introduce you,* said Arthur, laying his
hand on the arm of his blushing Violet, who shrank up to him
as he gave a short laugh ; ' Have you been here long Y
' Only about five minutes.'
' And you are come to stay Y
' Thank you, if you can take me in for a day or two.*
' That we can. There is a tolerable spare room, and James
v ill find a place for Brown. I am glad to see you looking so
much better. Have you got rid of the pain in your side ?'
' Entirely, thank you, for the last few weeks.'
' How is my mother Y
' Very well. She enjoyed the voyage extremely.*
' She wont concoct another Tour Y
'I don't think so,* said John, gravely.
' There has sAe,* indicating his wife, ' been thinking it hei
duty to read the old Italian one, which I never opened in my
life. I declare it would take a dictionary to understand a page.
She is scared at the variety of tongues, and feels as if she was
in Babel.*
John was thinking that if he did not know this rattling talk
to be a form of embarrassment, he should take it for effrontery.
8
HEARTSEASE ;
•*' Shall I go and see about the room T half-whispered Violet.
' Yes, do j* and he opened the door for her, exclaiming,
almost before she was fairly gone, ' There ! you want no more
explanation.*
' She is very lovely!' said John, in a tone full of cordial
admiration.
' Isn't she V continued Arthur, triumphantly. ' Such an out
of the way style;—^the dark eyes and hair, with that exquisite
complexion, ivory fairness,—^the form of her face the perfect
oval!—^what you so seldom see—and her figure, just the right
height, tall and taper! I don't believe she could be awkward
if she was to try. She'll beat every creature hollow, especially
in a few years' time when she's a little more formed.'
' She is very young Y
' Sixteen on our wedding-day. That's the beauty of it. If
she had been a day older it would have been a different thing.
Not that they could have spoilt her,—she is a thoroughbred by
nature, and no mistake.'
* How did your acquaintance begin ?'
' This way,' said Arthur, leaning back, and twirling a chair
on one of its legs for a pivot. ' Fitzhugh would have me come
down for a fortnight's fishing to Wrangerton. There's but one
inn there fit to put a dog to sleep in, and when we got there
we found the house turned out of window for a ball, all the
partitions down on the first floor, and we driven into holes to
be regaled with distant fiddle-squeak. So Fitzhugh's Irish blood
was up for a dance, and I thought I might as well give in to
it, for the floor shook so that there was no taking a cigar in
peace. So you see the stars ordained it, and it is of no use
making a row about one's destiny,' concluded Arthur, in a
sleepy voice, ceasing to spin the chair.
* That was your first introduction Y
'Ay. After that, one was meeting the Mosses for ever;
indeed, we had to call on the old fellow to get leave for fishing
in that water of Lord St. Erme's. He has a very pretty sort of
little place out of the town close to the park, and—and. some¬
how the weather was too bright for any sport, and the stream
led by their garden.'
'1 perceive,' said John.
'Well, I saw I was in for it, and had nothing for it but to gc
through with it. Anything for a quiet life.'
' A new mode of securing it,' said John, indignant at his non¬
chalance.
'There you don't display your wonted sagacity,' returned
Arthur coolly. ' You little know what I have gone through .
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. 9
on your account. If you had been sound-winded, you would
have saved me no end of persecution.*
' You have not avoided speculation as it is,' John could not
help saying.
' I beg to observe that you are mistaken. Old Moss is as
cunning a fox as ever lived ; but I saw his game, and without
my own good-will he might have whistled for me. I saw what
he was up to, and let him know it, but as I was always de¬
termined that when I married it should be to please myself, not
my aunt, I let things take their course and saved the row at
home.'
' I am sure she knew nothing of this.'
' She 1 Bless you, poor child. She is as innocent as a lamb,
and only thinks me all the heroes in the world.'
' She did not know my father was ignorant of it V
*Not she. She does not know it to this day.' John sat
thinking; Arthur twirled the chair, then said, ^That is the
fact. I suj^pose my aunt had a nice story for you.'
* It agreed in the main with yours.'
' I was unlucky,' said Arthur, ' I meant to have brought her
home before my aunt and Theodora had any news of it. I could
have got round them that way, but somehow Theodora got
scent of it, and wrote me a furious letter, full of denunciation—
two of them—^they hunted me everywhere, so I saw it was no
use going there.'
' She is much hurt at your letter. I can see that she is,
though she tries to hide her feelings. She was looking quite
pale when we came home, and I can hardly bear to see the
struggle to look composed when you are mentioned.'
This evidently produced some compunction, but Arthur tried
to get rid of it. * I am sure there was nothing to take to heart
in it—^was there, John?'
* I don't know. She had burnt it without letting any one
see it; and it was only through my aunt that we learnt that
she had received it.'
' Well! her temper is up, and I am sorry for it,' said Arthur.
' I forget what I said. I dare say it was no more than she
deserved. I got one of these remonstrances of hers at Wran-
gerton, on the day before, and another followed me a couple of
days after to Matlock, so I could not have that going on for
ever, and wrote off to put a stop to it. But what does his lord¬
ship say V
* Do you wish him to forgive or not V said his brother, nearly
out of patience.
' Of course—I knew he would ; he can't leave us with nothing
10
HEARTSE^E ;
to live on. There's nothing to be done but to go througli the
forms, and I am quite ready. Come, vrhat's the use of looking
intensely disgusted % Now you have seen her, you don't expect
me to profess that I am very sorry, and ' will never do so no
more.''
' I say nothing against her, but the way of doing it.'
' So much trouble saved. Besides, I tell you I am ready to
make whatever apology my father likes for a preliminary.'
His brother looked vexed, and dropped the conversation,
waiting to see more of the bride before he should form an
opinion.
It was seeing rather than hearing, for she was in much awe
of him, blushed more than she spoke, and seemed taken up by
the fear of doing something inappropriate, constantly turning
wistful, enquiring looks towards her husband, to seek encourage¬
ment or direction, but it was a becoming confusion, and by no
means lessened the favourable impression.
The next morning Arthur was engaged, and left her to be the
guide to the cathedral, whereat she looked shy and frightened,
Wt Mr. Martindale set himself to re-assure her, and the polished
gentleness of his manner soon succeeded.
They stood on the hill, overlooking the town and the vale of
Itchen, winding away till lost between the green downs that
arose behind their crested neighbour, St. Catherine's Hill, and
in the valley beneath reposed the grey cathedral's lengthened
nave and square tower, its lesser likeness, St. Cross, and the
pinnacles of the College tower.
' A very pretty view,' said Mr. Martindale.
' The old buildings are very fine, but it is not like our own
hills.'
*No, it is hard on Hampshire downs to compare them to
Cumberland mountains.'
* But it is so sunny and beautiful,' said the bright young bride.
' See the sunshine on the green meadows, and the hay-making.
Oh ! I shall always love it.' John heard a great deal of hap¬
piness in those words. ' I never saw a cathedral before,' she
added.
' Have you been over this one V
' Yes, but it will be such a treat to go again. One can't take
a quarter of it in at once.'
* No, it takes half a lifetime to learn a cathedral properly.'
' It is a wonderful thing,' she said, with the same serious face;
then, changing her tone to one of eagerness, * I want to find
Bishop Fox's tomb, for he was a north-country bishop.'
John smiled. * You are perfect in the cathedral history.*
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
11
* I bought a little book about it.*
ller knowledge was, be found, in a girlish state of keen
interest, and not deficient, but what pleased him best was that,
as they entered and stood at the west door, looking down
the whole magnificent length of nave, choir, and chapel, the
embowed roof high above, sustained on massive pillars, she
uttered a low murmur of' beautiful!' and there was a heartfelt
expression of awe and reverence on her face, a look as of rapt,
thought, chased away in a moment by his eye, and giving place
to quiet pensiveness. After the service they went over the
building; but though eager for information, the gravity did not
leave her, nor did she speak at once when they emerged into
the Close.
' It is very impressive,' said John.
' I suppose you have seen a great many cathedrals V
' Yes, many foreign ones, and a few English.*
* I wonder whether seeing many makes one feel the same as
seeing one.'
* How do you mean Y
* I do not think I could ever care for another like this one.*
* As your first V
* Yes; it has made me understand better what books say
about churches, and their being like—'
' Like V
She changed her sentence. ' It makes one think, and want
to be good.'
* It is what all tmly beautiful things should do,' said John.
' Oh ! I am glad you say so,' exclaimed Violet. ' It is like
what Annette and I have wondered about—I mean why fine
statues or pictures, or anything of that kind, should make one
feel half sad and half thoughtful when one looks at them
long.'
* Perhaps because it is a straining after the only true beauty.'
* I must tell Annette that. It was she that said it was so,'
said Violet; * and we wondered Greek statues gave one thai
feel, but I see it must be the reason.'
* What statues have you seen Y
* Those at Wrangerton House. Lord St. Erme is always
sending cases home, and it is such a festival day to go up and
see them unpacked, and Caroline and Annette go and take
drawings, and I like to wander about the rooms, and look at
everything,' said Violet, growing talkative on the theme of
home. * There is one picture I like above all, but that is a
sacred subject, so no wonder it should have that feeling in it.'
* What is it Y
12
HEAETSEASE ;
* It is a Madonna,* slie said, lowering her voice. * A stiff old-
fasMoned one, in beautiful bright clear colouring. The Child is
reaching out to embrace a little cross, and his Mother holds him
towards it with such a sad but such a holy face, as if she fore¬
boded all, and was ready to bear it.'
* Ah ! that Ghirlandajo V
* That is the name !* cried Violet, enchanted, * Have yon
seen it V
* I saw Lord St. Erme buy it.'
'Do you know Lord St. Ermef said Violet, rather awe¬
struck.
' I used to meet him in Italy.'
' We wish so much that he would come home. We do so want
to see a poet.'
John smiled. ' Is he never at home V
' O, no j he has never been at Wrangerton since his father
died, twelve years ago. He does not like the place, so he only
comes to London when he is in England, and papa goes up to
meet him on business; but he is too poetical to attend to it.'
I should guess that.'
' I have done wrong,' said Violet, checking herself; ' I should
not have said that. Mamma told us that we ought never to
chatter about his concerns. Will you, please, not remember
that I said it V
' As far as the outer world is concerned, I certainly will not,'
said John, kindly. ' You cannot too early leam discretion. So
that picture is at Wrangerton ?'
' I am so glad you liked it.'
' I liked it well enough to wish for a few spare hundreds, but
it seems to have afforded no more pleasure to him than it has
given to me. I am glad it is gone where there is some one who
can appreciate it.'
' Oh,' said Violet, ' Matilda knows all about the best pictures.
We don't appreciate, you know, we only like.'
' And your chief liking is for that one V
' It is more than liking,' said Violet; ' I could call it loving.
It is almost the same to me as Helvellyn. Annette and I went
to the house for one look more my last evening at home. I must
tell her that you have seen it!' and the springing steps grew so
rapid, that her companion had to say,' Don't let me detain you,
I am obliged to go gently up hill.' She checked her steps,
abashed, and presently, with a shy but very pretty action, held
out her arm, saying timidly,'' Would it help you to lean on mel
I ought not to have brought you this steep way. Matilda says
I skurry like a school-girl.'
OE, THE BEOTHEE'S WIFE.
13
He saw it would console her to let her think herself of ser-
ice, and accepted of the slender prop for the few steps that
emained. He then went up stairs to write letters, hut finding
10 ink, came to the drawing-room to ask her for some. She had
»nly her own ink-stand, which was supplying her letter to
Annette, and he sat down at the opposite side of the table to
hare it. Her pen went much faster than his. ' Clifton Ter^
ace, Winchester,* and *My dear father—I came here yesterday,
nd was most agreeably suq^rised,' was all that he had indited,
\rhen he paused to weigh what was his real view of the merits
if the case, and ponder whether his present feeling was sober
udgment, or the novelty of the bewitching prettiness of this
nnocent and gracious creature. There he rested, musing, while
rom her pen flowed a description of her walk and of Mr. Mar-
indale's brother. 'If they are all like him, I shall be per-
ectly happy,' she wrote. ' I never saw any one so kind and
onsiderate, and so gentle; only now and then he frightens me,
rith his politeness, or perhaps polish is the right word; it makes
ne feel myself rude and uncourteous and awkward. You said
lothing gave you so much the notion of high-breeding as Mr.
dartindale's ease, especially when he pretended to be rough and
alk slang, it vras like playing at it. How, his brother has the
ame, without the funny roughness, but the greatest gentleness,
nd a good deal of quiet sadness. I suppose it is from his
lealth, though he is much better now : he still coughs, and he
aoves slowly and leans languidly, as if he was not strong. He
3 not so tall as his brother, and much slighter in make, and
airer complexioned, with grey eyes and brown hair, and he
ooks sallow and worn and thin, with such white long hands.*
Here raising her eyes to verify her description, she en-
ountered those of its subject, evidently taking a survey of her
or the same purpose. He smiled, and she was thereby
ncouraged to break into a laugh, so girlish and light-hearted,
o unconscious how much depended on his report, that he could
Lot but feel compassionate.
Alarmed at the graver look, she crimsoned, exclaiming, ' 0!
! beg your pardon! It was very rude.*
'No, no,* said John; 'it was absurd!* and vexed at having
hecked her gladsomeness, he added, ' It is I rather who should
.sk your pardon, for looks that will not make a cheerful figure
n your description.*
' Oh, no,* cried Violet; 'mamma told me never to say any-
hing against any of Mr. Martindale's relations. What have I
aidl'—as he could not help laughing—'Something I could not
lave meant.*
u
HEAETSEASE;
'Don't distress yottrself, pray,' said Jolin, not at all in a
bantering tone. 'I know wkat you meant; and it was very
wise advice, such as you will be very glad to have followed.*
"With a renewed blush, an ingenuous look, and a hesitating
effort, she said, *Indeedj I have been telling them how very kind
you are. Mamma will be so pleased to hear it.'
' She must have been very sorry to part with you,' said he,
looking at the fair girl sent so early into the world.
' Oh, yes!' and the tears started to the black eyelashes, though
R smile came at the same time; 'she said I should be such a
giddy young housekeeper, and she would have liked a little more
notice.'
'It was not very long?' said John, anxious to lead her to
give him information; and she was too young and happy not
to be confidential, though she looked down and glowed as she
answered, ' Six weeks.'
' And you met at the ball V
' Yes, it was very curious;' and with deepening blushes she
went on, the smile of happiness on her lips, and her eyes cast
down. ' Annette was to go for the first time, and she would
not go without me. JVIarnma did not like it, for I was not
sixteen then; but uncle Christopher came, and said I should,
because I was his pet. But I can never think it was such a
short time; it seems a whole age ago.'
' It must,' said John, with a look of interest that made her
continue,
' It was very oda how it all happened. Annette and I had
no one to dance with, and were wondering who those two
gentlemen were. Captain Fitzhugh was dancing with Miss
Evelyn, and he—Mr. Martindale—was leaning against the wall,
looking on.'
' I know exactly—with his arms crossed so—*
'Yes, just so,' said Yiolet, smiling; 'and presently Grace
Bennet came and told Matilda who they were; and while I
was listening, oh, I was so surprised, for there was Albert, my
brother, making me look round. Mr. Martindale had asked to
be introduced to us, and he asked me to dance. I don't believe
I answered right, for I thought he meant Matilda. But,' said
she, breaking off, ' how I am chattering and hindering you!' and
she coloured and looked down.
'Hot at all,' said John; 'there is nothing I wish more to
hear, or that concerns me more nearly. Anything you like
to tell.'
I am afraid it is silly,' half-whispered Violet to herself; but
the recollection was too pleasant not to be easily drawn out;
OE, THE BEOTHEE'S WIFE.
and at her age the transition is short from shyness to con¬
fidence.
'Not at all silly,* said John. 'Yon know I must wish to
hear how I gained a sister.* Then, as the strangeness of
imagining that this grave, high-bred, more than thirty-years-old
gentleman, could possibly call her by such a name, set her
smiling and blushing in confusion, he wiled on her commu¬
nications by saying, 'Well, that evening you danced with
Arthur.*
'Three times. It was a wonderful evening. Annette and
I said, when we went to bed, we had seen enough to think of
for weeks. We did not know how much more was going to
happen.*
' No, I suppose not.*
'I thought much of. it when he bowed to me. I little
fancied—but there was another odd coincidence—wasn't iti
In general I never go into the drawing-room to company
because there are three older; but the day they came to speak
to papa about the fishing, mamma and all the elder ones were
out of the way, except Matilda. I was doing my Roman history
with her, when papa came in and said, we must both come into
the drawing-room.'
' You saw more of him from that time?'
'0 yes; he dined with us. It was the first time I ever
dined with a party, and he talked so much to me, that Albert
began to laugh at me; but Albert always laughs. I did not
care till—till—that day when he walked with us in the park,
coming home from fishing.'
Her voice died away, and her face burnt as she looked
down; but a few words of interest led her on.
' "When I told mamma, she said most likely he thought me a
little girl who didn't signify; but I did not think he could, for
I am the tallest of them all, and every one says I look as if I
was seventeen, at least. And then she told me grand gentle¬
men and officers didn't care what nonsense they talked. You
know she didn't know him so well then,' said Violet, looking up
pleadingly.
' She was very prudent.*
' She could not know he did not deserve it,' said the young
bride, ready to resent it for her husband, since his brother diJ
not, then again excusing her mother. ' It was all her care fm
me, dear mammal She told me not to think about it; but I
could not help it I Indeed I could not 1'
'No, indeed,' and painful recollections of his own premised on
liim, but he could not help being glad this tender young heart
16 HEAETSEASE;
was not left to pine under disappointment. ' How long ago was
thiaV
' That was six weeks ago—a month before our wedding-day/
said she, blushingly. ' I did wish it could have been longer.
I wanted to learn how to keep house, and I never could, for he
was always coming to take me to walk in the park. And it all
happened so fast, I had no time to understand it, nor to talk to
mamma and Matilda. And then mamma cried so much! I
don't feel to understand it now; but soon perhaps I shall have
more quiet time. I should like to have waited till Lord
Martindale came home, but they said that could not be, because
his leave of absence would be over. I did wish very much
though that Miss Martindale could have left her aunt to come to
our wedding.'
John found reply sO difficult, that he was glad to be in¬
terrupted by Arthur's return. He soon after set out to call
upon Captain Fitzhugh, who had been at Wrangerton with
Arthur.
From him more of the circumstances were gathered. Mr.
Moss was the person universally given up to reprobation. *A
thorough schemer,' said the Irish captain. As to the Miss
Mosses, they were lady-like girls, most of them pretty, and
everywhere well spoken of. In fact, John suspected he had had
a little flirtation on his own account with some of them, though
he took credit to himself for having warned his friend to be
careful. He ended with a warm-hearted speech, by no means
displeasing to John, hoping he would make the best of it with
Lord Martindale, for after all, she was as pretty a creature as
could be seen, one that any man might be proud of for a
daughter-in-law; and to his mind it was better than leaving
the poor girl to break her heart after him when it had gone
so far.
Arthur himself was in a more rational mood that evening.
He had at first tried to hide his embarrassment by bravado;
but he now changed his tone, and as soon as Yiolet had left the
dining-room, began by an abrupt inquiry, 'What would you
have me do V
* Why don't you write to my father V
Arthur writhed. ' I suppose it must come to that/ he said;
' but tell me first the state of things.'
' You could not expect that there would not be a good deal of
indignation.'
' Ay, ay! How did you get the news 1 Did Theodora tell
you V
'No; there was a letter from Colonel Harrington; and at
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
17
homQ they knew the circumstances pretty correctly through
a cousin of Wingfield's, who has a curacy in that neighbour¬
hood.'
' Oh! that was the way Theodora came by the news. I wish
he had let alone telling her,—I could have managed her alone;—
but there! it was not in human nature not to tell such a story,
and it did not much matter how it was done. Well, and my
aunt is furious, I suppose, but I'll take care of her and of my
lady. I only want to know how my father takes it.'
' He cannot endure the notion of a family feud j but the first
step must come from you.'
'Very well:—^and so you came to set it going. It is very
good-natured of you, John. I depended on you or Theodora
for helping me through, but I did not think you would have
come in this way. I am glad you have, for now you have seen
her you can't say a word against it.'
'Against Aer, certainly not. I have made acquaintance
with her this morning, and—and there is everything to interest
one in her:' and then, as Arthur looked delighted, and was
ready to break into a rhapsody—'Her simplicity especially.
When you write you had better mention her entire ignorance of
the want of sanction. I cannot think how she was kept in such
unconsciousness.'
'She knows nothing of people's ways,* said Arthur. 'She
knew you were all abroad, and her own family told her it was
all right. Her father is a bit of a tyrant, and stopped the
mother's mouth, I fancy, if she had any doubts. As to herself,
it was much too" pretty to see her so happy, to let her set up
her little scruples. She did just as she was told, like a good
child.'
' 0 Arthur! you have undertaken a great responsibility f
exclaimed John.
But Arthur, without seeming to heed, continued, 'So you
see she is quite clear; but I'll write, and you shall see if it
is not enough to satisfy my father, before he sets us going
respectably.'
' I can't answer for anything of that sort.'
' Something he must do,' said Arthur, ' for my allowance is
not enough to keep a cat; and as to the ninth part of old Moss's
pickings and stealings, if I meant to dirt my fingers with it, it
wont be to be come by till he is disposed of, and that wont be
these thirty years.'
* Then, he let you marry without settling anything on
her J'
' * He was glad to bave 'aer off his hands on any terms,
0
18
HEARTSEASE ;
Besidea, to tell you the truth, John, I am convinced he had nn
notion you would ever come home again. He knew I sa'vV' his
game, and dreaded I should be off; so he and I were both of
one mind, to have it over as soon as possible.'
' I only hope you will make her happy !' said John, earnestly.-
* Happy!' exclaimed Arthur, surprised; * small doubt of
that 1 What should prevent me V
* I think you will find you must make some sacrifices.'
' It all depends on my father,' said Arthur, a little crossly,
and taking his wilting case from another table.
He was so well pleased with his performance that, as soon as
he was alone withYiolet, he began, * There, I've done it! John
said it could not be better, and after the impression you have,
made, no fear but he will pacify the great folks.'
Bhe was perplexed. ' Who f said she; ' not Lord and Lad^
Martindale 1 Oh ! surely I have not done anything to displease
them.'
* You must have been ingenious if you had.'
' Pray, do tell me ? Why are they to be pacified ? What
is the matter ? Do they think they shan't like me 1 Ought I
to do anything V
'My little bird, don't twitter so fast. You have asked a
dozen questions in a breath.'
'I wish you would tell me what it means,' said Yiolet,
imploringly.
'Well, I suppose you must know sooner or later. It only
means that they are taken by surprise.'
Yiolet gazed at him in perplexity, then, -with a dawning
perception, ' Oh ! surely you don't meah they did not approve
of it.'
'Hobody asked them,' said Arthur, carelessly, then as she
turned away, covering her face with her hands, 'But it is
nothing to take to heart in that Way. I am my own master,
you know, you silly child, and you had plenty of consent, and
all that sort of thing, to satisfy you, so you are quite out of the
scrape.'
She scarcely seemed to hear.
' Come, come, Yiolet, this wont do,' he continued, putting his
arm round her, and turning her towards him, while he pulled
down her hands. ' This is pretty usage. You can't help it now
if you would.'
' Oh 1 Mr. Martindale 1'
' Ah ! you don't know what I have saved you. I was not
going to see all that pink paint worn off those cheeks, nor
J our life and my own wasted in waiting for them to bring
oil, THE BEOTHER'S WIFE.
19
their minds to it. I have seen enough of that. Poor John
there—
'How 1—^what V said Yiolet, with alarmed curiosity.
' She died,' said Arthur.
' How long ago 1 "What was her name V
'Helen Fotheringham. She was our old parson's daughter,
rhey waited eight years, and she died last summer. I see he
wears hie mourning still.'
Yiolet looked aghast, and spoke low. ' How very sad !
Helen! That was the reason he looked up when he heard it
was my name. Poor Mr. John Martindale ! I saw the crape
on his hat. Was that what made him so ill V
' It nearly killed him last year, but he never had lungs good
for anything. First, my aunt set my father against it, and
when he gave in, she had a crabbed decrepit old grandfather,
and between them thev were the death of her, and almost of
him. I never thought he would rally again.'
' Only lasf year !' exclaimed Yiolet. ' O dear ! and there
have I been telKng him all about—about this spring. I would
not have done it, if I had known. I thought he looked melan¬
choly sometimes. Oh ! I wish I had not.'
' You did, did you said Arthur, much amused. ' You
chatterbox.'
' Oh ! I am so sorry. I wish—^
'No, no, he only liked you the better for it. I assure you,
Yiolet, he almost said so. Then that was what made him lay
such stress on your being an innocent little victim.'
' Would you be so kind as to explain it to me ?' said Yiolet,
in such serious distress that he answered with less trifling than
usual, ' There is nothing to tell. I knew how it would be if I
asked leave, so I took it. That's all.'
' And—and surely they didn't know this at home ?'
' The less said about that the better, Yiolet,' said Arthur,
' You are all right, you know, and in great favour with John.
He can do anything with my father, and I have written. We
shall be' at home before the end of another month, and set going
with a decent income in London. A house—where shall it be"?
Let me see, he can't give me less than 1000?. a year, perhaps
1500?. I vow I don't see why it should not be 2000?. John
wants no more than he has got, and will never marry now, and
there is only Theodora. I was always my aunt's favourite, and
if you mind what you are about we shall have our share of the
old sugar-planter's hoards, better than the Barbuda property—
all niggers and losses. I wash my hands of it, though by lights
it should come to the second son.'
CO
20
HEARTSEASE;
Neither imderstanding nor heeding all this, Violet inter¬
rupted by gasping out, * Oh ! I am so grieved.'
' Grieved!—say that again. Grieved to be Mrs. Arthur
Martindale V
' O no, no j but—^
* Grieved to have found such a fool as to risk everything, and
run counter to all his friends for the sake of that silly little
ungrateful face V
She was coaxed out of vexation for the present; but she
awoke the next morning with a feeling of culpability and dread
of all the Martindale family.
John could not understand her altered manner and the timid
bashfulness, greater than even at their first meeting. In fact,
the history of his grief inspired her with a sort of reverential
compassion for him, and the perception of the terms on whiclf
she stood, made her laugh of yesterday seem to her such
unbecoming levity, that upon it she concentrated all her vague
feelings of contrition.
When he came as before, to borrow some ink; as she gave it
to him her hand shook, and her colour rose. After standing
musing a little while, she said, moumfrdly, *I am very
soiTy r
' What is the matter ?' said he, kindly.
* I am so vexed at what I did yesterday 1'
* What do you mean V
Tor laughing,' said she, in a tone of distress. 'Indeed,
indeed, I did not know,' and though she averted her face, he
saw that the crimson had spread to her neck. He did not at
once reply, and she went on incoherently. ' I did not know—
I could not guess. Of course—I wondered at it all. I
knew I was not fit—^but they never told me—0,1 am so
much grieved.'
Most soothingly did John say, coming towards her, 'No, no
you need not distress yourself. No one can blame you.'
' But Lord Martindale'—she murmured.
' He will look on you like a daughter. I know I may pro¬
mise you that. Yes, indeed, I have no doubt of it, my dear
little sister,' he repeated, as she looked earnestly at him. ' I
have told him how entirely you deserve his kindness and
afiection, and Arthur has written such a letter as will be sure
to bring his forgiveness.'
'Ah !' said Violet, 'it is all for my sake. No wonder they
should be angry.*
' Don't fancy that any one is angry with you. We all know .
that you were ignorant how matters stood.'
oil, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
21
' But I should have done the same if I had known. I could
not have helped it/ said Violet.
* I know/ said John, ' no one coidd expect it of you. Arthur
told me at once that you were free from any shadow of blame,
and no one thinks of imputing any.'
* But are they very much displeased ]' said poor Violet.
*0f course/ said John, after a little consideration, 'it was a
shock to hear of such an important step being taken without
my father's knowledge ; but he is very anxious there should be
no estrangement, and I am sure he will behave as if things had
gone on in the usual course. You may have great confidence in
Lis kindness, Violet.'
She was somewhat reassured, and presently went on—' ]
don't wonder they are vexed. T know how much beneath him
I am, but I could not help that. Oh ! I wish Matilda was here
to tell me how to behave, that every one may not be ashamed
of me and angry with him.'
' Don't be frightened,' said John, ' you have pleased two of
the family already, you Imow, and depend upon it, you will make
them all like you in time as much as I do.'
' If you can overlook that laugh !' said Violet.
'I could say I liked you the better for it/ said John, plea¬
santly ; ' only I don't know whether it would be a safe prece¬
dent. It has made us feel well acquainted, I hope. Don't make
a stranger of me, he continued; 'don't forget that we are
brother and sister.'
'I'm sure,'—and she broke off, unable to express herself;
then added, ' Lady Martindale ! I was frightened before at the
thought of her, but it is much worse now.'
'You must not frighten yourself. You will find out how
kind she is when you come to know her, and soon get over youi
first strangeness and shyness.'
'And there is your sister/ said Violet; 'Theodora—I do
long to see her. Is she most like you or your brother V
' Bemarkably like him. She always makes children very fond
of her,' he added, pausing to find something safe and yet
encouraging ; ' but I don't know half as much of her as Arthur
does. We have not been as much together as I could wish.'
' I see now why she never wrote,' said Violet, with some
shame, and yet glad to have it accounted for. ' But she will be
sure to help me, and tell me how to behave. She will want
them to be able to bear me for his sake.'
Without much reply, he applied himself to his letter, feeling
that he could hardly give an impartial judgment. It had
been a great effort to come to visit' the bridal-pair, but Le
22
HEARTSEASE;
fourd himself rewarded in a way he had not expected by the
new pleasure given him by her engaging ways; her freshness
and artlessness rousing him from long-continued depression of
spirits.
After some pondering, she suddenly looked up, and exclaimed,
«\Vell, I'll try!'
'Try what, Violet?'
' I'll try to do my very best 1' said she, cheerfully, though
the tears still were in her eyes. ' I know I shall make mis¬
takes, and I can never be like a great lady; but I'll do the
best I can, if they will only bear with me, and not be angry
with him.'
' I am sure you will do well, with such resolutions.'
' One thing I am glad of,' added she, ' that we came here
just now. That old cathedral! I did not think much before
—it was all strange and new, and I was too happy. But I
shall never be so thoughtless now—or if I am 1 O, I know,'
she exclaimed, with renewed energy, 'I'll buy one of those
pretty white cups' with views of the cathedral on them. Did
you not see them in the shop-window ? That will put me in
mind if I am going to be careless of all my resolutions.'
' Besolutions so made are likely to be kept,' said John, and
she presently left the room, recollecting that her store of biscuits
needed replenishing before luncheon. She was putting on her
bonnet to go to order them, when a doubt seized her whether
she was transgressing the dignities of the Honourable Mrs. Mar-
tindale. Matilda had lectured against vulgarity when Arthur
had warned her against ultra-gentility, and she wavered, till
finding there was no one to send, her good sense settled the
question. She walked along, feeling the cares and troubles of
life arising on her, and thinking she should never again be gay
and thoughtless, when she suddenly heard her husband's voice—
' Ha ! whither away so fast ?' and he and Captain Fitzhugh
overtook her.
' I was going into the town on an errand.'
' Just the moment I wanted you. There's a cricket-match in
the College Meads. Come along.'
And with her arm in his, Violet's clouds vanished, and she
had no recollection of anxieties or vexations. The summer sky
was overhead, the river shone blue and bright, the meadows
smiled in verdure, the whole scene was full of animation, and
the game, of which she knew nothing, was made charming by
Arthur's explanations. Nearly an hour had passed before she
bethought herself of suggesting it was almost time to go homo.
' Presently,* said Arthur; ' let us see this fellow out.'
OR, THft BROTHER'S WIFE.
28
Another ten minutes. 'Would you look at your watch
please 1 There's your brother waiting for his luncheon.*
' O, ay, 'tis nearly time,* and he was again absorbed. She
thought he would not be pleased if she went home alone, nor
was she sure of the way; so she waited in much annoyance,
till at length he said, ' Now, Violet,' and they walked briskly
home, all that she had endured passing entirely out of her
mind.
She rejoiced to find Mr. Martindale unconscious that it was
not far from two o'clock. He said he had been glad of time to
finish his letters, and Arthur, as his eye fell on one of them,
asked, ' What is Percy doing now V
' He has been in Anatolia, going over some of the places we
saw together.' He has made some discoveries about the Cru¬
sades, and is thinking of publishing some of his theories.'
' Hid I not hear of his writinsc something before this V
O O
' Yes; he sent some curious histories of the eastern Jews to
some magazine. They are to be published separately, as they
have been very successful; but I am glad this book is to be
what he calls' self-contained.''- He is too good to be wasted upon
periodicals.'
Violet, curious to know who was this literary correspondent,
glanced at the letter, and read the address, to ' Antony Percival
Fotheringham, Esquire, British Embassy, Constantinople.* She
started to find it was the surname of that lost betrothed of
whom she thought with an undefinable reverent pity.
All speculations were put to flight, however, by the entrance
of the luncheon tray, containing nothing but slices of cold mut¬
ton and bread and butter. With a grievous look of dismay, and
lamentable exclamation, she began to pour out explanations and
apologies; but the gentlemen seemed too intent on conversing
about Mr. Fotheringham either to hear her or to perceive any¬
thing amiss.
She remembered black looks and sharp words at home ; and
feeling dreadfully guilty at having failed immediately after her
resolutions, she retreated to her room, and there Arthur found
her in positive distress.
' Oh, I am so much concerned ! It was so wrong to forget
those biscuits. Your brother ate nothing else yesterday at
luncheon!'
' Is that all V said Arthur, laughing; ' I thought something had
happened to you. Come, on with your bonnet. Fancy 1 John
will actually walk with us to St. Cross 1'
Let me first tell you how it happened. There are a couple
of ducks—'
24
HEARTSEASE;
' Let tLem be. No bousekeeping afiairs for me. Wbatever
happens, keep your own connsel. If they serve yon np a bar¬
becued puppy dog, keep a cool countenance, and help the com¬
pany round. No woman good for anything mentions her bill
of fare in civilized society. Mind that.
Violet was left imagining her apologies a breach of good
■planners. "What must hir. Martindale think of her? Silly,
childish, indiscreet, giggling, neglectful, underbred! How he
must regret his brother's having such a wife !
Yet his pleasant voice, and her husband's drawing her arm
into his, instantly dispelled all fear and regret, and her walk was
delightful.
She was enchanted with St. Cross, delighted with the qua¬
drangle of grey buildings covered with creepers, the smooth tof
and gay flowers; in raj)tures at the blackjacks, dole of bread and
beer, and at the silver-crossed brethren, and eager to extract all
Mr. Martindale's information on the architecture and history of
the place, lingering over it as long as her husband's patience
would endure, and hardly able to tear herself from the quiet
glassy stream and green meadows.
' If Caroline were only here to sketch it!' she cried, * there
would be nothing wanting but that that hill should be Hel-
vellyn.*
' You should see the mountain convents in Albania,* said
John; and she was soon charmed with his account of his
adventures there with Mr. Fotheringham. She was beginning
to look on him as a perfect mine of information—one who had
seen the whole world, and read everything. All that was
wanting, she said, was Matilda properly to enter into his con¬
versation.
Another day brought letters, inviting Arthur to bring home
his bride for a fortnight's visit, as soon as he could obtain leave
cf absence.
OS, THE BEOTIIES'S WIFE.
25
CHAPTEE III.
Who is the bride 1 A simple village maid.
Beauty and truth, a violet in the shade.
She takes their forced welcome and their wiles
For her own truth, and lifts her head and smiles.
They shall not change that truth by any art.
Oh ! may her love change them before they part.
She turns away, her eyes are dim with tears.
Her mother's blessing lingers in her ears,
' Bless thee, my child,' the music is unheard,
Her heart grows strong on that remembered word.
Feedekick Tex^jvsch.
HEE-E we are!' said Artlmr Martindale. ' Here's the
lodge.' Then looking in his wife's face, ' Why ! you are
as white as a sheet. Come ! don't be a silly child. They wont
bite.'
* I am glad I have seen Mr. John Martindale,' sighed she.
* Don't call him so here. Ah !«I meant to tell you you must
not Mr. Martindale me here. John is Mr. Martindale.'
' And what am I to call you
* By my name, of course.'
' Arthur 1 Oh ! I don't know how.'
* You will soon. And if you can help shrinking when
my aunt kisses you, it will be better for us. Ha ! there is
Theodora.'
* 0, where ?'
* Gone! Pled in by the lower door. I wish I could have
caught her.'
Violet held her breath. The grand parterre, laid out in
regularly-shaped borders, each containing a mass of one kind of
flower, flaming elscholchias, dazzling verbenas, azure nemophilas,
or sober heliotrope, the broad walks, the great pile of building,
the innumerable windows, the long ascent of stone steps, their
balustrade guarded by sculptured sphinxes, the lofty entrance,
and the tall powdered footmen, gave her the sense of entering a
palace. She trembled, and clung to Arthur's arm as they came
into a great hall, where a vista of marble pillars, orange trees,
and statues, opened before her; but comfort came in the cordial
brotherly greeting with which John here met them.
* She is frightened out of her senses,' said Arthur.
John's reply was an encouraging squeeze of the hand, which
he retained, leading her, still leaning on her husband's arm,
into a room, where an elderly gentleman was advancing; botu
her hands were placed within his by her supporters on either
?8
HEARTSEASE;
side, and he kissed her, gravely saying, 'Welcome, my dear,
lie then presented her to a formal embrace from a tall lady
and Arthur saying, ' Well, Theodora! here, Violet,' again tool
her hand, and put it into another, whose soft cl^p was noi
ready, nor was the kiss hearty.
Presently Violet, a little re-assured by Lord Martindale'i
gentle tones, ventured on a survey. She was on the same sof
with Lady Martindale; but infinitely remote she felt from tha
form like an eastern queen, richly dressed, and with dark ma
jestic beauty, whose dignity was rather increased than impairec
by her fifty years. She spoke softly to the shy stranger, bu
with a condescending tone, that marked the width of the gulf
and Violet's eyes, in the timid hope of sympathy, turnec
towards the sister.
But, though the figure was younger, and the dress plainer
something seemed to make her still more unapproachable
There was less beauty, less gentleness, and the expression o
her countenance had something fixed and stern. Now and thei
there was a sort of agitation t)f the muscles of the face, and hei
eyes were riveted on Arthur, excepting that if he looked towardi
her, she instantly looked out of the window. She neither spok(
nor moved : Violet thought that she had not given her a singh
glance, but she was mistaken; Theodora was observing, anc
forming a judgment.
This wife, for whose sake Arthur had perilled so much, an(
inflicted such acute pain on her, what were her merits ? A
complexion of lilies and roses, a head like a steel engraving ii
an annual, a face expressing nothing but childish bashfulness, i
manner ladylike but constrained, and a dress of studied simplicitj
worse than finery.
Lady Martindale spoke of dressing, and conducted her meel
shy visitor up a grand staircase, along a broad gallery, into i
large bedroom, into which the western sun beamed with a daz
zling flood of light.
The first use Violet made of her solitude was to look rounc
in amaze at the size and luxury of her room, wondering if sh(
should ever feel at home where looking-glasses haunted her witl
her own insignificance. She fled from them, to try to cool hei
cheeks at the open window, and gaze at the pleasure-ground
which reminded her of prints of Versailles, by the sparkling
fountain rising high in fantastic jets from its stone basin, in th(
midst of an expanse of level turf, bordered by terraces and stone
steps, adorned with tall vases of flowers, On the balustrade
stood a peacock, bending his blue neck, drooping his gor¬
geous train, as if he was ' monarch of all he surveyed.*
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
27
}*oor Yiolet felt as if no one but peacocks had a riglit here j
and when she remembered that less than twelve weeks ago the
summit of her wishes had been to go to the Wrangerton ball, it
seemed to be a dream, and she shut her eyes, almost expecting to
open them on Annette's face, and the little attic at home. But
then, some one else must have been the fabric of a vision! She
made haste to unclose them, and her heart bounded at thinking
that he was born to all this ! She started with joy as his step
approached, and he entered the room.
*Let us look at you,' he said. 'Have you your colour]
Ay> plenty of it. Are you getting tamer, you startled thing V
' I hope I have not been doing wrong. Lady Martindale
asked me to have some tea. I never heard of such a thing
before dinner, but I thought afterwards it might have been
wrong to refuse. Was it V
He laughed. ' Theodora despises nothing so much as women
who drink tea in the middle of the day.'
' I am so afraid of doing what is unladylike. Your mother
ojBfered me a maid, but I only thought of not giving trouble,
and she seemed so shocked at my undoing my own trunk.'
' Ho, no,' said he, much diverted j ' she never thinks people
can help themselves. She was brought up to be worshipped.
Those are her West Indian ways. But don't you get gentility
notions; Theodora will never stand them, and will respect you
for being independent. However, don't make too little of your¬
self, or be shy of making the lady's maids wait on you. There
are enough of them—my mother has two, and Theodora a
French one to her own share.'
' I should not like any one to do my hair, if that is not
wrong.'
'None of them all have the knack with it you have, and it is
lucky, for they cost as much as a hunter.'
' Indeed, I will try to be no expense.'
' I say, what do you wear this evening ]'
' Would my white muslin be fit ]'
'Ay, and the pink ribbons in your hair, mind. You will
not see my aunt till after dinner, when I shall not be there;
but you must do the best you can, for much depends on it.
My aunt brought my mother up, and is complete master here. I
can't think how my father'—and he went on talking to himself,
as he retreated into his dressing-room, so that all Violet heard
was, ' wife's relations,' and ' take warning.'
He came back to inspect her toilette and suggest adornments,
till, finding he was overdoing them, he let her follow her own
taste, and was so satisfied with the result, that he led her before
28
HEAETSEASE ;
the glass, saying, 'There, Mrs. Martindale, that's what I call
well got up. Don't you V
' I don't mind seeing myself when I have you to look at.*
' You think we make a handsome couple ? Well, I am glad
you are tall—not much shorter than Theodora, after all.'
' But, oh ! how shall I behave properly all dinner-time 1 Do
make a sign if I am doing anything wrong.*
'Nonsense !'
'I know I shall make mistakes. Matilda says I shall. I
had a letter from her this morning to warn me against' sole¬
cisms in etiquette,* and to tell me to buy the number of the
Family Friend about dinner parties, but I had not time, and I
am sure I shall do wrong.'
' You would be much more likely, if you had Matilda and
her prig of a book,' said Arthur, between anger and diversion.
' Tell her to mind her own business—she is not your mistress
now, and she shall not teach you alFectation. Why, you silly
child, should I have had you if you had not been ^proper be¬
haved T You have nothing to do but to remember you are
my wife, and as good as any of them, besides being twenty
times prettier. Now, are you ready V
' Yes, quite ; but how shall I find my way here again ?'
' See, it is the third door from the stairs. The rest on this
side are spare rooms, except where you see those two green
baize doors at the ends. They lead to passages, the wings on
the garden side. In this one my aunt's rooms are, and Miss
Piper, her white nigger, and the other is Theodora's.*
' And all these opposite doors V
' Those four belong to my father and mother j these two are
John's. His sitting-room is the best in the house. The place
is altogether too big for comfort. Our little parlour at Win¬
chester was twice as snug as that overgrown drawing-room
down stairs.*
' Dear little room ! I hope we may go back to it. But
what a view from this end window ! That avenue is the most
beautiful thing I have seen yet. It looks much older than the
house.*
'It is. My father built the house, but we were an old
county family long before. The old Admiral, the first lord, had
the peerage settled on my father, who was his nephew and head
of the family, and he and my aunt Nesbit having been old
friends in the West Indies, met at Bath, and cooked up the
match. He wanted a fortune for his nephew, and she wanted
a coronet for her niece I I can't think how she came to be
satisfied with a trumpery Irish ene. You stare, Violet; but
oil, THE BROTHERS WIFE,
29
that is my aunt's notion of managing, and the -vray she meant to
deal with all of us. She has monstrous hoards of her own,
which she thinks give her a right to rule. She has always
given out that she meant the chief of them for me, and treated
me accordingly, but I am afraid she has got into a desperately
bad temper now, and we must get her out of it as best we
can.'
This not very encouraging speech was made as they stood
looking from the gallery window. Some one came near, and
Yiolet started. It was a very fashionably-dressed personage, who,
making a sort of patronising sweeping bend, said, * I was just
about to send a person to assist Mrs. Martindale. I hope you
will ring whenever you require anything. The under lady's
maid will be most happy to attend you.'
'There,' said Arthur, as the lady passed on, 'that is the
greatest person in the house, hardly excepting my aunt. That
is Miss Altisidora Standaloft, her ladyship's own maid.'
Violet's feelings might somewhat resemble those of the Em¬
peror Julian when he sent for a barber, and there came a count
of the empire.
' She must have wanted to look at you,' proceeded Arthur,
' or she would never have treated us with such affability. But
come along, here is Theodora's room.'
It was a cheerful apartment, hung with prints, with some¬
what of a school-room aspect, and in much disorder. Books
and music lay confused with blue and lilac cottons, patterns,
scissors, and papers covered with mysterious dots; there were
odd-looking glass bottles on the mantel-shelf, with odder look¬
ing things in them, and saucers holding what Yiolet, at home,
would have called messes; the straw-bonnet lay on the floor,
and beside it the Scotch terrier, who curled up his lips, showed
his white teeth, and greeted the invaders with a growl, which
became a bark as Arthur snapped his fingers at him. ' Ha !
Skylark, that is bad manners. Where's your mistress ? Theo¬
dora r
At the call, the door of the inner room opened, but only a
little dark damsel appeared, saying, in a French accent, that
Miss Martindale was gone to Miss Gardner's room.
' Is Miss Gardner here V exclaimed Arthur.
' She is arrived about half an hour ago,' was the reply.
Arthur uttered an impatient interjection, and Yiolet begged
to know who Miss Gardner was.
' A great friend of Theodora's. I wish she would have kept
further off just now, not that she is not a good-natured agree¬
able person enough, but I hate having strangers here. There
?0
HEAliTSEAS2;
will be no good to be got out of Theodora now ! There are
two sisters always going about staying at places, the only girls
Theodora ever cared for ; and just now, Georgina, the youngest,
who used to be a wild flyaway girl, just such as Theodora her¬
self, has gone and married one Finch, a miserly old rogue, that
scraped up a huge fortune in South America, and is come homo
old enough for her grandfather. What should possess Theodora
to bring Jane here now ? I thought she would never have for¬
given them. But we may as well come down. Here's the stair¬
case for use and comfort.'
' And here is the hall! Oh !' cried Violet, springing towards
it, * this really is the Hying (Uadiator. Just like the one at
Wrangerton !'
' What else should he be like ?' said Arthur, laughing. * Every
one who keeps a preserve of statues has th same.'
She would have liked to linger, recognising her old friends,
and studying this museum of wonders, inlaid marble tables,
cases of stufied humming birds, and stands of hot-house plants,
but Arthur hurried her on, saying it was very ill-contrived ; a
draught straight through it, so that nothing warmed it. He
opened doors, giving her a moment's glimpse of yellow satin,
gilding and pictures, in the saloon, v/hich was next to the
drawing-room where she had been received, and beyond it the
dining-room. Opposite, were the billiard-room, a library,' and
Lord Martindale's study ; and ^ Here,' said he, * is where Theo¬
dora and I keep our goods. Ha!' as he entered, 'you here,
Theodora ! Hallo 1 what's this ? A lot of wooden benches with
their heels in the air. How is tliis % Have you been setting
up a charity school in my room V
' I found the children by the wood were too far from school,
so I have been teaching them here. I came to see about
taking the benches out of your way. I did not expect you
here.'
' I was showing her our haunts. See, Violet, here's my
double barrel, and here are the bows. I forget if you can
shoot.'
' Matilda and Caroline do.'
'You shall learn. We will have the targets out. Where's
the light bow you used to shoot with, Theodora ?'
' It is somewhere,' said Theodora, without alacrity; ' no, I
remember, I gave it to Mr. Wingfield's little nephew.'
' Unlucky ! Yours will never do for those little fingers.*
Theodora abruptly turned to Violet, and said, ' She must bo
tired of standing there.' Violet smiled with pleasure at being
addressed, thanked, and disclaimed fatigue. <
OK, THE BKOTHER'S WIFE,
81
' She is of your sort/ and does not know how to be tired/
ffaid Arthur. ' I wondered to hear your bosom friend was here.
What brings her about now V
* If you call her my bosom friend, you answer the question,'
was the proud reply, and it provoked him to carry on the
teazing process.
* I thought she was not the friend,' he continued ; ' I ought
•to have congratulated you on the friend's capture. A goldfinch
i)f the South American breed is a rare bird.'
Theodora drew up her head, and impetuously heaped some
school-books together.
'Have you seen the pretty caged bird V
Never.'
In a soft ,tone, contrasting with the manner of his last
sayings, Arthur invited his wife to come out on the lawn, and
walked away with her. She was surprised and uneasy at what
had taken-place, but could not understand it, and only perceived
he would prefer her not seeming to notice it.
It was all the strange influence of temper. In truth,
Theodora's whole heart was yearning to the brother, whom she
loved beyond all others; while on the other hand his home
attachments centred on her, and he had come to seek her with
• the fixed purpose of gaining her good-will and protection for
his young bride. But temper stepped between. Whether it
began from Theodora's jealousy of the stranger, or from his
annoyance at her cold haughty manner to his wife, he was
vexed, and retaliated by teazing; she answered coldly, in proud
suffering at being taunted on a subject which gave her much
pain, and then was keenly hurt at his tone and way of leaving
her, though in fact she was driving hiin away. She stood lean¬
ing against a pillar in the hall, looking after him with eyes
brimming with tears; but on hearing a step approach, she sub¬
dued all signs of emotion, and composedly met the eye of her
eldest brother. She could not brook that any one should see
her grief, and she was in no mood for his first sentences : * What
are you looking at V and seeing the pair standing by the foun¬
tain, * Well, you don't think I said too much in her favour?'
'She is very pretty,' said Theodora, as if making an ad¬
mission.
' It is a very sweet expression. Even as a stranger, it would
be impossible not to be interested in her, if only for the sake of
her simplicity.'
Theodora glanced at Violet's dress, and at the attitude in
which she was looking up, as Arthur gathered some roses from
a vase; then turned her eyes on John's thoughtful and melau-
82
HEARTSEASE;
cLoly countenance, and tliougTit within herself that every man,
however wise, can be taken in by a fair face, and by airs and
graces.
' Poor thing,' continued John, ' it must be very trying; you
don't see her to advantage, under constraint, but a few kind
words will set her at ease.'
He paused for an answer, but not obtaining one, said, ' I did
not know you expected Miss Gardner to-day.'
She surprised him, by answering with asperity, prompted by
a second attack on this subject, 'I can't help it. I could not
put her off,—what objection can there beV
* Hothing, nothing,—I meant nothing personal. It was only
that I would have avoided having spectators of a family meeting
like this. I am afraid of first impressions.'
* My impressions are nothing at all.'
' Well, I hope you will make friends—am sure she will re¬
pay your kindness.'
' Do you know that you are standing in a tremendous draught V
interrupted Theodora.
* And there's my mother on the stairs. I shall go and call
them inj come with me, Theodora.'
But she had turned back and joined her mother.
He found Violet all smiles and wonder; but she relapsed
into constraint and alarm as soon as she entered the drawing-
room. Miss Gardner presently came down, — a lady about
five or six-and-twenty, not handsome, but very well dressed,
and with an air of ease and good society, as if sure of her wel¬
come. As Violet listened to her lively conversation with Lord
Martindale, she thought how impossible it was that she should
ever be equally at home there.
The grandeur of the dining-room was another shock, and the
varieties of courses revived her remorse for the cold mutton.
She sat between Lord Martindale and John, who talked to her
as soon as he thought she could bear the sound of her own
voice; and, with Arthur opposite, her situation was delightful
compared to the moment when, without either of her protectors,
she must go with the imperial Lady Martindale to encounter
the dreaded aunt.
When the time came, Arthur held open the door, and she
looked up in his face so piteously, that he smiled, and whispered
'You goose,' words which encouraged her more than their
tenour would seem to warrant.
Warm as it was, the windows were shut, and a shawl was
round Mrs. Nesbit's tall, bending, infirm figure. Violet dared
not look up at her, and thonght, with mysterious awe, of tl-Ci
oil, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
83
caiition not to shrink if she were kissed; but it was not needed,
Lady Martin dale only said, *My aunt, Mrs. Arthur Martindale,'
and Mi's. Nesbit, half rising, just took her hand into her long
skinny fingers, which ^lelt cold, damp, and uncertain, like the
touch of a lizard.
Violet was conscious of being scanned from head to foot-
nay, looked through and through by black eyes that seemed to
pierce like a dart from beneath their shaggy brows, and dis¬
cover all her ignorance, folly, and unfitness for her position.
Colouring and trembling, she was relieved that there was an-
otlier guest to call ofi* Mrs. Nesbit's attention, and watched the
readiness and deference with which Miss Gardner replied to
compliments on her sister's marriage; and yet they were not'
comfortable congratulations, thought Violet; at least they made
her cheeks burn, and Theodora stood by looking severe and
melancholy; but Miss Gardner seemed quite to enter into the
sarcastic tone, and almost to echo it, as if to humour the old
lady.
* Your sister acted very sensibly,* said Mrs. Nesbit, with emi
phasis. * Very good management; though Theodora was some¬
what taken by surprise.*
* Yes, I know we used her very ill,* said Miss Gardner; 'but
people have unaccountable fancies about publishing those matters
Mr. Pinch was in haste, and we all felt that it was best to have
it over, so it was talked of a very short time previously.*
* Speed is the best policy, as we all know,' said Mrs. llTesbit;
and Violet felt as if there was a flash of those eyes upon her,
and was vexed with herself for blushing. She thought Miss
Gardner's answer goodnaturedly unconscious :
' Oh, people always shake together best afterwards. There is
not the least use in a prolonged courtship acquaintance. It is
only a field for lovers' quarrels, and pastime for the spectators.*
'By-the-bye,* said Mrs. Nesbit, 'what is become of your
cousin, Mrs. George Gardner's son V
'Mark! Oh, he is abroad. Poor fellow, I wish we could
find something for him to do. Lady Fotheringham asked her
nephe w, Percival, if he could not put him in the way of getting
some appointment.*
' Failed, of course,* said Mrs. Nesbit.
'Yes; I never expected much. Those diplomates are apt to
be afraid of having their heels trodden upon; but it is a great
pity. He is so clever, and speaks so many languages. We
hope now that Mr. Finch may suggest some employment in
America.*
' Highly advisable.*
D
34
HEARTSEASE;
* I assure you poor Mark -would be glad of anything. He is
entirely steadied now j but there are so few openings for men
of his age.*
An interruption here occurring, hliss Gardner drew off to
the window. Theodora sat still, until her friend said, ' How
lovely it is ! Do you ever take a turn on the terrace after
dinner?'
Theodora could not refuse. Violet wished they had asked
her to join them; but they went out alone, and for some mo¬
ments both were silent. Miss Gardner first spoke, remarking,
' A beautifuT complexion.*
There was a cold, absent assent; and she presently tried
again, * Quite a lady,' but with the same brief reply.
Presently, however, Theodora exclaimed,
* Jane, you want me to talk to you; I cannot, unless you
unsay that about Percy Fotheringham. He is not to be accused
of baseness.'
' I beg your pardon, Theodora, dear; I have no doubt his
motives were quite conscientious; but naturally, you know
one takes one's own cousin's part, and it was disappointing that
he would not help to give poor Mark another chance.'
* That is no reason he should be accused of petty jealousies.'
* Come, you must not be so very severe and dignified. Make
some allowance for poor things who don't know how to answer
Mrs. Nesbit, and say what first occurs. Indeed, I did not
know you were so much interested in him.*
* I am interested in justice to the innocent.*
* There ! don't anniMlate me. I know he is a very superior
person, the pride of Lady Fotheringhara's heart. Of course he
would have recommended Mark if he had thought it right; I
only hope he will find that he was mistaken.'
'If he was, he will be the first to own it.'
' Then I am forgiven, am 11 And I may ask after you after
this long solitary winter. We thought a great deal of you.'
' I needed no pity, thank you. I was well off with my ch?
mistry and the parish matters. I liked the quiet time.'
* I know you do not care for society.'
' My aunt is a very amusing companion. Her clear, shrewd
observation is like a book of French memoirs.'
' And you are one of the few not afraid of her.*
'No. We understand each other, and it is better for all
jxirties that she should know I am not to be interfered with.
Positively I think she has been fonder of me since we measured
our strength.'
' There is a mutual attachment in determined spirits,* said
Miss Gardner.
OK, THE BROTHER'S TVIFE.
35
' £ tliink there must be. I fancy it is resolution that enables
me to go further with her than any one else can without offend¬
ing her.*
* She is so proud of you.*
'What is strange is, that she is prouder of me than oi
mamma, who is so much handsomer and more accomplished,—
more tractable, too, and making a figure and sensation that I
never shall.*
* Mrs. IsTesbit knows better,' said Miss Gardner, laughing.
' Don't say so. If John's ifiness had not prevented my coming
out last year, I might have gone into, the world like other girls.
Now I see the worth of a young lady's triumph—^the disgusting
speculation! I detest it.'
' Ah! you have not pardoned poor Georgina.*
' Do you wish for my real opinion?'
' Pray let me hear it.'
Georgina had a grand course open to her, and she has shrunk
from it.'
' A grand course!' repeated Jane, bewildered.
'Yes, honest poverty, and independence. I looked to her to
show the true meaning of that word. I call it dependence to be
so unable to exist without this world's trash as to live in
bondage for its sake. Independence is trusting for maintenance
to our own head and hands.'
' So you really would have had us—do what? Teach music—
make lace?'
' If I had been lucky enough to have such a fate, I would
have been a village school-mistress.*
'Not even a governess?'
' I should like the rTlage children better j but, seriously, I
would gladly get my , jwn bread, and I did believe Georgina
meant to wait to be of age and do the same.'
' But, Theodora, seriously! The loss of position.'
' I would ennoble the office.*
' With that head that looks as if it was born in the
purple, you would ennoble anything, dear Theodora; but for
ordinary *
'All that is done in earnest towards Heaven and man
ennobles and is ennobled.*
'True; but it needs a great soul and much indifference to
creature comforts. Now, think of us, at our age, our relations'
welcome worn out ^
'I thought you were desired to makd Worthboume your
home."
«
'Yes, there was no want of kindness there; but, mv dear, if
Ti 2'
86
HEARTSEASE ;
you could only imagine the dulness. It was as if the whole
place had been potted and preserved in Sir Koger de Coverley's
time. No neighbours, no club-books, no anything! One
managed to vegetate through the morning by the help of being
deputy to good Lady Bountiful^ bat oh! the evenings! Sir
'Antony always asleep after tea, and no one allowed to speak,
lest he should be awakened; and the poor, imbecile son bringing
out the draught-board, and playing with us all in turn. Bancy
that, by way of enlivenment to poor Georgina after her nervous
iever? I was quite alarmed about her,—^her spirits seemed
depressed for ever into apathy!'
' I should think them in more danger now.'
' Oh! her Finch is a manageable bird. Her life is in her own
power, and she will have plenty of all that makes it agreeable.
Jt is winning a home instead of working for it; that is the
common sense view
"Winning it by the vow to love, honour, and obey, when she
knows she cannot?'
* Oh, she may in the end. He is tame, and kind, and very
much obliged. My dear Theodora, I could feel with you once;
but one learns to see things in a different light as one lives on.
After all, I have not done the thing.'
*If you did not promote it, you justify it.*
* May I not justify my sister to her friend V
* I do no such thing. I do not justify Arthur. I own that
he has acted wrongly; but— No, I cannot compare the two
cases. His was silly and bad enough, but it was a marriage,
not a bargain.'
* Well, perhaps one may turn out as well as the other.*
' I am afraid so,* sighed Theodora.
* It has been a sad grief to you, so fond of your -brother as
you were.*
'Not that I see much harm in the girl,* continued Theodora;
' but
•' But it is the loss of your brother ! Do you know, I think
it likely he may not be as much lost to you as if he had chosen
a superior person. When the first fancy is over, such a young
unformed thing as this cannot have by any means the influence
that must belong to you. You will find him recurring to you
as before.*
Meanwhile, Violet sat formal and forlorn in the drawing-
room, and Lady Martindale tried to make conversation. Did
die play, or draw? hlatilda played, Caroline drew, she had
heen learning; and in horror of a request for music, she turned
her eyes from the grand piano. Was she fond of flowers? O,
OS, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
S7
yes! Of botany 1 Caroline was. A beautifully illustrated
magazine of horticulture was laid before ber, and somewhat re-
liered her, whilst the elder ladies talked about their fernery, in
scientific terms, that sounded like an unknown tongue.
Perceiving that a book was wanted, she sprang up, begging
to be told where to find it; but the answer made her fear sha
had been officious. ' No, my dear, thank you, do not trouble
yourself.*
The bell was rung, and a message sent to ask Miss Piper foi
the book. A small, pale, meek lady glided in, found the place,
and departed; while Yiolet felt more discomposed than ever,
under the sense of being a conceited little upstart, sitting among
the grand ladi«^ while such a person was ordered about.
Ease seemed to come back with the gentlemen. Lord Mar-
tindale took her into the gi'eat drawing-room, to show her
Arthur's portrait, and the show of the house—Lady Martin-
dale's likeness, in the character of Lalla Rookh—and John
began to turn over prints for her, while Arthur devoted himself
to his aunt, talking in the way that, in his schoolboy days,
would have beguiled from her sovereigns and bank-notes.
However, his civilities were less amiably received, and he met
with nothing but hits in return. He hoped that her winter
had not been dull.
Not with a person of so much resource as his sister. Solitude
with her was a pleasure—^it showed the value of a cultivated
mind.
'She never used to be famous for that sort of thing,' said
Arthur.
'Not as a child, but the best years for study come later.
Education is scarcely begun at seventeen.'
'Young ladies would not thank you for that maxim.'
' Experience confirms me in it. A woman is nothing withou i
a few years of grown-up girlhood before her marriage; and.
what is more, no one can judge of her when she is fresh fron
the school-room. Paw material 1'
Arthur laughed uneasily.
' There is Mrs. Hitchcock—^you know her V
' What, the lady that goes out with the hounds, and ride?
steeple-chases ] I saw her ride through Whit ford to-day, and
she stared so hard into the carriage, that poor Violet pulled
down her veil till we were out of the town.*
'Well, she was married out of a boarding-school, came here
the meekest, shyest, little shrinking creature, always keeping
her eyelids cast down, and colouring at a word.'
A rthur thought thet*e was a vicious look at his bride's bending
88
HEARTSEASE;
head, but he endured by the help of twisting the tassel of the
sola cushion, and with another laugh observed, ' that all the
lady's shyness had been used up before he knew her.*
' Then there was Lord George Wibnot, who ran away with a
farmer's daughter. She made quite a sensation; she was quite
presentable, and very pretty and well-mannered—^but such a
temper! They used to be called George and the Dragon. Poor
man! he had the most subdued air *
* There was a son of his in the Light Dragoons—^ began Arthur,
hoping to lead away the conversation; 'a great heavy fellow.'
^ Exactly so; it was the case with all of them. The Yorkshire
farmer shov/ed in all their ways, and poor Lord George was so
ashamed of it, that it was positively painful to see him in com¬
pany with his daughters. And yet the mother was thouglit
ladylike.' . *
Arthur made a sudden observation on John's improved looks.
' Yes. Now that unhappy afiair is over, we shall see him
begin life afresh, and form new attachments. It is peculiarly
important that he should be well married. Indeed, we see
every reason to hope that ^ And she looked significant and
triumphant.
* Much obliged!' thought Arthur. 'Well! there's no use in
letting oneself be a target for her, while she is in this temper.
I'll go and see what I can make of her ladyship. What new
scheme have they for John? Pdckworth, ehl'
He was soon at his mother's side, congratulating her on
John's recovery, and her looks were of real satisfaction. 'I am
glad you think him better! He is much stronger, and we hope
this may be the period when there is a change of constitution,
and that we may yet see him a healthy man.'
' Has he been going out, or seeing more people of latel'
'No—still keeping in his rooms all the morning. He did
drive one day to Rickworth with your father, otherwise he has
been nowhere, only taking his solitary ride.'
' I never was more surprised than to see him at Winchester!'
'It was entirely his own proposal. You could not be more
surprised than we were; but it has been of much benefit to him
by giving his thoughts a new channel.'
'lie likes her, too,' said Arthur.
' I assure you he speaks most favourably of her.*
'What did he sayl' cried Arthur, eagerly.
' He said she was a lady in mind and manners, and of excel¬
lent principles; but he declared he would not tell us all he
ihought of her, lest we should be disappointed.'
'Are you?' said Arthur, with a bright, confident smile.
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
* By no means. He liad not prepared me for so much beauty,
and such peculiarly graceful movements. My drawing days are
nearly past, or I should be making a study of her.'
' That's right, mother!' cried Arthur, * What a picture she
would make. Look at her now! The worst of it is, she has so
many pretty ways, one does not know which to catch her in!'
Perhaps Lady Martindale caught her aunt's eye, for she began
to qualify her praise. 'But, Arthur, excuse me, if I tell you
all. There is nothing amiss in her manners, but they are quite
unformed; and I should dread any contact with her family.'
' I never mean her to come near them,' said Arthur. ' Though,
afteh all, they are better than you suppose. She has nothing to
unlearn, and will pick up tone and ease fast enough.'
' And for education? Is she cultivated, accomplished?'
'Every man to his taste. You never could get learning to
stick on me, and I did not look for it. She knows what other
folks do, and likes nothing better than a book. She is good
enough for me; and you must take to her, mother, even if she
is not quite up to your mark in the ologies. Wont you? In¬
deed, she is a good little Yiolet 1'
Arthur had never spoken so warmly to his mother, and the
calm, inanimate dignity of her face relaxed into a kind response;
something was faltered of ' every wish to show kindness;' and
he had risen to lead his wife to her side, when he perceived hia
aunt's bead-like eyes fixed on them, and she called out to ask
Ijady Martindale if Lady Elizabeth Brandon had returned.
The young ladies came in late; and Arthur in vain tried to
win a look from his sister, who kept eyes and tongue solely for
•' Miss Gardner's service.
At night, as, after a conversation with his brother, he was
crossing the gallery to his own room, he mot her.
' Teaching my wife to gossip?' said he, well pleased.
' No, I have been with Jane.'
' The eternal friendship 1' exclaimed he, in a changed tone.
' Good-night 1' and she passed on.
He stood still, then stepping after her, overtook her.
' Theodora 1' he said, almost pleadingl3\
' Well I'
He paused, tried to laugh, and at last said, rather av/kwardly,
' I want to know what you think of her ?'
' I see she is very pretty.'"
' Good-night!' and his receding footsteps echoed mortification.
Theodora looked after him. ' Jane is right,' she said to her¬
self, ' he cares most for me. Poor Arthur 1 I must stand alone,
ready to support him when his toy fails him.'
40
HEARTSEASE;
CHAPTER rV.
They read hotanic treatises
And works of gardeners through there,
And methods of transplanting trees
To look as if they grew there,
A. Tennyson.
Theodora awoke to sensations of acute grief. Her nature
had an almost tropical fervour of disposition; and her
education having given her few to love, her ardent affections
had fastened upon Arthur with a vehemence that would have
made the loss of the first place in his love painful, even had his
wife been a person she respected and esteemed, but when she
saw him, as she thought, deluded and thrown away on this
mere beauty, the suffering was intense.
The hope, Jane Gardner had given her, of his return to her,
when he should have discovered his error, was her first approach
to comfort, and seemed to invigorate her to undergo the many
vexations of the day, in the sense of neglect, and the sight of
his devotion to his bride.
She found that, much as she had dreaded it, she had by no
means realized the discomposure she secretly endured when they
met at breakfast, and he, remembering her repulse, was cold—
she was colder; and Violet, who, in the morning freshness, was
growing less timid, shrank back into awe of her formal civility.
In past days it had been a complaint that Arthur left her no
time to herself. Now she saw the slight girlish figure clinging
to his arm as they crossed the lawn, and she knew they were
about to make the tour of their favourite haunts, she could
hardly keep from scolding Skylark back when even he deserted
her to run after them; and only by a very strong effort could
she prevent her mind from pursuing their steps, while she was
inflicting a course of Liebig on Miss Gardner, at the es|)ecial
instance of that lady, who, whatever hobby her friends were
riding, always mounted behind.
Luncheon was half over, when the young pair came in, flushed
with exercise and animation; Arthur talking fast about the
covers and the game, and Violet in such high spirits, that she
volunteered a history of their trouble with Skylark, and ' some
dear little partridges that could not get out of a cart rut.'
*In the afternoon Miss Gardner, 'always so interested in
schools and village children,* begged to be shown ' Theodora's
little scholars,* and walked with lier to Brogden, the village
nearly a mile off They set off just as the old pony was coming
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
41
to tlie door for Violet to have a riding lesson; and on their
return, at the end of two hours, found Arthur still leading,
letting go, running by the side, laughing and encouraging.
'Fools' paradiser thought Theodora, as she silently mounted
the steps.
' That is a remarkably pretty little hat,* said Miss Gardner.
Theodora made a blunt affirmative soimd.
'No doubt she is highly pleased to sport it. The first time
of wearing anything so becoming must be charming at her age.
I could envy her.*
' Poor old pony !* was all Theodora chose to answer.
' There, they are leaving off,' as Arthur led away the pony,
and Violet began to ascend the steps, turning her head to look
after him.
Miss Gardner came to meet her, asking how she liked riding.
' Oh, so much, thank you.*
' You are a good scholar 1'
' I hope I shall be. He wants me to ride well. 'He is going
to take me into the woods to-morrow.*
' We have been admiring your hat,* said Miss Gardner. ' It
is exactly what my sister would like. Have you any objection
to' tell where you bought it?'
' I'll ask him: he gave it to me.*
' Dressing his new doll,' thought Theodora; but as Violet had
not been personally guilty of the extravagance, she thought
amends due to her for the injustice, and asked her to come into
the gardens.
' Thank you, I should like it; but will he, will Mr.—will
Arthur know what has become of me?'
' He saw you join us,' said Theodora, thinking he ought to be
relieved to have her taken off his hands for a little while.
'Have you seen the gardens?' asked Jane.
'Are not these the gardens?' said Violet, surprised, as they
walked on through the pleasure-ground, and passed a screen of
trees, and a walk trellised over with roses.
There spread out before her a sweep of shaven turf, adorned
with sparkling d'eau of fantastic forms, gorgeous masses of
American plants, the fiaming or the snowy azalea, and the noble
rhododendron, in every shade of purple cluster among its ever¬
green leaves; beds of rare lilies, purely white or brilliant with
colour; roses in their perfection of bloom; flowers of forms she
had never figured to herself, shaded by wondrous trees; the
exquisite weeping deodara, the delicate mimosa, the scaly
Himalaya pines, the feathery gigantic ferns of the southern
hemisphere.
42
HEARTSEASE ;
Violet stood gazing in a silent trance till Arthur's step ap¬
proached, when she bounded back to hiniy and clinging to hjs
arm exclaimed, so that he alone could hear, ' Oh, I am glad you
are come I It was too like enchanted ground T
* So you like it,' said Arthur, smiling.
-' I did not know there could be anything so beautiful! I
thought the pleasure-ground finer than anything—so much
grander than Lord St. Erme's; but this! Did you keep it to
the last to surprise me?'
forgot it,' said Arthur, laughing to see her look shocked. .
' It is not in my line. The natives never have any sport out of
a show-place.'
*It is simply a bore,' said Theodora; 'a self-sacrifice to
parade.'
* To the good of visitors,' replied Miss Gardner, smiling, to
Violet, who, fearing her own admiration was foolish, was grate¬
ful to hear her say, ' And in that capacity you will allow Mrs.
Martindale and me to enjoy.'
* Did not I bring you to make the grand tour ?' said Theodora.
' Come, prepare to be stifled. Here are all the zones up to the
equator,' and she led the way into the conservatory.
Arthur's protection and his satisfaction in Violet's pleasure
set her at ease to enter into all the wonders and beauties; but
he did not know one plant from another, and referred all her
inquiries to his sister, who answered them in a cold matter of
fact way that discouraged her from continuing them, and re¬
duced her to listening to the explanations elicited by Jane
Gardner, until a new comer met them, thus greeted by Arthur
—^ Ah ! here is the authority ! Good morning, Harrison.
Mrs. Martindale wants to know the name of this queer striped
thing.'
He bowed politely, and Violet, as she bent and smiled, sup¬
posed they were too familiar for ' the hand-shake,' while he went
on to name the plant and exhibit its peculiarities. Her ques¬
tions and remarks seemed to please him greatly, and while he
replied graciously with much curious information, he cut spray
after spray of the choicest flowers and bestowed them upon
her, so that when the tour was completed, and he quitted them,
she said, with smiling gratitude, * It is the most exquisite
bouquet I ever saw.'
* A.poor thing,' was the proud humility answe?', * but honoured
by such hands!'
* Well done, Harrison 1' ejaculated Arthur, fus soon as he was
out of ear-shot.
Wbo is he?' asked Violet, still blushing; then, as the truth
OB, THE BROTHEB'S WIFE.
dawned on her, ' can he he the gardener ] I thought him some
great botanist allowed to study here.*
' Pray tell Miss Piper, Theodora,* said Arthur. * If it goes
round to him, Violet will never want for flowers.*
* It is'so exactly what he considers himself,* said Jane.
. * Except his being allowed,* said Arthur. ' 'Tis we that are
there on sufierance.' •
Miss Piper was seen advancing on the same walk, and Violet
was uncomfortable, dreading to see her treated as an inferior;
but to her great satisfaction, Arthur addressed the little lady in
his cordial manner, and Theodora congratulated her on being
out of doors on this fine evening.
*Mrs. Nesbit wished me to ask Mr. Harrison for a frond of
the new Trichomanes,' said Miss Piper.
'You will find him somewhere near the forcing-house,' said
Theodora ; ' but pray don't hurry in. I am going to my aunt's
room, and you should go and look at the Japan lilies, they are
fine enough to make even me admire them.* Then running
after her to enforce her words, 'mind you stay out—^be quite at
rest till dinner time—I have scarcely been with my aunt to-day.
I am sure a walk will do you good.'
The. kind solicitude went deep into the affections of the lonely
little woman. Violet longed for anything like such notice;
then, in a state between wonder, delight, and disappointment,
went to her room to attempt a description of the fairy land
which she had been visiting, and to enjoy the splendours by
thinking how much it would gratify her mother and sisters to
hear of her sharing them.
Mrs. Nesbit greeted Theodora with exclamations on Miss
Piper's tardiness, and she explained in the authoritative way
which she alone ventured to use towards her aunt; then, in a
tone of conciliation, spoke of the garden and the beauty of the
J apan lilies.
' Harrison grows too many; they are losing their rarity, and
look like a weed.'
* They are hardy, are they not V said Theodora, maliciously.
' I shall get some for my school garden.'
' That is your way of making everything common, and depre¬
ciating all that is choice.'
'No,' said Theodora, 'I would have beauty as widely enjoyed
and as highly appreciated as possible.'
' And pray, if all privileges are extended to the lower classes,
what is left to the higher orders V
'Themselves,* said Theodora, proudly. 'No, aunt, we only
lower ourselves by exclusivencss. It is degrading to ourselves
44
HEARTSEASE;
and our tastes to make them badges of vanity. Let them be
freely partaken, we shall be first still. The masses cannot
mount higher without raising us.'
'A levelling theory,' said Mrs. ITesbit.
'No, exalting. Has Latin and Greek made Harrison a
gentleman ? Can even dress in better taste make Paidine look
as much a lady as Miss Piper ?'
' There is a good deal in that,' said Mrs. Nesbit. ' Even Lady
Elizabeth Brandon cannot hide her good blood, though she does
her best to do so.'
' And so does Emma,' said Theodora.
' Foolish girl,' said Mrs. Nesbit, ' I would have given anything
to see her attractive.'
' Too late now !' said Theodora, with a look of repressed
scorn and triumph.*
' Too late for Arthur^ replied Mrs. Nesbit, with emphasis.
' And you'll never, never succeed in the other quarter !'
' Young people always have those fancies. I know what you
would say, but John is not so young now. It is just the time
of life when men take a turn. Depend upon it, now he has
had his boy's romance, he is not going to play the disconsolate
lover for the rest of his life. No ! that girl shall never be Lady
Martindale.'
'Well, I shan't dispute,' said Theodora; 'but—^
' Believe when you see,' said Mrs. Nesbit.
' And so you mean it to be Emma Brandon,' said Theodora,
with the same sarcastic incredulity.
'Let me tell you there are things more unlikely. John
thinks much of Lady Elizabeth, and is just one of the men to
marry a plain quiet girl, fancying she would be the more
domestic; and for yourself, you would find Emma very accom-
modating-r-never in your way.'
' No indeed,' said Theodora.
' Nothing could give your mother more pleasure. It is more
than ever important now. What have you seen of Arthur's
piece of wax 1 He seems to have been playing with her all day
long.'
'Yes, poor fellow,' said Theodora, sighing. 'However, it
might have been worse. I believe she is an innocent child, and
very lady-like.'
'There is an instance of the effect of your dissemination
notions 1 This would never have happened if every country
.attorney did not bring up his daughters to pass for ladies 1'
' I am glad she is nothing outwardly to be ashamed of.'
' I had rather that she was th-an for her to have the opportii-
OR, THE BROTHER'S WXFE
45
aity of worming herself into favc*iir ! Those modest airs and
her way of peeping up under her eye-lashes seem to make a
great impression/ said Mrs. Nesbit, with a sneer.
* Really, I think she is simple and shy.'
Mi's. Nesbit laughed. * You, too ! What has slie to do with
shyness 1 She has had her lesson ; but you are like the rest!
Your mamma actually proposing to take her likeness, but T told
her it was not to be thought of. There will be plenty to fill
lier with presumption.'
' And papa—^what does he think V said Theodora, who was
wont to obtain the family politics from her aunt.
' Oh ! men are sure to be caught by • a pretty face, and they
cannot make enough of her. I thought your father had more
sense, but since John has had his ear, everything has been past
my management. I cannot bear to see Arthur's cool way—
but no wonder. There will be no end to their expectations,
treated as they are.'
* Then papa means to do something for them V
* I cannot tell. He may do as he pleases. It is no affair of
mine. They cannot touch my property. Your father may try
how he likes supporting them.'
* He will then V
* He cannot help it, after having invited them here.'
Theodora could no longer bear to hear Arthur thus spoken
of, and began to read aloud, relieved in some degree by finding
Arthur was not to suffer poverty. If he had been persecuted,
she must have taken his part; now she could choose her own
line. However, the world must not suppose that she disap¬
proved of his wife, and she was grateful to the unmeaning words
amiable and lady-like, especially when she had to speak to Mr.
Wingfield. He observed on the lady's beauty, and hoped that
the affair was as little unsatisfactory as possible under the cir¬
cumstances, to which she fully agreed. They proceeded to
parish matters, on which they had so much to say to each other,
that Yiolet thus reflected—'Ah ! it is just as Mr. Martindale
used to sit with me in the window at home ! She is going to
give up all her grandeur for the sake of this good clergyman I
How good she is ! If she could only like me one little bit.'
For the present this mattered the less to Yiolet, as she was
extremely happy out of doors with her husband, who took up
her time so exclusively, that she scarcely saw the rest, except at
meals and in the evening. Then, though less afraid of ' sole¬
cisms in etiquette,* she made no progress in familiaiity, but each
day revealed more plainly how much too lowly and ignorant she
was to be ever one of the family. ' ""
46 HEARTSEASE;
Mrs. Nesbit was always formidable and sarcastic, alarming
her the more becanse she conld not understand her irony,
though conscious it was levelled against her; Lady Martindale
always chillmg in condescending courtesy, and daily displaying
more of the acquirements that frightened Violet by their number
and extent; Theodora always gravely and coldly polite and in¬
different. Miss Gardner was her great resource. Her pleasant
manners and ready conversation were universally liked, and
more than once she dexterously helped Violet out of a state of
embarrassment, and made a connecting link, through which she
ventured to talk to the other ladies.
With the gentlemen she was happier. Lord Martindale was
kind in maimer, and she improved in the power of speaking to
him, while John was, as she knew; her best friend; but she saw
very little of him, he lived apart from the family, often not
meeting them till dinner-time, and she began to understand
Arthur's surprise at his doings at Winchester, when she found
that his usual habits were so solitary that his father was grati¬
fied if he joined him in a ride, and his mother esteemed it a
favour if he took a turn in the garden with her.
The parish church was so distant that the carriage was
always used to convey thither the ladies, except Theodora, who
ever since her fourteenth year had made it her custom to walk
early to the school, and to remain there in the interval between
the services. It was believed that she enjoyed a wet Sunday,
as an occasion for proving her resolution, now so well-established
tliat no one thought of remonstrance, let the weather be what it
might.
The first Sunday of Violet's visit happened to be showery,
and in the afternoon. Lord Martindale had gone to John's room
to dissuade him from going to church a second time, when, as
the door stood open, they heard Arthur's voice in the gallery.
* Hollo! you are not setting out in these torrents!'
* Ho let me, please!' returned the pleading note.
* Why, the avenue is a river, and you are not a real goose yet,
you know.'
* We never did miss church for weather, and it is further off
at Wrangerton.'
* Nobody is going, I tell you. It is not in common sense.
You are as bad as Theodora, I declare.'
* I don't mean to be wilful I' said she, piteously; ' I wont
go if you tell me not, but please don't. I have no Sunday-
book; and nothing to do, and J should feel wrong all the week.'
* To be sure you can't smoke a cigar,' said Arthur, in a tone
OR, THE BrwOTHER'S ^YIFE.
4-7
of commiseration; ' So "wilful will to water! Kow for an
atjuatic excursion!'
Their steps and voices receded, and the father and hrother
looked amused. ' A good honest child!' * She will do something
with him after all I" and Lord Martindale (for Arthur had
made too broad an assertion in declaring no one was going)
jollowed them down, and showed positively paternal solicitude
that Violet should be guarded from the rain, even sending to
Pauline for a cloak of Miss Martindale's.
It was early when they reached the village, and Lord Mar¬
tindale, saying he must speak to a workman, took them through
a pretty garden to a house, the front rooms of which were shut
vip; they entered by the back door, and found themselves in a
kitchen, where a couple of labouring people were sitting, in .
church-going trim. While Violet shook off the rain, and
warmed herself at the fire, Lord Martindale spoke to the man;
and then opening a door, called her and Arthur to look.
There were several rooms, without trace of ever having been
inhabited, and not looking very inviting. The view of the park,
which Violet would fain have admired, was one gush of rain.
^ This might be made something of,' said Lord Martindale.
' It was built at the same time as the house. There was some
idea of Mrs. Nesbit's living here; and of late years it has been
kept empty for poor John.'
He broke off. Violet wondered if it was to be her abode,
and whether those empty rooms could ever be as pleasant as
the parlour at Winchester; but no more passed, and it was
time to go into church.
After this. Lord Martindale pressed to have their stay pro¬
longed; which Arthur could not persuade his wife to believe a
great compliment to her, though she was pleased, because h**
was, and because she hoped it was a sign that she was tolerated
for his sake. Personally, she could have wished that his leave
of absence might not be extended, especially when she found
that by the end of the next two months it was likely that the
regiment would be in London, so that she had seen the last of
her dear Winchester lodging; but she had so little selfishness,
that she reproached herself, even for the moment's wish, that
Arthur should not remain to be happy at his own home.
It was a great loss to her that Miss Gardner was going away,
leaving her to the unmitigated coldness and politeness of the
other ladies. She grieved the more when, on the last morning,
Jane made positive advances of friendship, ard talked afiec-
tionately of meeting in London.
48
REAETSEASE;
* My home is with my sister, and we shall be delighted to
see you. You will be fixed there, no doubt.'
* Thank you. I cannot tell; but I shall be so glad to see
you!'
' And I shall be delighted to introduce you to my sister. I
know you will be great friends. What a season it will be!
Two such sisters as hlrs. and Miss Martindale makinar their
appearance together will be something memorable.*
Yiolet blushed excessively, and made some inarticulate dis¬
avowals. She felt it presumption to let her name be coupled
with Miss Martindale's, and there was a sense of something
dangerous and wrong in expecting admiration.
Miss Gardner only smiled encouragingly at her youthfulness.
* I will not distress you, though I look forward to what I shall
hear. I shall feel that I have a right to be proud of you, from
priority of acquaintance.'
* You are very kind j but, please, don't talk so. It is bad, I
know, for me.'
* You are very right, I quite agree with you. No doubt it is
the wisest way; but so very few feel as you do. I wish more
were like you, or, indeed, like Theodora, who is positively dis¬
pleased with me for speaking of her making a sensation.'
' 01 of course she does not care,' said Violet. * So very good
as she is.'
'Appallingly so, some people say,' returned Jane, with a
peculiar look; ' hut, I know her well, though she was more my
sister's friend than mine.'
' Then you have known her a long timef
' All her life. We used to meet every day in London, when
she and my sister w^ere two madcaps together, playing endless
wild pranks. We used to tell her she ruled the governesses,
and no one could control her—nor can—*
' But she is very good,' repeated Yiolet, puzzled.
' Ah 1 she took a serious turn at about fourteen, and carried
it out in her own peculiar way. She has worked out a great
deal for herself, without much guidance. She has a standard of
her own, and she will not acknowledge a duty if she does not
intend to practise it.'
' I don't understand,* said Yiolet. ' I thought if one saw a
duty one must try to practise it.'
' I wish all the world went upon your principles,* said Miss
Gardner, with a sigh. ' I am afraid you will find many not
half so consistent with their own views as youi'self, or Theodora.'
' Oh! of course one must fail,* said Yiolet. 'One cannot do
half one means; but Theodora seems so strong and resolute.*
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
49
' Ay, no one has been able to cope with her, not even Mrs.
Nesbit j who, as a kindred spirit, might have had a chance T
' JMrs. Nesbit has had a great deal to do with%er education?'
'I dare say you have found out the real head of the fe-mily.
I see you are very acute, as well as very guarded.'
' Oh dear! I hope I have said nothing I ought not,' cried
Violet, in a fright.
' No, indeed, far from it. I was admiring your caution.'
Violet thought she had done wrong in betraying her disKke;
she knew not how; and trying to ascribe all to shyness, said,
* It was so strange and new; I have never been out till now.'
' Yes, if you will allow me to say so, I thought you got on
admirably, considering how trying the situation was.'
' Oh! I was very much frightened; but they are very kind-
Mr. Martindale especially.'
' Poor Mr. Martindale 1 I wish he could recover his spirits.
He has never held up his head since Miss Fotheringham's
death. He is an admirable person; but it is melancholy to see
him spending his life in that lonely manner.'
' It is, indeed. I often wish anything would cheer him!'
' All the family are devoted to him, if that would comfort
him. It is the only point where Lady Martindale is not led
by her aunt, that she almost worships him 1'
' I thought Mrs. Nesbit was fond of him.'
' Did you ever hear that Percy Fotheringham once said of
her, * That woman is a good hater?* She detested the Fother¬
ingham family, and Mr. Martindale, for his engagement. No,
he is out of her power, and she cannot endure him; beside?> ho
is a rival authority—his father listens to him.'
*I suppose Mrs. Nesbit is very clever.'
* She has been one of the cleverest women on earth. She
formed her niece, made the match, forced her forward into the
very highest society—never were such delightful parties—the
best music—every lion to be met with—Lady Martindale her¬
self at once a study for beauty, and a dictionary of arts and
sciences—Mrs. Nesbit so agreeable. Ah! you cannot judge of her
quite; she is passee, broken, and aged, and poor thing! is queru¬
lous at feeling the loss of her past powers; but there used to be
a brilliance and piquancy in her conversation that has become
something very different now.'
Violet thought it most prudent only to remark on Lady
Martindale's varied accomplishments.
' She has carried them on much longer than usual. People
generally give them up when they marry, but she has gone on.
I am not sure whether it was the wisest course. There is'much
E
50
HEAETSEASEJ
to be said on both sides. And I Lave Bometimes tbonght
Theodora might have been a little less determined and eccen¬
tric, if she had not been left so much to governesses, and if her
affections had had more scope for development.*
Theodora came in, and Yiolet blushed guiltily, as if she had
been talking treason.
Miss Gardner's object in life, for the present, might be said
to be to pick up amusement, and go about making visits; the
grander the people the better, adapting herself to every one,
and talking a sort of sensible scandal, with a superior air of
legret; obtaining histories at one house to be detailed at
another, and thus earning the character of being universally
intimate. The sentiments of the young bride of Martindale
had been, throughout her visit, matter of curiosity; and even
this tUe-a-tete left them guess work. Theodora's were not so
difficult of discovery; for, though Jane had never been the
same favourite with her as her more impetuous sister, she had,
by her agreeable talk and show of sympathy, broken down
much of the hedge of thorns with which Theodora guarded her
feelings.
' I have been talking to Mrs. Martindale,' Jane began, as
they went up stairs together. * She is a graceful young thing,
and Georgina and I will call on her in London. Of course
they will be settled there.'
* i! don't know,' said Theodora. ' A notion has been started
of his leaving the Guards, and their coming to live at the
cottage at Brogdem'
' Indeed!' exclaimed Miss Gardner.
* It is not settled, so don't mention it. I doubt how it
would answer to set Arthur down with nothing to do.'
' I doubt, indeed I I have seen a good deal of families living
close together.'
^ Nothing shall make me quarrel with Arthur, or his wife.
You smile, but it needs no magnanimity to avoid disputes with
anjiihing so meek and gentle.'
* You can't judge of her; a girl of sixteen in a house full of
strangers! Give her a house of her own, and she will soon
learn that she is somebody. As long as your eldest brother is
unmarried, she will expect to be looked upon as the wife of the
heir. She will take offence, and your brother will resent it.'
* And there will be discussions about her,' said Theodora.
* Depend upon it, 'tis easier to keep the peace at a distance.
Fancy the having to call for her whenever you go out to
dinner. And oh! imagine the father, mother, and half-dozen
sisters that will be always staying there.'
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
51
'No, Axtliur has not married the whole family, and never
means them to come near her/
' There are two words to that question,* said Miss Gardner,
smiling. 'Quiet as she seems now, poor thing! she has a
character of her own, I can see, and plenty of discernment. To
be so guarded, as she is, at her age, shows some resolution.'
' Guarded! has she been saying anything]'
'No, she is extremely prudent.*
'Inferring it, then,* exclaimed Theodora. 'Well, her expecr
tations must be high, if she is not satisfied; one comfort is, the
Brogden scheme is only John's and papa's. My aunt can't bear
it, because it seems quite to give up the chance of John's
marrying.*
' Well, Georgina and I will do the best we can for her. J
suppose you wish it to be understood that you approve.*
'Of course: you can say everything with truth that the
world cares for. She is pleasing, and amiable, and all that.'
'-She will be extremely admiied.'
' And her head so much turned as to ruin all the sense there
may be in it! I hate the thought of it, and of what is to become
of Arthur when he wakes from his trance.'
' He will find that he has a sister,' said Jane, v/ho had learnt
that this was the secret of consolation; and, accordingly, a softer
'Poor Arthur!'followed.
'And will you write, dear Theodora]'
' I don't promise. I hardly ever write letters.*
'And you will not send your love to poor Georgina]'
' I forgive her for having pained and disappointed me. 1
hope she will be happy, but I am very much afraid she has not
gone the right way to be so.'
'Am I to tell her so]'
' I dare say you will, but don't call it my message. If she
makes a good use of her means, I shall try to forget the way she
obtained them.*
' I only hope, with your notions, that you will not get into a
scrape yourself. I'm a little afraid of that curate.'
'We both know better,' said Theodora.
Jane departed, and Yiolet felt as if she had a friend and
protector the less. She was sitting forlorn in the great draw¬
ing-room, waiting for Arthur, who was trying horses; presentl^y
Theodora came in, and with something of compassion, said, ' 1
hope you have an entertaining book there.*
' O yes, thank you. La Vie de Philippe Auguste. I like it
very much; it is as amusing as Philip Augustua itself
' James's novel, you mean]'
E 2
52
HEAETSEASE ;
' Have you read itl'
* His novels are exactly alike,* said Theodora, leaving the
room, but checked by the thought that it would be merciful to
take her into her room. 'No, nonsense,' said second thoughts;
' I shall have nothing but chatter ever after, if I establish her
coming to me when Arthur is out; and if this cottage scheme
comes to pass, she wUl be marching up whenever she has nothing
better to do. Give an inch, and she will take an ell.'
She was interrupted by a diffident, hesitating call; and,
looking back, as she was mounting the stairs, beheld Violet,
who changed the appellation into ' Miss Martin^le.'
'Welir said she, feeling as if her citadel were in jeopardy.
' Would you—would you be so very kind as to lend me a
French dictionary?'
' Certainly; I'll give you one in a moment,' said Theodora;
with so little encouragement as would have deterred a person
bent on gaining the entree, Yiolet stood meekly waiting till
she brought the book, and received it with gratitude dispro¬
portionate to the favofir conferred.
CHAPTER V.
Some heavy business hath my lord in haud.
And I must know it, else he loves me not.
King Henry IV,
MISS GARDNER'S departure threw the rest of the party
more together, and Theodora did not hold herself as much
aloof as before. Indeed she perceived that there were occasions
when Arthur seemed to be returning to his preference for her.
She had more conversation, and it often fell on subjects of which
the bride had no knowledge, while the sister was happy in
resuming old habits. Sometimes Violet was entertained; but
one day when they were riding, the talk was going on eagerly
■ on some subject of which she knew nothing, while they rode
faster than she liked, and she fancied she was insecure in her
saddle. Twice she timidly called Arthur; but he was too much
absorbed to attend to her, without a degree of scream, which
she did not feel would be justified. Each moment she grew
more alarmed and miserable, and though at last, when he per¬
ceived that she wanted him, he was off his horse in a moment
and set all to rights, she completely forgot her distress,—the
charm had been broken, she was no longer his first thought.
The sensation of loneliness often returned during tlie next
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
53
fej7 weeks; there was no real neglect, and she would not so have
felt it if she had not depended on him alone, and so long enjoyed
his exclusive attention. His fondness and petting were the
same, but she perceived that he found in his sister a companion¬
ship of which she did not feel capable. But to Theodora herself,
whenever she succeeded in engrossing Arthur, it seemed a victory
of sisterly affection and sense over beauty and frivolity.
Arthur was anxious to know the family politics, and resumed
the habit of depending on his sister for gathering intelligence
from Mrs. Hesbit. On her he bestowed his complaints that his
father would not see things as he wished, and with her talked
over his projects. In truth, he could not bear to disclose to his
wife the footing on which he stood,—looking on her as a mere
child, sure to be satisfied, and not requiring to be consulted.
Theodora gave him tidings of the proposal that he should
settle in the village, and finding him undecided, threw all her
weight into the opposite scale. She sincerely believed she was
consulting his happiness and the harmony of the family by
speaking of the irksomeness of living there with nothing to do,
and by assisting him in calculating how large an income would
be necessary to enable him to keep hunters, go from home, &c.,
without which he declared it would be intolerable, and as there
was little probability of his father allowing him so much, con¬
tinuing in his profession was the only alternative.
Violet saw them in frequent consultation, and once John said
something to her of his hopes of seeing her at Brogden; then,
finding her in ignorance, drew back, but not till he had said
enough to make her restless at hearing no more. She would, of
course, have preferred living in the country; but when she
figured to herself Arthur always with Theodora, and herself
shut up in the little parlour she had seen in the rain, she grew
extremely disconsolate.
One morning, unable to read or sit quiet under these antici¬
pations, she went out to dispel them by a turn among the
flowers, and a conversation with the peacock. At th e corner of
the lawn, she heard Arthur's voice—'Exactly so; two thousand
is the very least. Ha, Violet!' as he and Theodora emerged
trom a shady alley.
' Oh, I did not mean to interrupt you,' said Violet, confused;
' I only came out for some fresh air.'
' XJnbonneted, too; do you want to get roasted brown?' said
Arthur.
' I never am burnt,* said Violet; ' but I will not be in your
way, I'll go.*
'Nonsense,* said he, drawing her arm into his. 'Come in
54
HEARTSEASE ;
good time,' and he yawned, tired of the discussion. ' Ha, Mr.
Feacoch, are you there?'
'He always follows me,' said Violet. 'Miss Piper showed
me where his food is kept, and I can almost get him to eat out
of my hand.'
Theodora walked off, thinking there was an end cf her
brother's sense, and Violet looked after her rather sadly, think¬
ing, while exhibiting to Arthur her friendship with the peacock,
' he consults her, he only plays with me. Perhaps it is all I am
good for; but I wish we were at Winchester.'
As Theodora went up-stairs, she saw her eldest brother
standing at the south window of the gallery. He called to her,
saying, ' Here's a pretty pictura Theodora.'
In front of the sparkling crystal arches of the fountain stood
Violet, bending forward, and holding out her hand full of grain
to invite the beautiful bird, which now advanced, now withdrew
its rich blue neck, as in condescension, then raised its crested
head in sudden alarm, its train sweeping the ground in royal
splendour. Arthur, no unpicturesque figure in his loose brown
coat, stood by, leaning against the stand of one of the vases of
plants, whose rich wreaths of brightly coloured blossoms hung
down, making a setting for the group; and while Violet by her
blandishments invited the peacock to approach, he now and
then, with smiling slyness, made thrusts at it v/ith her parasol,"
or excited Skylark to approach.
' A pretty scene, is it not?' said John.
' Like a Sevres china cup,' Theodora could not help saying.
'Fountain and peacock, and parasol for shepherd's crook,
forming a French Arcadia,' said John, smiling. 'I suppose it
would hardly make a picture. It is too bright.'
Theodora only answered by a sigh, and was turning away,
when Jo.hn added, ' I am glad she has him at last, I was afraid
she had a long solitary morning while yon were out with him.
I saw you walking up and down so long.'
'He was talking over his plans,' said Theodora, with an
asssumption of sullen dignity.
' I have been wishing to speak to you about that very thing,'
Said John. ' I think you may be in danger of putting yourself
between him and his wife.'
It was a new thing to her to hear that this was a danger;
but, in an offended manner, she replied,' I can hardly be accused
of that. He ceases all rational talk about his most important
concerns to go to child's play with her.'
' But why keep her out of the rational talk V
CE, THE BKOTHER^S WIFE.
55
Ttat is his concern. He knows what she is capable of, I
suppose.*
* I doubt whether he does,* said John; 'but E don't want to
interfere with his behaviour, only to give you a caution. It is
natural that you should wish to have him what he was before.
I know his marriage was a great blow to you.'
'I knew he would marry,' said Theodora, coldly; for she
could not bear compassion. ' It is the commcn course of things.'
' And that the wife should be first.'
' Of course.'
' Then would it not be better to bear that in mind, and make
up your mind to it, rather than try to absorb his confidence?'
' He is not bound to consult no one but that child. You would
not drive him back to her if he came to you for advice.'
' I should not pass her over; I should assume that her opinion
was to be respected.'
' I can't be untrue.'
' Then try to make it valuable.'
' He wants no help of mine to make him fond of her !' cried
Theodora. ' Does not he dote on her, and make himself quite
foolish about her complexion and her dress I'
' That is a different thing. She cannot be always a toy; and
if you want to do the most inestimable service to Arthur, it
would be by raising her.'
' Trjung to educate a married sister-in-law ! ' No, thank you !'
' I don't see what is to become of them,' said John, sadly.
' He will be always under some influence or other; and a sen¬
sible wife might do everything for him. But she is a child ;
and he is not the man to form her character. He' would have
spoilt her already if she did not take his admiration for mere
affection; and just at the age when girls are most carefully
watched, she is turned out into the world without a guide ! If
he ceases to be happy with her, what is before them ? You
think he will fall back on you; but I tell you he will not. If
you once loosen the tie of home, and he seeks solace elsewhere,
it will be in the pursuits that have done him harm enough
already.'
' He has given up his race-horses,' said Theodora.
The luncheon-bell interrupted them ; but as they were going
down, John added, ' I hope I have said nothing to vex you.
Indeed, Theodora, I feel much for your loss.'
' I am not vexed,' was her haughty reply, little guessing how,
in her pursuit of the brother who had escaped her, she was re¬
pelling and slighting one who would gladly have turned to her
50
IIEAETSEAS12;
for sisterly friendship. His spirits "vrere in that state of revival
when a mntnal alliance would have greatly added to the enjoyT
ment of both; but Theodora had no idea of even the possibility
of being on such terms. He seemed like one of an elder gene¬
ration—^liardly the same relation as Arthur.
* So, Lady Elizabeth comes,' said Lady Martindale, as they
entered the room.
' Ts she coming to stay here 1' asked John.
* Yes ; did you not hear that we have asked her to come to
us for the Whitford ball V
' Oh, are we in for the "Whitford ball V said Theodora, in a
tone of disgust that checked the delighted look on Violet's face.
' Yes, my dear ; your papa vdshes us to go.*
' Wliat a bore !' exclaimed Theodora.
' Yes,' sighed Lady Martindale: * but your papa thinks it
right.'
* A necessary evil—eh, Violet V said Arthur.
' I hope you don't mind it ?' said Violet, looMng anxiously at
him.
' Ah, you will enjoy it,' said her ladyship, graciously regard¬
ing her folly.
* Oh, yes, thank you,* said Violet, eagerly.
* Have you been to many balls V
* Only to one j' and she blushed deeply, and cast down her
eyes.
'And so the Brandons are coming to stay ! For how long,
mamma V proceeded Theodora.
' From Wednesday to Saturday,' said Lady Martindale. ' I
liave been writing cards for a dinnerparty for Wednesday; and
your father says there are. some calls that must be returned;
and so, my dear, will you be ready by three?'
'You don't mean'me, mamma,?' said Theodora, as nobody
answered. '
'No ; you are a resolute rebel against morning visits. You
have no engagement for this afternoon, my dear?'
Violet started, saying, ' I beg your pardon ; I did not know
you meant me. Oh, thank you ! I am very much obliged.'
' I suppose you will not go with us, Arthur ?'
He looked as if he did not like it, but caught a beseeching
.glance from his wife, and was beginning to consent, when Theo¬
dora exclaimed, ' Oh, Arthur, don't; it will be such a famous
• 'pportunity for that ride.'
'Very well; you know where my cards are, Violet!'
'Yes,' she answered, submissively, though much disappointed,
and in dread of the drive and of the strangers.
oil, THE BROTJIEH'S WIFE,
57
* Keally, I think you had better go, Arthur,* said John,
greatly displeased at Theodora's tone. ' It is the sort of occa¬
sion for doing things regularly.*
* Indeed, I think so,* said Lady Martindale ; ' I wish Arthur
would go with us this once. I doubt if it will be taken well if
he does not.*
'You will find no one at home. His going wont make a bit
of difierence,* said Theodora, who now regarded keeping him as
a matter of power.
' Surely your ride might wait,* said her mother.
'Ho, it wont, mamma. It is to see that old man, Mary*s
father.*
' What Mary, my dear f
' The scullery-maid. I want to speak to him about her con¬
firmation ; and the only way is over Whitford Down—all
manner of leaping-places, so we must go without Yiolet.'
Violet feared there was little hope for her, for Arthur looked
much invited by the leaping-places; but John made another
efibrt in her favour, and a great one for him.
' Suppose you accept of me for your escort, Theodora 1*
Every one looked astonished. Lady Martindale positively
aghast.
'Were you ever on Whitford Down, John?* said Arthur.
' Why, yes,—in old times ; I know the place, I believe.*
'You talk of knowing it, who never hunted I' said Arthur.
'Ho, no ; you are a great traveller, J ohn ; but you don't know
the one horse-track on Whitford Down that does not lead into
a bog—^
' Theodora does, I dare say.*
'Yes, I know it; but it is too far for you, John, thank you,
and not at all what would suit you. I must give it up, if
Arthur prefers playing the disconsolate part of a gentleman at
a morning call.*
'Do you really dislike going without me?' asked Arthur, and
of course nothing was left for Yiolet to say but, ' 0, thank you,
pray don't stay with me. Indeed, I had much rather you had
your ride.*
' You are sure?'
' 0 yes, quite. . I shall do very weU,* and she smiled, and
tried to make a show of ease and confidence in his mother, by.
looking towards her, and asking upon whom they were to call.
Lady Martindale mentioned several ladies who had left their
cards for Mrs. Arthur Martindale, adding that perhaps it would
be better to leave a card at Rickworth Priory.
' Is that where Lady Elizabeth Brandon lives?' asked Yiolek
HEAHTSEASi:;
* Yes,' said Lady Martindale. ' It belongs to^ her daughter.
Lady Elizabeth is a highly excellent person, for whom Lord
Martindale has a great regard, and Miss Brandon is one of
Theodora's oldest fnends.*
' Hum !' said Theodora.
* My dear, she is a very nice amiable girl—just your own age,
and admirably brought up.'
* Granted,' said Theodora.
' I cannot see that Emma Brandon wants anything but stylo
and confidence,' proceeded Lady Martindale, ' and that I believe
to be entirely poor Lady Elizabeth's fault for keeping her so
much in retirement. That German finishing governess. Miss
Ohnglaube, whom we were so sorry to lose, would have been
the person to teach her a little freedom and readiness of manner.
I wish we could have kept her a little longer.'
* I told Lady Elizabeth about her,' said Theodora ; but Lady
Martindale, without hearing, said she must go to her aunt, and
renewing injunctions to Yiolet to be ready by three, left the
room.
' You did not astonish her weak mind with the ghost story 1'
said Arthur.
* With its cause.'
'You would not have thought, Yiolet,' continued Arthur
' that we had a ghost in the north wing.'
'What was it?' said Yiolet. 'You don't mean reallyl'
' Only a Turk's-liead broom, with phosphorus eyes, and a
sheet round the handle,' said Theodora. ' It had a grand effect
when Arthur stood on the second landing-place, and raised it
above the balusters—a sort of bodilessness rising from vacancy.'
'Didn't she faint?' said Arthur.
'No, I was afraid she would, and then it would have been
all over with us; but I dragged her safe into the school-room,
and there she was so hysterical that I nearly relented.'
' Then was it all in play?' said Yiolet.
' In earnest,' said Arthur. ' It was the only way of getting
quit of mademoiselle.'
' That lady who used to talk metaphysics and sing?' said
John. 'I remember the lamentations at her not choosing to
remain. Why was she victimised?'
' There was no help for it,' said Theodora. ' She considered
the book of Genesis as a sehr schdne mythische GeschicUle^ and
called the Patriarchs the Hebrew Avatars.'
'Theodora! You don't mean it!' exclaimed John.
'T do, but I had my revenge, for, after the Turk's-head
adventure, she never slept without niy Bible under her pillow.
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
59
If by broad daylight she would have renounced the Avatar
theory, I really would have forgiven her, for she was very
good-natured, and she admired * the high Roman fashion' so
much, I was half afraid she might follow it herself if we tor¬
mented her much more.'.
* But why keep it to yourself? I can hardly believe it pos¬
sible ! Why play these tricks instead of telling all ?'
'I did tell aunt Nesbit, but Miss Ohnglaube was always
reading Jean Paul with her and mamma; they were in raptures
with her, and my aunt only said I was too well instructed to be
misled.'
' How old were you?'
' About fifteen.'
* It is beyond belief. Why could you not tell my father ?'
said John.
* I hardly saw him—I never spoke to him.'
'Was not I at home?'
' Yes, shut up in your room. I never thought of speaking to
you. All I could do was to be as restive as possible, and when
she did not care for that, there was nothing for it but playing
on her German superstition. So Arthur told her some awful
stories about whipping blacks to death, and declared West
Indian families were veiy apt to be haunted; but that it was
a subject never to be mentioned to mamma nor my aunt.'
' And having paved the way, we treated her to the Turk's-
head,' concluded Arthur; ' I would do it again to hear her
sigh and scream, and see Theodora acting as coolly as if she was
in daily intercourse with the defunct nigger. If mademoiselle
had not been frightened out of her senses, her self-possession
would have betrayed us.'
' I could not act fright,' said Theodora.
' And this was the best plan you could devise for getting rid
of an infidel governess!' said John.
And as they dispersed, he stood looking after his sister,
thinking that there was more excuse for her inconsistencies than
he had yet afforded her, and that, in fact, she deserved credit foi
being what she was. His aunt had done even more harm than
the ruin of his happiness.
Theodora triumphed, and carried Arthur off, but Yiolet
found the reality of the expedition less formidable than the
anticipation. She knew her mother would have enjoyed seeing
her well dressed, and setting forth in that style; the drive wa,<»
agreeable, and Lady Martindale kind and gracious. Alone with
her, she lost much of her dread, and felt better acquainted;
but all froze up into coldness when they came home
60
HEAHTSEASE ;
The ladies at Kickworth had not been at home; and as they
did not arrive on the Wednesday till Violet had gone to dress,
she had time to frighten herself by imagining an heiress on the
pattern of Lady Martindale, and an earl's daughter proportion-
ably unapproachable. Her trepidation was increased by Arthur's
not coming in, though she heard guests arriving, and when at
last he appeared, it was so late, that he desired her to go down
and say he was 'just ready.'
It was a serious thing to encounter alone that great saloon
full of strangers, and with cheeks of the brightest carnation.
Violet glided in, and after delivering her message to Lord Mar¬
tindale, was glad to find herself safely seated on an ottoman
whence she looked for the chief guests. In the distance, beside
Lady Martindale, sat a quiet elderly lady in black; Theodora
was paying a sort of scornful half-attention to a fine showy girl,
who was talking rather afiectedly; and, thought Violet, no one
but an heiress could wear so many bracelets.
Her survey completed, she became conscious that a small,
fair-haired, pale girl was sitting near her, looking so piteously
shy and uncomfortable, that she felt bound to try and set her at
ease, and ventured an observation on the weather. It was
responded to, and something about the harvest followed; then,
how pretty the country, and, thereupon, Violet said it only
wanted mountains to be beautiful.
'Ah! when one has once seen a mountain one cannot
forget it.*
'Never!' said Violet. 'I miss Helvellyn every morning
when I look out of window.'
'Do you know the Lake'country?' said the young lady.
'My home—my old home—is within sight of the Westmore¬
land hills. Have you been there?'
'Mamma and I once spent a month there, and enjoyed it
exceedingly.'
'Oh! and did you go up Helvellyn?'
'Yes, that we did, in spite of the showers; and what a view
we had!'
They were surprised to find that dinner had been announced.
Violet was placed next to Mr. Martindale, and was able to ask
the name of her new acquaintance.
' Miss Brandon, you mean.'
' O no, not Miss Brandon, but that light pale girl in the lilac
worked muslin, who was talking to me!'
' I saw you talking to Miss Brandon.'
' Could it be ? She looked all astray and frightened, like mel*
on, THE BKOTHER'S WIFE.
61
That description answers to Emma Brandon,* said Johnj
smiling.
' Who woidd have thought it! I should never have begun
talking to her if I had guessed who she was. I only did it
because she looked so uncomfortable. I hope it was not being
forward.*
'Not in the least. You know you are at home here,—^it was
a great kindness.*
'Do you like her?* said Yiolet.
' I believe she is a very good kind of girl, and her mother is
one of our oldest friends. They are very excellent sensible
people, and do a great deal of good in their own parish.*
'And only think 1 She has been in Westmoreland I She
has seen Helvellyn!'
Yiolet was the only person who ever spoke to John in that
hearty confidence of sympathy in rejoicing; and quite refreshed
by her bright looks, he led her into a history of an ascent of
Helvellyn, which had, until this spring, been the great event of
her life.
On coming into the drawing-room, Miss Brandon shrank up
to her mother's side. Yiolet wished she had a mother to
protect her; and not daring to place herself among the great
ladies, stood in the group of younger ones, with whom Theodora
was keeping up a cold formal converse. Country neighbours
thought much of being asked to Martindale; but the parties
there were of the grandest and stiffest. Moreover, every one
had to give their friends a description of the bride; and the
young ladies were more inclined to study her appearance than
to find conversation, regarding her as an object of curiosity,
as well as with some of their general dread of the house of
Martindale.
After an awkward ten minutes. Lady Martindale came
towards her, and said, 'My dear. Lady Elizabeth Brandon
wishes to be introduced to you.*
' To me !* and Yiolet followed her, blushed and bent, then
found her hand cordially shaken, and a most comfortable voice
addressing her. Boom was made for her on the sofa, between
Lady Elizabeth and her daughter, and she was supremely happy
in talking about her own dear lake country. Arthur smiled,
and looked well pleased to see her in such company; and
Mr. Martindale came and talked to Lady Elizabeth all the
evening.
Yiolet expected Theodora to monopolize Miss Brandon the
next morning, but Theodora had reasons of her own for not
62
HKARTSEASE ;
breaking lier habifc of spending the morning in her ov/u
occupacions. Sbe knew Lady Elizabeth to be perfectly guiltless
of manoeuvring; but from the time she had become conscious
of Mrs. Nesbit's designs on Eickworth, first for Arthur and now
for John, it had been her decided purpose to give no colour for
throwing the heiress in their way by any friendship of hers;
and as she considered Emma one of the dullest and most silly
gills of her acquaintance, it was very pleasant to be justified in
neglecting her.
The office of companionship to the younger visitor fell to
Mrs. Martindale. She showed off the peacock, and they
wandered happily in the gardens, most amiably received by
Mr. Harrison, who delighted in displaying his treasures, and
almost overwhelmed Violet with his graciousness, when she
shyly asked if he could spare her a few of his white roses for
her hair.
Miss Brandon groaned and sighed about the ball, declaring
it her detestation; she should be tired to death; she hated
dancing; and above all, there was the nuisance of dressing.
* Oh! I am sorry yoi; don't like it,' said Violet; ' but that is
the way with all sensible people.' '
*'No; mamma says it is not being sensible, but because I
don't dance well, and she wishes I did.'
' I am glad of that. My mamma does not think it foolish.'
' Do you like dancing, thenl'
' That I do,* cried Violet, making a few steps, ' I only wish I
might dance with him still 1*
This was the only difference of opinion—on school-teaching
books—heroes, historical and fictitious—on the Bridal of Trier-
main—and Wordsworth's Wag goners their sentiments accorded
exactly. Perhaps Emma's jnind was the more formed and
cultivated, but Violet's was the more discerning and diffident
in judgment.
Emma took the first opportunity of pouring out to her
mother a perfect rapture about Mrs. Martindale, dwelling
on her right views, and all that showed she had been well
, brought up.
* She is a sweet-looking creature,* said Lady Elizabeth, ' and
I do hope she is all she seems. Lord Martindale has been
telling me how entirely the marriage was her father's doing,
and that she was perfectly ignorant and innocent, poor thing.*
* She looks as if she could never do anything wrong. Mamma,;
1 hardly know whether you would like me to make friends
with her, but I could not help it, and she said such nice things
that I know you would like her. I never could get on with
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
aay one before, you know, but, from tbe moment she came
blushing in, and spoke to me in that sweet low voice, I felt as
if I must be fond of her—^before I made out who she was—^and
even then I could not like her less.*
* She is so unaffected and unassuming !* said Lady Elizabeth.
' I little expected Arthur Martindale's marriage to have turned
out so well.'
* I don't wonder at his falling in love at first sight I I don't
see how he could help it. I am sure I should!'
* I think you have,' said Lady Elizabeth, smiling.
* Wasn't it charming, mamma? Theodora never came near
us all the morning, and very soon got out of my way in the
afternoon, so we were so comfortable I'
* Take care what you say about her, my dear.*
' O, yes. We never spoke of her at all. I wonder what Mrs.
Martindale does here! It is a dreadful place, and they are all
one more stately than the other.*
'Not the sons.*
' Oh! poor Mr. Martindale is worse than stately. There's
something in that gentle melancholy tone of his that is so
different from other people—and he looks so refined and
thoughtful. He frightens me more than any of them 1'
' I hope he is in rather better spirits. I have had a good
deal of talk with him this evening. Indeed, his father told me
he had been roused by all this affair about his brother. But,
i<smma, my dear, you have not rung all this time! Here am I
almost dressed. I shall have to fulfil my threat, and leave you
to come down alone.*
It had to be fulfilled. Emma left insufficient time for her
maid to try to set out her soft light scanty hair, to make her
satin and gauze look anything but limp and flabby, and to put
on her jewels, in the vain hope of their making her seem well
dressed. Whatever was ordained for her to wear, Emma always
looked exactly the same. She opened her door at the same
moment as Yiolet advanced into the gallery, her tall taper
figure arrayed in bridal lace, not much whiter than her long
neck and rounded arms, a wreath of roses around her dark
tresses, brilliant flowers in her hand, her soft eyes bright
with pleasure, and her beauteous complexion deepened by
bashfulness.
Emma could not repress her delight. ' Oh !* she exclaimed,
you can't think how beautiful you are 1'
'Isn't she?' said a proud, playful voice. 'Thank you;* but
seeing Emma disconcerted, Arthur hastened down stairs.
' O, I didn't know he was there 1'
64
HEiPtTSEASEj
'Never mindr said Violet, among her blushes. ' Fm glad he
was. He liked it.*
' I could not help it,* said Emma. ' You are so like a story!
I can hardly believe you are real !*
Violet felt familiar enough to prove herself substantial by
a playful pinch. ' But look here i See what I found on my
table.*
' One of those serpent bracelets. It is very pretty I*
' Was not it kind of Lord Martindalel'
' You have to thank him for it! Oh! dreadful!'
' I don't mind speaking to him. It is so kind. ' Mrs. A.
Martindale, from her affectionate father,' the direction said.
Oh! it is so very, very pleasant that he should be so kind to me.
Is not it a beautiful creature? Look at its scales and its
crown and eyes. Arthur says they are sapphires.'
'Yes, I never saw a prettier one.'
' I wish Annette could see it, and ail at home. Is it not likt
a creature in a fairy tale?'
Like Zelinda's singing serpents?'
' Just like them. Do you know, I sometimes think I have
got into a fairy tale. Everything is so beautiful and so be¬
wildering, and unlike what I fancied.'
' Because ybu are so like a fairy princess yourself. Are you
sure you have not a talisman ring?'
' I think I have,' and Violet pulled off her glove.
' There—that forget-me-not—the first ring I ever had. From
the day he gave me that it has all been so strange, that now and
then I have been almost afraid to awake, for fear it should not
be true. But may I look at that diamond butterfly of yours ?
It shines as if it would flash in the dark.'
' Never mind mine. Stupid things that came as heir-looms,
and have no pleasure belonging to them. The only thing I do
care for is this'—and she drew out a locket from within her
dress. ' There, that is my father's hair, and that is my little
brother's. They both died before I can remember; and there
is dear mamma's nice pepper-and-salt lock round them.'
Theodora swept by in black lace, her coronal of hair wreathed
with large pearls, and her lofty air like the Tragic Muse.
' Comparing orjiaments! Worthy of such a friendship,' thought
she, as she held back, and made them go down before her, Emma
glad to hold by Violet's arm for protection.
Mrs. Nesbit was in the drawing-room talking to Lady Eliza¬
beth, and with her keen piercing eyes watching J"ohn, who was
reading the newspaper by the table. She was pleased to see
him lay it aside, look up, and smile, as the two friends entered,
OE, THE brother'S WIFE.
65
but she could have beaten them both, the one for her insignifi¬
cance, and the other for her radiant loveliness; and she was still
further provoked to see Miss Brandon sit down as near her
mother as possible, while Yiolet went up to him to show him
her bracelet. She stood by him for some little time, while he
was examining and praising it, and congratulating her on the
choice bouquet that Harrison had bestowed on her, but sur¬
prised to see her eyes cast pensively down, and a grave look on
that fair young face. He little suspected that she was saddened
by the contrast between her joys and his sorrow and ill health,
and thought it unkind to speak of her delight to one so far
removed from it.
Theodora began to indulge in a hearty grumbling.
' Well, my dear,' said Mrs. ISTesbit, ' you will only show your¬
selves there, and go home. Miss Brandon is not more inclined
to Whitford balls than you are.'
' Ho, I am rather surprised at having dragged Emma so far,'
said Lady Elizabeth. * I hope they will both find it turn out
better than they expect. You must teach them,' and she looked
smilingly at Violet.
Mrs. Nesbit was extremely annoyed at the quantity of notice
Violet had lately received, and was the more resolved to put her
down. 'No one can expect them to like country balls,' she
said. ' One attends them as a duty, for the sake of the neigh¬
bourhood; but as to pleasure in them, that is only for the
young ladies of the place on the look-out for the military.'
She had fulfilled her purpose of making every one uncomfort¬
able, except one—namely, Violet. John looked at her, and
perceived she was too innocent and clear in conscience to
understand or appropriate the taunt, so he thought it better to
leave the field open to Lady Elizabeth's calm reply, 'Well, I
used to enjoy country balls very much in my time.'
Arthur evaporated his indignation by shaking his foot, and
murmuring, not so low but that his sister heard it, ' Old hag I'
Lord and Lady Martindale came in together, and Violet's
blushing gratitude was so pretty and bright that it made Lord
Martindale smile, and silence it by a kiss, which perhaps sur¬
prised and gratified her more than the bracelet did.
Lady Elizabeth begged to have her in her carriage; and
growing intimate in the sociable darkness, she found out that
the mother was as loveable as the daughter, and was as much at
home with them as if she had known them for years.
The evening exceeded even Violet's anticipations, though her
one former ball had been such as could never be equalled. Lord
Martindale wished every one to know how entirely he accepted
P
63
HEARTSEASE;
his new daughter, so he gave his arm to her, and presented her
to the principal ladies, while she felt herself followed hy her
husband's encouragmg and exulting eye. It certainly was a
very different thing to go into society as Miss Yiolet Moss or as
Mrs. Arthur Martindale, and there was a start of fear as the
thought crossed her—^was her pleasure pride and vanity 1 ]
She was chiefly sorry that she could not see Miss Brandon
enjoy herself: all that could be extracted from her by the most
animated appeal was a resigned smile, and a little quizzing of
some of the sillier young ladies. She professed, however, that
she had never disliked any ball so little, since she had the plea¬
sure of watching Mrs. Martindale, hearing how universally she
was acknowledged to be the prettiest person present, and telling
Arthur all that was said of her.
Miss Brandon and Arthur had for some years past kept at a
respectful distance, each in dread of designs of the other; but
now they were fast resuming the childish familiarity of tone of
the ancient times, when the rough but good-natured, gentleman-
lilce boy had been a companion much preferred to the deter¬
mined, domineering girl. They danced a quadrille, and talked
a great deal of Yiolet. Emma began to think much better of
his capacity.
As to Theodora, she was talking, laughing, dancing, and ap¬
pearing so full of spirits, that Yiolet could not help venturing
a remark, that she surely liked it better than she expected.
* Not at all,' was the answer; 'but if one is to make oneself
absurd, it is as well not to do so by halves.'
So far was she from doing so by halves, that when her
mother was ready to go home, she was engaged so many deep,
that it was settled she should be left with Arthur and Yiolet.
She danced indefatigably till morning shone into the room,- and
was handed into the carriage by a gentleman who, it was the
private opinion of her young chaperone, had, like Arthur, fallen
in love at first sight. Poor man ! it was a pity he could not
know about Mr. Wing-field; or she could almost suppose that
Theodora did not care so much for Mr. Wingfield, after all.
The drive home was very amusing. Yiolet was so tired th^t
it was a trouble to speak; but she liked to hear the brother
and sister discuss the ball, and laugh over the people; and leant
back in her corner so comfortably, that she only dreaded the
moment of rousing herself to walk upstairs.
Theodora never stopped talking all the way, sprung nimbly
out of the carriage, ran up the steps, and admired the morning
sky; and Yiolet believed she did not go to bed at all, for it
seemed a very short time before the distant notes of the singing
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. 67
class were heard; 'yet she looked as fresh and blooming as ever
when they met at breakfast, and did not flag in any of her usual
employments.
The other ladies were capable of nothing but loitering; and
it was a day for making great advances in intimacy. Most
delightful was that first friendship, as they wandered arm-in¬
arm, talked gravely or gaily, and entered more and more into
each other's minds. Theodora held aloof, despisiug their girlish ,
caressing ways, and regarding the intimacy with the less tolera¬
tion because it was likely to serve as a pretext to hirs. Nesbit
for promoting her views for John; and though the fewest words
possible had passed between him and Miss Brandon, she found
that Mrs. Nesbit was building hopes 'on the satisfaction he
showed in conversing with Lady Elizabeth. The visit ended
with a warm invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Martindale to
come and stay at Bickworth before they left the country.
CHAPTER YI.
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near,
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gaiety ?
WORDSWOaTE.
WERE they to leave the country? This was still under
consideration. The next fortnight made some difierence
in Theodora's wishes respecting Brogden Cottage. Yiolet be¬
coming less timid, ventured to show that she took interest in
poor people; and Theodora was pleased by finding her able to
teach at school, and to remember the names of the children.
Especially her sweet looks and signs gained the heart of little
Charley Layton, the dumb boy at the lodge—the creature on
whom Theodora bestowed the most time and thought. And on
her begging to be shown the dumb alphabet, as the two sisters
crossed fingers, they became, for one evening, almost intimate.
Theodora began to think of her as not only harmless, but
likely to be useful in the parish; and could afford to let Arthur
have her for a plaything, since he made herself his confidante.
She withdrew her opposition; but it was too late. Arthur had
declared that he could not live there without 2500?. a-year, and
this his father neither could nor would give him. The expense
of building the house, and the keeping up of such a garden and
establishment, did not leave too much available of the wealth
F 2
68
HEAHTSEASEj
Lady Martindale Lad brougLt, nor was the West Indian pro¬
perty in a prosperous state; the demand was preposterous; and
Theodora found herself obliged to defend poor Violet, who, her
aunt declared, must have instigated it in consequence of the
notice lavished upon her; while, as Theodora averred with far
more truth, ' it was as much as the poor thing did to know the
difference between a ten-pound note and a five.* Twelve hun¬
dred pounds a-year, and the rent of a house in London, was
what his elder brother would have married upon; and this,
chiefly by John's influence, was fixed as the allowance, in addi¬
tion to his pay; and as his promotion was now purchased for
him, he had far more than he had any right to expect, though
he did not seem to think so, and grumbled to Theodora about
the expense of the garden, as if it was consuming his patrimony.
How the income would hold out, between his carelessness
and her inexperience, was a question over which his father
sighed, and gave good advice, which Arthur heard with the
same sleepy, civil air of attention, as had served hii\\ under the
infliction many times before.
John gave only one piece of advice, namely, that he should
consign a fixed sum for household expenses into his wife's
hands; so that he might not be subject to continued applh
cations.
On this he acted; and subtracting to himself, wine, men, and
horses, the full amount of his bachelor income, he, for the first
time, communicated to Violet the result of the various
consultations.
* So the upshot of it all is, that we are to have a house some¬
where in Belgravia,' he began.
' That is near Lord Martindale's London house, is it not
* Yes; you will be in the way of all that is going on.*
^ Do we go there next month V
* I suppose so.*
' Oh ! I am glad.*
' Are you ? I thought you liked being here.*
* Yes, yes, of course, that I do; but it will be so pleasant to
be at home, and to have you all to myself.*
She repented the next moment, as if it had been a complaint ;
but he was gratified, and called her a little monopolist.
* Oh, I don't mean to be troublesome to you,* said she,
earnestly; ' I shall have so much more to do in our own house,
that I shall not miss you so much when you are out; besides,
we can have Annette to stay with us.*
'We'll see about that. But look here,* laying a paper with
some figures before her; ' that's all my father leaves me for you
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
G9
to keep house with. I put it into your hands, and you must
do the best you can with it.*
" You don't mean to put all that into my hands !* exclaimed
Yiolet in alarm. ' What a sum !*
* You wont think so by the end of the year; but mind, this
must do; it will be of no use to come to me for more.'
' Then is it little V asked Violet.
' See what you think of it by and by; you wont find it such
an easy thing to make both ends meet.'
' I will write and ask mamma to tell me how to manage.*
' Indeed,' said Arthur, with sharpness such as she had neveif
seen in him before, 'I beg you will not. I wont have my
afiairs the town talk of Wrangerton.' But seeing her look
frightened, and ready to cry, he softened instantly, and said,
afiectionately' No, no, Violet, we must keep our concerns to our¬
selves. I don't want to serve for the entertainment of Matilda's
particular friends.'
' Mamma wouldn't tell—
* I'll trust no house of seven women.'
'But how am I to know how to manage 1*
' Never mind; you'll get on. It comes as naturally to women
as if it was shooting or fishing.'
' I wonder how I shall begin! I don't know anything.'
' Buy-a cookery book.'
' Aunt Moss gave me one; I didn't mean that. But, oh,
dear, there's the hiring of servants, and buying things 1'
' Don't ask me: it is woman's work, and always to be done
behind the scenes. If there's a thing I mortally hate, it is
those housekeeper bodies who go about talking of their good
cooks.'
Violet was silenced; but after much meditation she humbly
begged for answers to one or two questions. 'Was she to pay
the servants' wages out of this?'
' Your maids—of course.'
' And how many are we to have 1'
' As many as will do the work.'
' A cook and housemaid—I wonder if that would be enough]'
' Don't ask me, that's all.',
' I know you don't like to be teased,' she said, submissively ;
'but one or two things I do want to know. Is James to be in
the house ]'
' Why, yes; he is a handy fellow. We will have him down
for Simmonds to give him some training.'
' Then ought we to have two maids or three V
He held up his hands, and escaped.
70
HEAETSEASE;
That morning John, happening to come into the drawing-
room, found Yiolet disconsolately covering a sheet of paper with
figures.
' Abstruse calculations V said he.
'Yes, very,' said she, sighing, with the mystified face of a
child losing its way in a long sum.
He did not like to leave her in such evident difficulties,
and said, with a smile, 'Your budget? Are you good at
arithmetic V
' I can do the sums, if that was all; but I don't know what
to set out from, or anything about it. Mamma said she could
not think how I should keep house.'
' She would be the best person to give you counsel, I should
think.'
' Yes, but—^ and she looked down, struggling with tears, 'I
must not write to ask her.'
' How so ?'
'Arthur says the Wrangerton people would gossip, and I
should not like that,' said she; ' only, it is very hard to make
out for myself, and those things tease Arthur.'
'They are not much in his line,' said John; 'I don't know,'
he added, hesitating, ' whether it would be of any use to you to
talk it over with me. There was a time when I considered the
management of such an income ; and though it never came to
practice, mine may be better than no notions at all.'
' Oh, thank you!' said Yiolet, eagerly; then, pausing, she
said, with a sweet embarrassment, ' only—you can't like it.'
' Thank you,' replied he, with kind earnestness; ' I should
like to be of use to you.'
' It is just what I want. I am sure Arthur would like me
to do it. You see this is what he gives me, and I am to buy
everything out of it.'
' The best plan,' said John; ' it never answers to be always
applying for money.^ '
'No,' said Yiolet, thoughtfully, as she recollected certam
home scenes, and then was angry with herself for fancying
Arthur could wear such looks as those which all the house
dreaded.
Meanwhile John had perceived how differently Arthur had
apportioned the income from what his own intentions had been.
He had great doubts of the possibility of hex weU doing, but he
kept them to himself. He advised her to consider her items,
and soon saw she was more bewildered than helpless. He knev/
no more than Arthur on the knotty point of the number of
maids, but he was able to pronounce her plan sensible, and her
oe, the eeotftee^s
trlglitened, as she spoke of a housemaid of mamma's who
wanted to better herself, and get out of the way of the little
ones, ' who were always racketing.'
'And now,* said John, 'we passed over one important
question—or is that settled otherwise—your own pocket-
money r
'Oh! I have plenty. Arthur gave me fifty pounds when
we went through London, and I have twelve left.*
' But for the future! Is it included here V
' I should think so. Oh 1' shocked at the sum he set dowitj
'a quarter of that would be enough for my dress.'
'I don't think Miss Standaloft would say so,' said John^
smiling.
' But Arthur said we must economise, and I prom'sed to b^
as little expense as possible. Please let me write down halt
that.'
'No, no,' said John, retaining the pencil, 'not with my con¬
sent. Leave yourself the power of giving. Be ides, this is to
cover all the sundries you cannot charge as hou'^ehold expenses.
Now let me mark off another hundred for casualties, and here
is what you will have for the year. Now divide.'
' Surely, two people and three servants can't eat all that in
one week.'
'Pires, candles,' said John, amused, but poor Violet was
quite overpowered.
' Oh, dear! how many things I never thought of! Mamma
said I was too young I These coals. Can you tell me anything
about them?'
'I am afraid not. You are getting beyond me. If you
wanted to know the cost of lodgings in Italy or the south of
France, I could help you; but, after all, experience is better
bought than borrowed.'
'But what shall I do? Suppose 1 make Arthur uncomfort¬
able, or spend his money as I ought not when he trusts me ?'
'Suppose you don't,' said John. 'Why should you not
become an excellent housewife ? Indeed, I think you will,' he
proceeded, as she fixed her eyes on him. ' You see the principle
in its right light. This very anxiety is the best pledge.
If your head was only full of the pleasure of being mistress
of a house, that would make me uneasy about you and
Arthur.'
' Oh 1 that would be too bad 1 Mamma has talked to me so
much. She said I must make it a rule never to have debts.
She showed me how she pays her bills e-v ery week, and gave me
a great book like hers. I began at Winchester'
72
HEARTSEASE ;
' Why, Violet, instead of knowing nothing, I think you know
a great deal !*
She smiled, and said something about mamma.
* I don't say you will not make mistakes,* he continued, ' but
they will be steps to leam by. Your allowance is not large. It
seems only fair to tell you that it may not be sufficient. So, if
you find the expenses exceed the week's portion, don't try to
scramble on j it will only be discomfort at the time, and will
lead to worse. Go boldly to Arthur, and make him attend; it
is the only way to peace and security.'
* I see,' said Violet, thoughtfully. ' 0, I hope I shall do
right. One thing I should like. I mean, I thought one ought
to set apart something for giving away.'
' That is one use in reserving something for yourself,' said
John, in his kindest mamier. * Of the rest, you are only
Arthur's steward.'
'Yes, I hope I shall manage well.'
'You will if you keep your present frame of mind.*
' But I am so young and ignorant. I did not think enough
about it when I was married,' said Violet, sorrowfully, ' and
now it seems all to come on me ? To have all his comfort
and the well-being of a whole house depending on such as I
am.'
' I can only say one thing in answer, Violet, what I know
was the best comfort to one who, without it, would have sunk
under the weight of responsibility.' His whole countenance
altered, his voice gave way, a distressing fit of coughing came
on, the colour flushed into his face, and he pressed his hand on
his chest. Violet was frightened, but it presently ceased, and
after sitting for a few moments, exhausted, with his head resting
on his hand, he took up the pencil, and wrote down—' As thy
day, so shall thy strength be'—^pushed it towards her, and slowly
left the room.
Violet shed a few tears over the paper, and was the more
grieved when she heard of his being confined to his room by
pain in the side. She told Arthur what had passed. ' Ah I
poor J ohn,* he said, ' he never can speak of Helen, and any
agitation that brings on that cough knocks him up for the rest
of the day. So he has been trying to insense you, has he %
Very gooinatured of him.*
' I am so grieved. I was afraid it would be painful to him.
But what was the responsibility he spoke of V
' Looking after her grandfather, I suppose. He was imbecile
all the latter part of his life. Poor John, they were both
regularly sacrificed.*
OB, THE BKOTHER'S WIFE.
73
Jolm took the opportunity of a visit from his father that
afternoon to tell him how much good sense and right feeling
.Violet had shown, and her reluctance to appropriate to herself
what he had insisted on as absolutely necessary.
' That is only inexperience, poor girl,' said Lord Martindale.
* She does not know what she will want. If it is not confi¬
dential, I should like to know what she allows herself.'
John mentioned the sum.
* That is mere nonsense !' exclaimed his father. ' It is not
half as much as Theodora has! And she living in London, and
Arthur making such a point about her dress. I thought you
knew better, J ohn !'
' I knew it was very little, but when I considered the rest, I
did not see how she could contrive to give herself more.'
' There must be some miscalculation,' said Lord Martindale.
* There is not the least occasion for her to be straitened. You
thought yourself the allowance was ample.'
' That it is; but you know Arthur has been used to expen¬
sive habits.'
' More shame for him.*
' But one can hardly expect him to reduce at once. I do think
he is sincere in his promises, but he will be careless, even in
ordinary expenditure. I don't say this is what ought to be,
but I fear it will be. All the prudence and self-denial must
be upon her side.'
' And that from a girl of sixteen, universally admired ! What
a business it is ! Not that I blame her, poor thing, but I don't
see what is to become of them.'
The conversation was not without results. Lord Martindale,
some little time after, put into Violet's hand an envelope,
telling her she must apply the contents to her own use; and she
was astounded at finding it a cheque for loo^. He was going
to London, with both his sons, to choose a house for Arthur,
and to bid farewell to John, who was warned, by a few chilly
days, to depart for a winter in Madeira.
Violet was, during her husband's absence, to be left at Hick-
worth ; and in the last week she had several other presents, a
splendid dressing-case from Lady Martindale, containing more
implements than she knew how to use, also the print of Lalla
Bookh j and even little Miss Piper had spent much time and
trouble on a very ugly cushion. Theodora declared her present
should be useful, and gave all the household linen, for the pur¬
pose of having it hemmed by her school-children;—and this,
though she and Miss Piper sat up for three nights till one
o'clock to hasten it, was so far from ready, that Captain and
74:
HEABTSEASE;
Mrs. Martindale would liave begun tbe world without one table
cloth, if old aunt Moss had not been hennaing for them ever
since the day of Arthur's proposal
Theodora was weary and impatient of the conflict of influ¬
ence, and glad to be left to her own pursuits, while she thought
that, alone with Yiolet, Arthur must surely be brought to a
sense of his mistake.
Violet's heart bounded at the prospect of a renewal of the happy
days at Winchester, and of a release from the restraint of Martin-
dale, and the disappointment of making no friends with the
family,—^Mr. Martindale was the only one of them with whom
she was sorry to part; and she had seen comparatively little of
him. Indeed, when the three gentlemen set out, she thought so
niuch of Arthur's being away for a week, that she could not
care for John's voyage to Madeira, and looked pre-occupied
when he afiectionately wished her good-bye, telling her to watch
for him in the spring,—^her house would be his first stage on his
return. Then, as he saw her clinging to Arthur to the last
moment, and coming down with him to the bottom of the long
steps, he thought within himself, ^And by that time there will
be some guessing how much strength and stability there is with
all that sweetness, and she will have proved how much there is
to trust to in his fondness !'
There was not much time for bewailing the departures
before Emma Brandon came to claim her guest; and the drive
was pleasant enough to make Violet shake off her depression,
and fully enjoy the arrival at Bickworth, which now bore an
aspect so much more interesting than on her former drive.
The wooded hills in' the first flush of autumn beauty sloped
softly down to the green meadows, and as the carriage crossed
the solid-looking old stone bridge, Violet exclaimed with trans¬
port, at a glimpse she caught of a grey ruin—the old priory !
She was so eager to see it that she and Emma left the carriage
at the park gate, and walked thither at once.
'. Little of the building remained, only a few of the cloister
arches, and the stumps of broken columns to mark the form of
the chapel; but the arch of the west window was complete, and
the wreaths of ivy hid its want of tracery, while a red Virginian
creeper mantled tho wall. All was calm and still, the green¬
sward smooth and carefully mown, not a nettle or thistle visible,
but the floriated crosses on the old stone coflin lids showing clearly
above the level turf, shaded by a few fine old trees, while the
river glided smoothly along under the broad floating water-lily
leaves, and on its other side the green lawn was repeated, cattle
quietly grazing on the rich pasture, shut in by the gently rising
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
^5
wo-ods. The decHniiig sun cast its long shadows, and all was
peace,—^the only sounds, the rohin's note and the ripple of the
stream.
Violet stood with her hands resting on Emma's arm, scarcely
daring to break the silence. ' How lovely!' said she, after
a long interval. 'O Emma, how fond you must be of this
place !'
' Yes, it is beautiful,' said Emma, but _with less satisfaction
than Violet expected.
* It is worth all the gardens at Martindale.*
' To be sure it is,' said Emma, indignantly.
* It puts me in mind of St. Cross.'
* But St. Cross is alive, not a ruin,' said Emma, with a sigh,
and she asked many questions about it, while showing Violet
the chief points of interest, where the different buildings had
been, and the tomb of Osyth, the last prioress. Her whole
manner surprised Violet, there was a reverence as if they were
actually within a church, and more melancholy than pleasure in
-the possession of what, nevertheless, the young heiress evidently
loved with all her heart.
Turning away at length, they crossed the park, and passed
through the garden, which was gay with flowers, though much
less magnificent than Mr. Harrison's. Emma said, mamma was
a great gardener, and accordingly they found her cutting off
flowers past their prime. She gave Violet a bouquet of gera¬
nium and heliotrope, and conducted her to her room with that
motherly kindness and solicitude so comfortable to a lonely
guest in a strange house.
Hot that the house could long seem strange to Violet. It
was an atmosphere of ease, where she could move and speak
without feeling on her good behaviour. Everything through¬
out was on an unpretending scale, full of comfort, and without
display, with a regularity and punctuality that gave a feeling of
repose.
Violet was much happier than she had thought possible with¬
out Arthur, though her pleasures were not such as to make a
figure in history. They were talks and walks, drives and visits
to the school, readings and discussions, and the being perfectly
at home and caressed by mother and daughter. Lady Elizabeth
had all the qualities that are better than intellect, and enough
of that to enter into the pursuits of cleverer people. Emma
had more ability, and so much enthusiasm, that it was well that
it was chastened by her mother's sound sense, as well as kept
under by her own timidity.
It was not till Violet was on the point of departure that slie
73
HEARTSEASE ;
knew the secret of Emma's heart. The last Sunday evening
before Arthur was to fetch her away, she begged to walk once
more to the Priory, and have another look at it. ' I think,'
said she, 'it wiU stay in my mind like Helvellyn in the distance.'
Emma smiled, and soon they stood in the mellow light of the
setting sun, beside the ruin. ' How strange,' said Violet, ' to
think that it is three hundred years since Sunday came to this
chapel.'
'I wonder,' said Emma, breaking o% then beginning, 'O
Violet, it is the wish of my heart to bring Sundays back to
it.'
' Emma! but could it be built up again ?'
'Mamma says nothing must be done till I am twenty-five—
almost six years hence. Hot then, unless I am tame and sober,
and have weighed it welL'
' Kestore it 1—^build a church V
*1 could have a sort of alms-house, with old people and
children, and we could look after them ourselves.'
' That would be delightfuL Oh, I hope you will do it.'
'Don't think of it more than as a dream to myself and
mamma. I could not help saying it to you just then; but it is
down too deep generally even for mamma. It must come back
somehow to God's service. Don't talk of it any more, Violet,
dearest, only pray that I may not be unworthy.'
Violet could hardly believe a maiden with such hopes and
purposes could be her friend, any more than Prioress Osyth
herself; and when, half an hour afterwards, she heard Emma
' talking over the parish and Sunday-school news in an ordinary
matter-of-fact way, she did not seem like the same person.
There were many vows of correspondence, and auguries of
meeting next spring. Lady Elizabeth thought it right that her
daughter should see something of London life, and the hope of
meeting Violet was the one thing that consoled Emma, and
Violet talked of the delight of making her friend and Annette
known to each other.
To tliis, as Lady Elizabeth observed, Arthur said not a word.
She could not help lecturing him a little on the care of his
wife, and he listened with a very good grace, much pleased at
their being so fond of her.
She wished them good-bye very joyously, extremely happy
at having her husband again, and full of pleasant anticipations
of her new home.
OH, THE BROTHER'S WIFE,
77
PART II.
There's pansies for you, that's for thoughts.
Mawht,
CHAPTER I.
How far less am I blest than they.
Daily to pine, and waste with care.
Like the poor plant, that from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.
Mickle's Cimnor SaU,
Arthur and Violet arrived at their new Lome in the twi¬
light, when the drawing-room fire burnt brightly, giving a
look of comfort. The furniture was good; and by the fire
stood a delightful little low chair with a high back, and a
pretty little rosewood work-table, on which was a coloured glass
inkstand, and a table-stand of books in choice bindings.
'Arthur, Arthur, how charming! I am sure this is your
doing.'
' Ho, it is John's; I can't devise knick-knackeries, but he is
a thorough old bachelor, and has been doing all sorts of things
to the house, which have made it more tolerable.'
' How very kind he is ! The books—how beautiful I Just
what I wanted. That one he lent me—^he talked to me ol
that. This Emma has—I saw your sister reading that, and
wished to see more of it. But I can't look at them all now; I
must see Sarah, she was to bring something from home.'
A Wrangerton face had great charms, though it was starched
and severe, without one smile in answer to the joyous greeting,
Well, Sarah, I am glad you could come. How are they alll'
'Thank you, ma'am, Mr. and Mrs. Moss, and the young
ladies, and Mr. Albert, are all very well, and desires their
love,' replied a voice solemn enough for the announcement
that they were all at the point of death. Yiolet's spirits would
have been damped but for the sight of the table spread with
parcels directed in dear familiar writing, and she was pouncing
on them when Sarah began her grave requests for orders, and
Violet felt her own ignorance and incapacity growing more
patent every moment as questions about arrangements beset
and tormented her on every side. At. last she was left to enjoy
the out-spreading of the precious gifts, the devices characteristic
of the kind hands that had prepared them, and all her own
private possessions—a welcome sight.
HEAHTSEASE;
It was a happy evening, and the days that followed were
full of pleasure and occupation—^in settling her treasures and
maldng purchases. "When she seated herself in her own
carriage, she thought now indeed it would he delightful to
show herself to her mother and sisters. She had no relation in
London but an uncle, a solicitor, fond and proud of her, hut too
sensible to wish to frequent her house. He gave her a silver
teapot; and being asked to dinner now and then on Sunday
was all the attention he required. Her brother Albert did,
indeed, sometimes come to town on business; and Violet, after
many hopes, was, one evening, charmed at seeming him make
his. appearance. Arthur asked him to stay to ^nner, after
which they were going to a party.
Albert, a spruce, good-looking youth, had been too grand to
make friends with so young a sister; but, now that she was a
person of consequence, his tone was different. He talked his
best, and she had a perfect feast of Wrangerton news—showed
him all her presents, and enjoyed the thought of Annette's
smile at hearing of her little Violet stepping into her carriage for
a party at a countess's.
Arthur said London was empty, but Violet thought her
visitors inni/jnerable, and, as the autumn advanced towards
winter, had many invitations. She enjoyed going out; her
shyness had nearly worn off; and she was everywhere received
so as to make Arthur proud and pleased. Indeed she had
doubts whether she was not growing too gay, and if it was
right to pay so much attention to her appearance. She asked
Arthur, and was laughed at for her pains.
However, Violet was not without her troubles from the
first. She was very much afraid of Sarah, and never spoke
to her without shrinking back into Miss Violet, and being
conscious that it was mere presumption in her to try to order
one so much wiser than herself. The cook, a relation of Miss
Standaloft, was much more smooth and deferential, full of
resources, which seemed to come from Mrs. Martindale herself;
and though the weekly bills always exceeded her reckonings, so
many things were wanting, as Mrs. Cook observed, just getting
into a house. The first time of having any guests at dinner,
Violet was in much anxiety, but all went off to general
satisfaction until the bills came in on Monday morning. The
cost was beyond her calculations, exceeded her week's portion,
and devoured the savings of the days when they had not dined
at home. Invitations had been sent out for another party, and
Violet tried to bring it within bounds; but the cook was civilly
superior—* It was always so in the first families, such as she was
UR, THE BEQTilEE^S WIFE.
79
accustomed to, but if Mrs. Martindale Uked to bave thlugs in a
different style—
She knew Arthur would consent to no external change, and
all she could do was to look at the price of all she ordered,
reject sundry expensive delicacies, and trust to living on the
relics of the feast for the rest of the week? but, behold! they
scarcely served for one luncheon, and on Monday the bills
had. mounted up in an inexplicable manner. There were no
savings left, and she, made up the deficiency from her own
resources.
A third party was impending, and she strove more resolutely
for frugality. * "Well, ma'am, if you choose, it must be so; but
it was not what I was used to in the families such as I have
lived in.*
But Yiolet was firm, whereupon the cook harassed her with
contrarieties; and late hours and London air had so far told
upon her that she could not shake off her cares cheerfully.
She knew all would turn out ill—tormented herself—^brought
on a head-ache, and looked unwell when the evening came. The
cook sent up the dinner with just enough want of care to keep
her in such continual apprehension that she could hardly attend
to the conversation.
'You did not make such a good hand of it to-day,' said
Arthur, when the guests were gone; ' that soup was ditch-
water, and
Yiolet was so worn out that she burst into tears.
'Hey? What's the matter now? I said nothing to cry
for.*
She tried to speak, but the tears would not let her.
'Well, if you can't bear to be told everything is not perfection,
I don't know what is to be done.' And Arthur, in dSspleasure,
took up a candle and walked off to smoke a cigar in his sitting-
room down stairs.
Her tears were checked by consternation, and, earnest to. be
forgiven, she followed; then, as he turned impatiently, said, in
a trembling pleading voice, ' Hear Arthur, I've done crying. I
did not mean to be cross.'
'Well, that's enough, never mind,' said he, not unkindly, but
as if in haste to dismiss the subject, and be left to the peaceful
enjoyment of his cigar.
'And you forgive me?'
' Forgive? nonsense—only don't begin crying about nothing
again. There's nothing more intolerable than for a woman to
be always crying, whenever one speaks to her.'
''Twas not so much that,' said Yiolet, meekly, 'as that I was
80
HEARTSEASE;
vexed at the dinner not looldng well, and it wont, without
spending such quantities of money i'
' Quantities—^what do you call quantities?'—
*She named the cost of the last dinner, and he laughed at
her horror; then, when she was going to prove that it was
disproportionate to their means, he silenced her: 'Well, well,
never mind; we are not going to give any more dinners just
yet; but when we do, have done with pinching and squeezing.
Why, you don't look fit to be seen after it.*
' I'm only tired.'
'Ay, with worrying. Go to bed and to sleep, and forget
it alir
She was consoled for that time; but the perplexity continued.
She strove to reduce the ordinary expenditure, but Arthur had
a fashion of bringing home a friend to dinner without notice;
and she underwent indescribable miseries, while reflecting on
her one chicken, or five mutton chops; and though something
was sure to be extemporized by the cook, the result was, that
- these casual guests were as expensive as a banquet. She
ventured to beg Arthur to tell her when he was going to ask
any one, but he was vexed, and said he liked to bring home a
man by chance; there need be nothing out of the common way,
and a dinner for two was a dinner for three. Poor Violet
thought, ' Ah! this is not like the time at Winchester. It is
my own fault, I am not companion enough.'
She began to grow tired of going out in the evening; late
hours tried her; she felt listless and unwell; and her finances
could not support the dress expenses; but when she tried to
excuse herself, she found Arthur determined on taking her out,
though he had previously grumbled, and declared he only went
for her sake. When she looked pale and languid he seemed
annoyed, in a way that gave her the impression that he valued
nothing but her beauty. She believed he found home dull, and
her not what he expected.
The truth was, perhaps, that Violet's spirits were naturally
not strong, and she was scarcely equal to the cares that had
come on her. She missed the companionship of the large family
at home; and a slight degree of indisposition or of anxiety was
sufficient to set her tormenting herself with every imaginable
fear and grief; above all, the dread that he was not pleased
with her.
She believed herself to have strictly adhered to the rule of
paying for everything at once; but ^e was dismayed by a
shower of bills at Christmas, for things ordered by the cook
without her knowledge, several of which she disowned alto-
81
gether; and several that her memory and 'great book' both
declared she had paid; though the tradesmen and the cook,
through whom the money had been sent, stoutly denied it. She
was frightened, paid the sums, and so went the last remains of
Lord Martindale's present.
Sure that the woman was dishonest, yet not knowing how to
prove it; afraid to consult Arthur on the household concerns,
that he detested; and with a nervous dread of a disturbance,
Violet made arrangements for conveying no more payments
through Mrs. Cook; and, for the rest, thought she must go on
as she could, till the time should come,-when, near the end of
May, she reckoned on having her mother with her. She would
repair her mistakes, make her feel herself mistress in her own
house, and help her to all she wanted to know, without fear of
Wrangerton gossip. That hope strengthened and cheered her
in all her troubles; and oh! suppose Annette came too !
Poor Violet! the first time she referred to her mother's
coming, Arthur looked annoyed, gave a sort of whistle, and said,
as if searching for an excuse, ' Why, they never could spare her
from Wrangerton.*
' O, that they would,' said Violet, eagerly; ' or if not mamma
herself, at least, I am sure, Matilda would come to me, or
Annette.'
' Whew 1* again whistled Arthur; ' I don't know whether
that will do.'
'Arthur!'
' There will be my mother close by, and Lady Elizabeth. No,
no, you wont want to have any one up from there.'
' May I not have my own mamma V pleaded poor Violet,
ui'ged into something like pertinacity.
But Arthur cut her short; his great dislike to what he had
to say making him speak the more ungraciously : ' I don't want
to vex you, Violet, but once for all we must come to an under-
i.tanding. You must not expect to have your family here.
They are good sort of people, and all that style of thing,'—^lie
faltered at her looks of imploring consternation, and tried to
work himself into anger in order to be able to finish. ' It is of
no use looking wretched, I tell you, you must put it out of your
head. They belong to a difierent set altogether, and it wont
do any way. There now, don't go and be nervous about your¬
self ; Theodora shall see to you, and you'll do very well, I have
no doubt.*
With these words he hastily quitted her, that he might not
witness the distress he had occasioned, though he had not the
least idea what his refusal was to her.
o
S3
HEARTSEASE;
The sense of her own helplessness and inexperience, and the
prospect of illness, without mother or sister, were lost in the
more overpowering sorrow at his unMndness. How could he
love her if he denied her this at such a time, and in such a
manner? ' He is ashamed of my family ! ashamed of me ! He
is disappointed in me! I can't make it pleasant to him at
home. I am not even good-tempered when I am not well, and
I am not half as pretty as I used to be! Oh! if he had but
married me for anything but my prettyness ! But I was not
worth vexing every one for! I am only a plague and trouble!
Well, I dare say I shall die; now there is no one to take care
of me, and then, perhaps, he will be sorry for me. Just at last,
I'll tell him how I did mean to be a good wife, and tried all I
could.'
But then poor Violet fell into a maze of terror.
She roused herself and dried her tears on hearing some one
approaching. It was James, bringing in a parcel. It contained
a beautiful and costly silk dress. After the first glance she
pushed it from her, and her grief burst forth again. ' Does he
think that can make up to me for my mother ? How silly he
must think me. Yet he is kind and tries to please me still,
though I am so troublesome ! Dear, dear Arthur 1'
She took it back upon her lap, and tried to admire, but her
heart failed her; and she could not look at it till the sound of
his entrance revived her j she felt as if she had been injuring
him, and recalling her smiles, met him with what he thought
delighted gratitude.
He was relieved to find the late subject blown over, and only
wishing to keep it out of her mind, he invited her to take
a walk.
Violet had begun to dread his walks, for he was a loiterer,
apt to go further and stay out longer than he intended, and she
could not bear to tease him by hints of fatigue j but to-day she
could not demur at anything he asked, and she only observed
that they had better not go far, as they had an engagement for
the evening.
At first the air and his attention did her good; but when she
saw Captain Fitzhugh approaching, she knew that Arthur's
arm was the only further use she should have of him, and there
would be an endless saxmtering and talk about horses or fishing,
while he would all the time fancy himself going home.
The consequence was, that she was obliged to go at once to
bed on coming in, and was declared by Arthur to have been
very silly never to have mentioned her fatigue; while Sarah,
bestowing grim and sour looks upon them both, attended on
OR, THE BROTHER'S'WIFE,
^ ss
her with the most assiduous and minute care. Arthur wsis
greatly concerned, and very unwilling to go to the party alone,
but Yiolet persuaded him, and he promised to return early;
then found the evening pleasant, and never knew how time
went, while she was lying awake, imagining that something
dreadful had happened to him, and mourning over her
grievances.
The effects of that over-fatigue did not pass away, and sho
was forced to give up all evening engagements. He meant to
be kind, but was too ignorant and inconsiderate not to do her
as much harm as good. One day he almost overwhelmed her
with attentions, the next left her to herself. He offered to re¬
fuse all invitations for her sake, but it ended in her spending
more than half her evenings alone; and when the horse was
wanted for him in the evening, she lost her drive. Yery soon
she fell out of the habit of going out, for now that she was no
companion for his long rambles, he found other ways of dis¬
posing of his afternoons ; and she was still so countrified as to
dislike and dread walking alone, even in the quiet Belgravian
regions, so that she was always relieved to decide that the grey
mist was such as could, do no one any good, or that she really
was not well enough for a walk.
' She did not know the use of change of scene, and the bracing
^ffect of resolution,—she had no experiehce of self-management,
and had not learnt that it was a duty not to let herself pine.
Though most conscientious, she had not yet grown up to under¬
stand religion as a present comfort. To her it was a guide and
an obligation, and as such she obeyed its dictates, to the best of
her power, but only as an obedient child, without understanding
the immediate reward in this life, namely, confidence, support,
and poace. It is a feeling generally belonging to an age beyond
hers, though only to be won by faithful discipline. She was
walking in darkness, and, by and by, light might come. But
there was one omission, for which she long after grieved; and
which, though she knew it not, added to her present troubles.
All heart and hope had been taken from her since she had
been forbidden to see her mother and sister. The present was
dreary, the future nothing but gloom and apprehension, and she
had little to distract her attention. She strove hard to fulfil
what she knew were duties, her household concerns and the
readings she had fixed as tasks; but these over, she did not try
to rouse her mind from her cares; nor had she perhaps the
power, for her difficulties with the cook were too much for her,
and it was very trying to spend so many hours of the dingy
London day and long evening in solitude.
a 2
u
HEARTSEASE j
Her amusing books were exhausted, and she used to lie for¬
lorn on the sofa, with her needlework, bearing the roar of carriage--
wheels, and her mind roaming from the perplexities of her
accounts to her sad forebodings and her belief in Arthur's cold¬
ness, tni her heart seemed ready to "break,—and her tears
gathered, first in solitary drops, then in fioods. She had no one
to cheer her spirits, to share her hopes and fears. Her plans
and employments were tedious to her husband, and he must not
be troubled with them,—and so, locked up within herself, they
oppressed her with care and apprehension. In letter-writing
there was only pain; she could not bear to be supposed unwell
or unhappy, and, above all, dreaded saying what might lead to
an offer from her mother to come to her. Her letters became
mere comments on home news; she wrote less frequently, feared
they would think her grown too fine to care for them, and then
wept and sobbed with home sickness. There was a little more
comfort in writing to Rickworth, for she expected the Brandons
early in May, and her only hope was in Lady Elizabeth for care
and counsel; for as to Arthur's dependence, his mother and
sister, she felt as if the fear and restraint of their presence would
be unbearable.
Her husband never guessed how she languished. In his
presence she was a different creature, forgetting her griefs in
the one wish of pleasing him. No matter what she had been
undergoing in his absence, his knock raised her spirits, in a
moment life darted into her limbs and colour into her cheeks.
She had no notion of complaining. Her mother had always
been sdent, though often with greater cause for remonstrance;
and poor Violet, imagining herself a burden, would not for the
world have made herself more troublesome than she could help.
Her whole desire was to win a smile, a fond word, a caress, and
she sat watching as if those were life to her; her cheeks burn-'
ing with eagerness so much that Arthur little guessed how wan
they were in his absence.
The colour was heightened by warm rooms, for Arthur was of
a chilly race, and could not understand how oppressive the close
atmosphere of London was to one used to mountain breezes.
He would come in shivering, and be provoked to find her sittiug
by the smallest of fires; till she learnt that their estimate of
heat was so different, that the only safety was in keeping the
room like an oven. The folding doors into the back drawing-
room had a trick of opening of their own accord; and the trouble
given her by this draught-trap, as Arthur called it, can hardly
be estimated, especially one windy week in'March, when he had
a cold.
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
She had never been wont to think seriously of colds; but •
when it came to coughing and feverishness all night, and Arthur,
with his hand on his chest, persisted that it was all in his throat,
and told her to send for a blister, she grew alarmed, but this
only displeased him. He disdained her entreaty that he would
remain in bed; and said women always made a fuss about no¬
thing, when she timidly suggested sending for ' some one.'
For three deplorable days he sat over the fire, with a distaste
for everything, while she did her utmost to make him comfort¬
able, and when she failed, thought it her own fault, reproached her¬
self for her inefficiency, and imagined that he was going to be as
ill as his brother, and that she should be of no use to him. How
hard on him to have such a bad wife! She could not even
entertain him while he was kept indoors—for she could not find
anything to talk about, so long was it since she had been out,
or read anything amusing.
However, on the third afternoon, he brightened up, found
the soup good, talked and laughed, and declared that if to¬
morrow was fine, he should be out again. And the next day
she was so delighted to find his cough was gone—^more quickly
than he had ever known so severe a cold depart—that it was
not till he was out of the house that she remembered that she
was condemned to solitude for many hours.
Here was quarter-day, bringing fresh confusion, in those
inexplicable household expenses, and a miserable sense of waste¬
fulness, and unfaithfulness to her charge. She thought of John's
advice, to make her husband attend, if she found her means in¬
sufficient; and set herself to draw up a statement of the case,
to lay before him; but she grew more and more puzzled; the
cook's dishonesty weighed on her, and her fears of taking any
measures increased. Her calculations always ended in despair¬
ing tears.
She was lying on her bed, recovering from one of these almost
hysterical fits, when she was roused from a doze by a knock at
her door; and started up, trying to hide that anything had
been the matter, as Sarah came in, and said, With a tone of
authority,
' Mrs. Finch and Miss Gardner, ma'am! but I will say you
are not well enough to see them.'
' O no, Sarah, I am quite well; I was only asleep.*
* You had better not go down,' sternly repeated Sarah. * You
had much best lie down, and have your sleep out, after being
kept awake till two o'clock last night, with Captain Martindale
not coming home. And you with the pillow all awry, and that
bit of a shawl over you I Lie you down, and I'll set it straight.
86
HEAETSEASE;
But Violet was on lier feet—^the imputation on Captain
Martindale liad put her on her mettle. 'Thank you, I don't
want anything; I am going down directly.'
Sarah shook her head, and looked significantly at the glass;
and there, indeed, Violet perceived that her eyes bore traces of
recent weeping; but, still, she would do anything rather ,than
own her tears. ' My head aches a little—that makes my eyes
heavy,' said she. ' It will do me good to see Miss Gardner. I
knew her at Martindale.'
But when Violet found herself in the presence of Miss
Gardner, and of a tall fashionable lady, she did not like the
recollection that she had been talked of as a beauty.
She was glad to meet Miss Gardner, but Mrs. Finch's style
was dashing and almost boisterous, and her voice quick and
loud, as she seized on her hand, exclaiming, ' I want no intro¬
duction, I have heard so much of you! I know we shall be
excellent friends. I must hear of Theodora. You know she is
the greatest ally I have on earth. When did you hear of her
last? When are they coming to town? I would not miss
Theodora's first appearance for all the \7orld.'
Violet felt overpowered by the torrent; but thought it was
giving no right impression of her husband to look disconsolate,
and exerted herself to be cheerful, and answer.
But they would speak of Martindale, and oblige her to expose
her ignorance. She did not know when the family were coming
to town, nor had she heard when Mr. Martindale's return might
be expected.
If Miss Gardner had been alone, she thought she might have
got on better; but the quieter elder sister hardly put in a word,
so unceasing was the talk of the younger.; whose patronage
became oppressive, when she began on Mrs. Martindale herself;
told her she was lazy, taking too much care, and growing nervous:
and even declared she should come some day, take her by storm,
and carry her out for a drive in the park.
Boor Violet felt as if to be shut up in the carriage with this
talking lady would kill her outright; begged she would not
take the trouble; but only met with smiles, and declarations
that Theodora would scold her well when she came.
The next afternoon Violet listened with dread to the sounds,
of wheels, and was not at all inclined to blame a headache,
which was sufiicient excuse for sending down thanks and re¬
fusal. On the following, she had just made up her mind that
the danger was over for that day, when her alarm was excited
by a thundering knock, and in walked her brother.
'^ell, Violet, I have caught you at home. I'm come to town
OR, THE brother'S-WIFE.
8?
aLout Lord Erme*s business—go back by tbe mail train. Are
you. dining at borne? Can you. give me a dinner?'
' Ob, yes !* said Violet; but fears came over ber of Arthur's
not being pleased, especially supposing be should bring back
any one witli bim. And therewith came dismay at finding her¬
self giving no better welcome to ber own brother, and she
eagerly asked for all at home.
'In a high state of preservation. And bow are you? You
don't look quite tbe thing.*
• Ob, yes, T am, thank you.'
'And bow is Martindale?'
He would not call bim so to bis face! thought tbe wife. Ob!
I wish be would sit anywhere but in Arthur's chair, and not
fidget me with playing with that horrid little piece of watch
chain! ' He is very well, thank you. He had a bad cold last
week, but it is quite gone now. I hope he will soon come in.'
'I am not sorry to have found you alone. I want to hear
something of these relations of yours.'
Oh! I shall be sure to say something wrong! thought she,
and as the best thing to put forward, announced that they would
soon be in London..
' And they are not high with you? I hear fine accounts of
their grandeur,—^they say the lady and her daughter are eaten
up with pride, and think no one fit to speak to.'
' Miss Martindale has the plainest ways in the world. She
will do anything for the poor people.'
. 'Ay, ay; that's the way with fine ladies,—they like to be
"condescending and affable. And so you say they receive you
well? make you one of the family—eh?'
Violet hoped it was not wrong to utter a faint ' yes.'
' Does Martindale's sister write to you?'
'Ho; she does not write letters much. But I told you how
Very kind they are—Mr. Martindale, his brother, especially.'
. ' Ay!' said Albert, ' he ■ disconcerted our calculations. He
seems to have taken out a new lease.'
' He is a great deal better.'
' But he has no lungs left. His life can't be worth a year's
purchase, by what the governor heard. He would never have
let Martindale have you on such easy terms if he had not looked
on you as good as bet ladyship.'
Such shame and disgust came over Violet that she felt un¬
worthy to sit on John Martindale's chair, and moved to the
sofa, trying to change the subject; but Albert persisted in in¬
quiries about Mr. Martindale's age, health, and the likelihood of
his marrying, till she could no longer be without the perception
88
HEAT.TSEASE ;
that not only had her husband been to blame for their marriage
—^her father's part had been far worse.
Albert hoped the old lord was coming down handsomely, and
tried to make her tell their income. She was glad not to know,
and he began calculating it from their style of living, with such
disregard to her feelings, as made her contrast his manners with
those of the true gentlemen to whom she was now accustomed,
and feel sadly that there was reason in her husband's wish to
keep her family at a distance. There was no checking or
silencing this elder brother; she could only feel humiliated by
each proof of his vulgarity of mind, and blame herself, by turns,
for churlishness to him, and for permitting conversation Arthur
would so much dislike.
Why would not Arthur come and put a stop to it? It was
not the first time she had waited dinner for him in vain, and
though she tried to make Albert think she liked it, she knew
she was a very bad dissembler.
When she at length ordered in dinner, the conversation
changed to Wrangerton doings, the Christmas gaieties, jokes
about her sisters and their imputed admirers, and a Miss Louisa
Davies—a new comer, about whom Albert seemed to wish to
be laughed at himself. But poor Violet had no spirits even to
perceive this,—she only thought of home and the familiar scenes
recalled by each name. What a gulf between her and them!
In what free, careless happiness they lived! What had her
father done in thrusting her into a position for which she was
unfit,—into a family who did not want her, and upon one to
whom she was only a burthen? At home they thought her
happy and fortunate 1 They should never guess at her
wretchedness.
But when the time for Albert's departure came, Violet forgot
his inconvenient questions, and would have given the world to
keep him. He was her own brother—a part of home; he loved
her—she had felt inhospitable to him, and perhaps she should
never see him again.
When he recurred to her pale looks and languid manner, and
expressed concern, it was all she could do to keep from bursting
into tears, and telling all her griefs; and she could not control
the rapid agitated tones that belied her repeated assurances that
nothing was amiss, and that he must not give a bad account of
her and alarm her mother.
She could hardly let him go; and when he bade her good¬
bye, there was a moment's intense desire to be going with him,
from this lonely room, home to her mother and Annette, in¬
stantly followed by a horror at such a wish having occurred,
OIl> THU BROTHER^'S WIFE. S9
' and tlien came the sohs and tears. She dreaded that Arthur
might be displeased at the visit; but he came home full of good
humour, and on hearing of it, only hoped she had good news
from Wrangerton, and said he was glad he had been out of the
* way, so that she had been able to have her brother all to herself.
Her fears of the effect of Albert's account of her were better
founded; for two mornings after, on coming down to breakfast,
she found a letter from her mother to exhort her to be careful,
assuring her that she need have no scruple in sending for her,
and betraying so much uneasiness as to add to all her terrors.
She saw this in one glance; for she knew that to dwell on the
tender affectionate letter would bring on a fit of weeping, and
left it and the dreadful consideration of her reply till .^thur
should be gone, as he was to spend the day in fishing with a
friend in the country.
He had come home late last night, and was not yet dressed,
and she waited long, gazing at the gleams of sunshine on the
square gardens, thinking how bright this second day of April
must be anywhere but here, where it was close and oppressive,
and wondering whether Helvellyn was beginning to lose his
snow; then, as Helvellyn brought the sensation that led to
tears, she took the newspaper, and had read more than she cared
for before Arthur appeared, in the state of impatience which
voluntary lateness is sure to produce.
She gave him his tea as quickly as she could, but all went
wrong: it was a horrid cold day, all east wind—there was a
cold wind coming in somewhere.
'The back drawing-room window! I'm sorry I did not see
it was open.*
' What makes you go to shut iti' said he, hastily marching
across the room, and closing it and the doors. ' I shall be gone
in a moment, and you may let in a hunicane if you like. Have
you seen my cigar-case?*
' It was on the ledge of your wardrobe.*
' Some of your maids have been and hid it.*
' I told Sarah never to put your things away. I think I
could find it.*
' No, don't go; I have looked everywhere.*
As he never found things, even when before his eyes, this
was not conclusive; and she undertook the search in spite of
another careless 'No, no, don't,* knowing it meant the contrary.
She could not find it in his dressing-room, and he looked
annoyed, again accusing the maids. This made her feel injured,
and though growing exhausted, as well she might, as she had
not even begun breakfast, she said she would look in the
90
HEARTSEASE;
sitting-room. He half remonstrated, without looking up from
the paper; hut she hoped to be gladdened by thanks, hunted in
all his hiding places in vain, and found she must give it up,
after a consultation with Sarah, who resentfully denied all
knowledge of it, and told her she looked ready to drop.
DolefuUy coming into the hall, she saw Arthur's black
travelling-bag. Was it for more than the day? The evenings
were bad enough—^but a desolate night! And he had never
told her 1
' I suppose you have not found it ?'
'Ho; I wish I could 1'
'Never mind; it will turn up. "You have tired yourself*
'But, Arthur, are you nob coming home to-night?'
' Didn't I tell you? If I can't get away by the seven o'clock
train, I thought of sleeping there. Ten o'clock, I declare 1 I
shall miss the train 1'
She came to the head of the stairs with him, asking plain¬
tively, 'When do you come home? To-morrow, at latest?'
Perhaps it was her querulous tone, perhaps a mere boyish
-dislike to being tied down, or even it might be mere hurry, that
made him answer impatiently, ' I can't tell—as it may happen.
D'ye think I want to run away! Only take care of yourself
This was in his coaxing voice; but it was not a moment when
she could bear to be turned aside, like an importunate child,
and she was going to speak; but he saw the v/rong fishing-rod
carried out, called hastily to James, ran down stairs, and was
gone, without even looking back at her.
The sound of the. closing.door conveyed a sense of utter deso¬
lation to her overwrought mind—^the house was a solitaiy
prison; she sank on the sofa, sobbing, ' O, I am very, very miser¬
able! Why did he take me from home, if he could not love me?
Oh, what •will become of me? Oh, mamma! mammal*
RTHUB came home late in the afternoon of the follo"wing
day. The door was opened to him by his brother, who
abruptly said, ' She is dying. You must not lose a moment if
you would see her alive.*
Arthur turned pale, and gave an inarticulate exclamation of
horror-stricken inquiry—' Confined V
CHAPTEB II.
What is so shrill as silent tears ?
Geoege Heebeet.
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. '
* Half-an-liour aga. Slie was taken ill yesterday morning
immediately after you left lier. She is insensible, but you may
find her still living.*
Nothing but strong indignation could have made John
Martindale thus communicate such tidings. He had arrived
that day at noon to find that the creature he had left in the
height of her bright loveliness was in the extrenuty of suffering
and peril—^her husband gone no one knew whither j and the
servants, too angry not to speak plainly, reporting that he had
left her in hysterics. John tried not to believe the half, but as
time went pn, bringing despair of the poor young mother's
life, and no tidings of Arthur j while he became more and more
certain that there had been cruel neglect, the very gentleness
and compassion of his nature fired and glowed against him who
had taken her from her home, vowed to cherish her, and for¬
saken her at such a time. However, he was softened by seeing
him stagger against the wall, perfectly stunned, then gathering
breath, rush upstairs without a word.
As Arthur pushed open the door, there was a whisper th^t
it was he, too late, and room was made for him. All he knew
was, that those around watched as if it was not yet death, but .
what else did he see on those ashy senseless features 1
With a cry of despair he threw himself almost over her, and
implored her but once to speak, or look at him. No one thought
her capable even of hearing, but at his voice the eyelids and lips
slightly moved, and a look of relief came over the face.
A hand pressed his shoulder, and a spoon containing a drop
of liquid was placed in his fingers, while some one said, * Try to
get her to take this.'
Scarcely conscious, he obeyed, and calling her by every en¬
dearing name, beyond hope succeeded in putting it between her
lips. Her eyes opened and were turned on him, her hand
closed on his, and her features assumed a look - of peace. The
spark of life was for a moment detained by the power of affec¬
tion, but in a short space the breath must cease, the clasp of
the hand relax.
Once more he was interrupted by a touch, and this time it
was Sarah's whisper—' The minister is come, sir. What name
shall it be V
'Anything—John,' said he, without turning his head or
taking in what she said.
The clergyman and John Martindale were waiting in the
dressing-room, with poor Violet's cathedral cup filled with water.
'She does not know him?' asked John, anxiously, as Sarah
entered.
92 HEARTSEASE;
'Yes, sir, she does,* said Sarah, contorting her face to keep
back the tears. ' She looked at him, and has hold of his hand-
I think she will die easier for it, poor dear.*
' And at least the poor child is alive to he baptized?*
' O, yes, sir, it seems a bit livelier now,* said Sarah, opening a
fold of the flannel in her arms. ' It is just like its poor mamma.*
'Is it a girl?' he inquired, by no means perceiving the resem¬
blance.
' A boy, sir. His papa never asked, though he did say his
name should be John.*
' It matters little,* said J ohn, mournfully, for to his eye there -
was nothing like life in that tiny form. ' And yet how mar¬
vellous,* thought he, ' to think of its infinite gain by these few
moments of unconscious existence !*
At the touch of the water it gave a little cry, which Sarah-
heard with a start and glance of infinite satisfaction.
She returned to the chamber, where the same deathly still¬
ness prevailed; the husband, the medical men, the nurse, all in
their several positions, as if they had neither moved nor looked
from the insensible, scarcely breathing figure.
The infant again gave a feeble sound, and once more the
white features moved, the eyes opened, and a voice said, so
faintly, that Arthur, as he hung over her, alone could hear it,
' My baby ! O, let me see it 1*
' Bring the child/ and at the sound of those words the gleam
of life spread over her face more completely.
He could not move from her side, and Sarah placed the little
creature upon his broad hand. He held it close to her. ' Our
baby !* again she murmured, and tried to kiss it, but it made
another slight noise, and this overcame her completely, the
deathly look returned, and he hastily gave back the infant.
She strove hard for utterance, and he could hardly catch her
gasping words, ' You'll be fond of it, and think of me.'
'Don't, don't talk so, dearest. You will soon be better.
You are better. Let me give you this.'
'Please, I had rather lie still. Do let me.* Then again
looking up, as if she had been losing the consciousness of his
presence, 'Oh! it is you. Are you come? Kiss me and wish
me good-bye.*
' You' are better—only take this. "Wont you? You need
not move; Yiolet, Violet, only try. To please me! There,
well done, my precious one. Now you will be more com¬
fortable.*
' Thank you, oh no! But I am glad you are come. I did
wish to be a good wife. I had so much to say to you—if J
or, the brother's wife. 93
*
could—but I can't remember. And my baby; but ob! this is
dying,' as tbe sinking returned. ' O, Arthur, keep me, don't
let me die!' and she clung to him in terror.
He flung his arm closer round her, looking for help to the
doctors. ' You shall not, you will not, my own, my darling.'
* You can't help it,' sighed she. 'And I don't know how—
if some one would say a prayer?'
He could only repeat protests that she must live, but she
grew more earnest. ' A prayer! I can't recollect—Oh! is it
wicked? WiU God have mercy? Oh! would you but say a
prayer?'
' Yes, yes, but what? Give .me a book.*
Sarah put one into his hand, and pointed to a place, but his
eyes were misty, his voice faltered, broke down, and he was
obliged to press his face down on the pillows to stifle his sobs.
Violet was roused to such a degree of bewildered distress and
alarm at the sight of his grief, that the doctors insisted on
removing him, and almost forced him away.
There had been prayers ofiered for her, of which she knew
nothing.
The clergyman was gone, and John had despatched his melan¬
choly letter to Lord Martindale, when he heard the steps on the
stairs. Was it over? No, it was only one of the doctors with
Arthur, and they did not come to him, but talked in the back
drawing-room for some moments, after which the doctor took
leave, repeating the words in John's hearing, that Arthur must
compose himself before returning to her—agitation would be
at once fatal. Arthur had thrown himself on the sofa, with
his face hidden in his hands, in such overpowering distress, that
his brother's displeasure could not continue for a moment, and
he began to speak soothingly of the present improvement.
' It cannot last,' said Arthur. ' They say it is but a question
of minutes or hours,' and again he gave way to a burst of grief,
but presently it changed to an angry tone. ' Why was I never
sent for ?*
John explained that no one knew whither to send. He
could hardly credit this, and his wrath increased at the stupi¬
dity of the servants; it seemed to relieve him to declaim against'
them.
' Then you left her well?*
' Of course I did. She had been searching over the house for
that abominable cigar-case of mine, which was in my pocket all
the time 1 I shall never bear to see it again,* and he launched
it into the fire with vehemence. ' I suppose that upset her!
Why did I not prevent her? Fool that I was not to know it
94? HEARTSEASE;
was not fit for her, tliougli bIlo cliose to do it. But I never
took care of her.'
* She is so very unselfish,' said John.
' That was it. I thought women always looked out for them¬
selves. I should have known I had one not like the rest!
She had never one thought for herself, and it is killing her, the
sweetest, loveliest, best—^my precious Yiolet! . John, John! is
there nothing that can be done for her?' cried he, starting up
.in a tumultuous agony of grief, and striking his foot on the
floor.
'Could we not send for her mother? Brown .might set off
at once to fetch her,'
'Thank you; but no, it is of no use. No railroad within
forty miles of the place. She could not be here till—^till—and
then I could not see her.' He was pacing the room, and
entangled his foot in Yiolet's little work-table, and it fell. Her
work-box flew open, and as they stooped to pick up the articles,
Arthur again wept without control as he took up a little frock,
half made, with the needle hanging to it. The table-drawer
had fallen out, and with.it the large account-book, the weekly
bills, and a sheet of paper covered with figures, and blotted and
blistered with tears. The sight seemed to overwhelm him more
than all. ' Crying over these! My Yiolet crying! Oh!' what
have I been doing V
'And why? What distressed her?'
' It was too much for her. She would plague herself with
these wretched household accounts! She knew I hated the
sound of them. I never let her bring them to me; but little
did I think that she cried over them alone!'
'She was cheerful with you?'
' Was not she? I never saw that dear face without its sweet
smile, come when I would. I have never heard a complaint,
f have left her to herself, madman as I was, when she was
unwell and anxious! But—oh! if she could only recover, she
should see—Hal Sarah, can I come?'
'Yes, sir, she is asking for you; but, if you please, sir, Mr.
Harding says you must come very quiet. She seems wandering,
and thinking you are not come home, sir,* said Sarah, with a
grisly satisfaction in dealing her blow home.
John tried to rectify the confusion in the work-box with a
sort of reverential care; not able to bear to leave it in disorder,
whether its mistress were ever to open it again or not, yet
feeling it an intrusion to meddle with her little feminine hoards
of precious trifles.
' Poor Arthur I' said ho to himself,' ho may fairly be acquitted
OK, THE BKOTHER^S WIFE,
t'b
of all but his usual inconsiderateness towards one too tender for
such treatment. He deserves more pity than blame. And for
her—^thank Heaven for the blessing on them that mourn.
Innocent creature, much will be spared her; if I could but
dwell on that rather than on the phantom of delight she was,
and my anticipations of again seeing the look that recalls
Helen. If Helen was here, how she would be nursing her T
John saw his brother no more that evening—only heard of
Violet ' as barely kept alive, as it seemed, by his care.' Each
report was such that the next must surely be the last; and John
bat waiting on till his servant insisted on his going to bed,
promising to call him if his brother needed him.
The night passed without the summons, and in the morning
there was still life. John had been down-stairs for some little
time, when he heard the medical man, who had spent the night
there, speaking to Arthur on the stairs. ' A shade of improve¬
ment' was the report. ' Asleep now; and if we can only drag
her through the next few days there may be hope, as long as
fever does not supervene.'
* Thank heaven 1' said J ohn, fervently. ' I did not venture to
hope for this.'
But Arthur was utterly downcast, and could not take heart.
It was^his first real trouble, and there was little of the substance
of endurance in his composition. That one night of watching,
grief, and self-reproach, had made his countenance so pale and
haggard, and his voice so dejected and subdued, that John was
positively startled, as he heard his answer—•
* I never saw any one so ill.'
* Come and have some breakfast, you look quite worn out.*
' I cannot stay,' said he, sitting down, however. ' She must
not miss me, or all chance would be over. You don't mind the
door being open?'
'No, indeed. Is she sensible now?'
' Clear for a minute, if she has my hand; but then she dozes
oiT, and talks about those miserable accounts—^the numbers over
and over again. It cuts me to the heart to hear her. They
talk of an over-strain on the mind! Heigh-ho! Next she
wakes with a dreadful frightened start, and stares about wildly,
fancying I am gone.*
^ ' But she knows you,* said John, trying to speak consolingly.
'Yes, no one else can do anything with her. She does not so
much as hear them. I must be back before she wakes; but I
am parched with thirst. How is this? Where is the tea?'
' I suppose you put in none. Is this the chest?'
Arthur let his head drop on his hand, helpless and overcome^
96
HEARTSEASE ;
as this little matter brought home the sense of missing his wife,
and the remembrance of the attentions he had allowed her to
lavish upon him. His brother tried the tea-chest, and, finding
it locked, poured out some cofiee, which he drank almost un¬
consciously, then gave his cup for more, sighed, pushed his hair
back, and looked up somewhat revived. John tended him
affectionately, persuading him to take food; and when he had
passively allowed his plate to be filled, his appetite discovered
that he had tasted nothing since yesterday morning, and there¬
with his spirits were refreshed; he looked up cheerfully, and
there was less despondency in his tone as he spoke of her sleep
towards morning having been less disturbed.
' The child woke her with a squall, and I thought we were
undone; but no such thing. I declare nothing has done her so
much good; she had him brought, and was so happy over him,
then went off to sleep again.'
' This is a great relie]^' said John. ' From your manner, I
dreaded to ask for him, but I hope he may be doing welL*
' I am sure I hope so, or it would be all over with her. I
believe both their lives hang on one thread. To see her with
him this morning—I did not know such fondness was in women.
I declare I never saw anything like it; and she so weak! And
such a creature as it is; the smallest thing that ever was bom,
they say, and looking—like nothing on earth but young mice.*
John could not help smiling: 'That is better than yesterday,
when 1 could scarcely believe he was alive,*
' What! did you see him?'
' When he was baptized.*
' Was he? What did you call him?'
'You sent word to name him John.*
' Did I? I had not the least recollection of it. I forgot all
about him till he made himself heard this morning, and she
wanted to know whether he was boy or girl.'
'A son and heir,' said J ohn, glad to see the young father able
to look gratified.
'Well, it is the best name; I hope she will like it. But,
hollo, John, where did you drop from?' as it suddenly occurred
to him to be surprised.
' I came home on some business of Fotheringham's. I landed
early yesterday, and came up from Southampton.'
' A fine state of things to come to,' sighed Arthur. ' But you
will not go away?'
' Certainly not till she is better.*
' Ah 1 you were always fond of her; you appreciated her from
the first. There is no one whom I should have liked so well
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
97
to have here.' Then, with a pause, he added, in a tone of deep
feeHng: 'John, you might well give me that warning about
making her happy; hut, indeed, I meant to do so/ and his eyes
fiUed with tears.
' As far as affection could go, you have done so,' said John,
' or you could not have recalled her to life now.*
'You little know,' said Arthur, sadly; 'Heaven knows it
was not want of affection; but I never guessed what she under¬
went. Sarah tells me she spent hours in tears, though she
would never allow them to be noticed.'
' Poor Yiolet! But what could be her trouble?'
' Her household affairs seem to have overpowered her, and I
never would attend to them; little thinking how she let them
prey upon her. I never thought of her being lonely; and
her sweet, bright face, and uncomplaining ways, never reminded
me. There never was any one like her; she was too good for
me, too good to live, that is the truth; and now I must lose
her!'
'Do not think so, Arthur; do not give way. The getting
through this night is more than could have been hoped. Hap¬
piness is often the best cure; and if she is able to take so much
pleasure in you, and in the child, it is surely a hopeful sign.'
' So they said; that her noticing the child made them think
better of her. If she can but get over it, she shall see. But
you will stay with me, J ohn,' said he, as if he clung to the
support.
' That I will, thank you, I could not bear to go. I can
sleep in Belgrave Square, if you want my room for her mother.'
'We shall see how it is by post-time'. I tried whether it
would rouse her to tell her I would write to Mrs. Moss, but she
took no heed, and the old nurse looked 'daggers at me.'
He was interrupted; Yiolet had awakened in an alarming
fit of trembling, imploring to be told why he was angry, and
whether he would ever come back.
So glimmered the feeble ray of life throughout the day; and
when the post went out, the end was apparently so near, that
it was thought in vain to send for Mrs. Moss; whom Arthur
shrank from seeing, when it should be too late. He was so
completely overwhelmed with distress, that in the short inter¬
vals he sptnt out of the sick-room, it was his brother's whole
work to cheer and sustain him sufficiently to perform those
offices, which Yiolet was incapable of receiving from any one
else.
It was no wonder he broke down; for it was a piteous sight
to see that fair young mother, still a child in years, and in her
98
HEARTSEASE;
exhatlsted state of wavering conscionsness, alive only tlirougli
Ler fond affections j gleams of perception, and momentary flashes
of life, called forth only by her husband, or by the meanings nf
the little frail babe, which seemed to have as feeble and pre¬
carious a hold of life as herself. The doctors told John that
they were haunted through the day by the remembrance of her
face, so sweet, even in insensibility, and so very lovely, when
the sound of her babe's voice, for a moment, lighted up the
features. Their anxiety for her was intense; and if this was*
the case with strangers, what must it not have been for her
husband, to whom every delirious murmur was an unconscious
reproach, and who had no root of strength within himself?
The acuteness of his grief, and his effectiveness as a nurse, were
such as to surprise his brother, who only now perceived how
much warmth of heart had been formerly stifled in a cold, un-
genial home.
Sustained from hour to hour by his unremitting care, she
did, however, struggle through the next three days; and at last
came a sounder sleep, and a wa,kening so tranquil, that Arthur
did not perceive it, till he saw, in the dim lamplight, those dark
eyes calmly flxed upon him. The cry of the infant was heard,
and she begged for it, fondling it, and murmuring over it with
a soft inarticulate sound of happiness.
' You purr like an old cat over her kitten,' said Arthur,
longing to see her smile once more; and he was not disap¬
pointed; it was a bright, contented, even joyous smile, that
played on the colourless features, and the eyes beamed softly on
him as she said, ' Kiss him, papa.'
He would have done anything for her at that moment, and
another bright look rewarded him.
' Does mamma know about this dear little baby V she said,
presently.
* Yes, dearest, I have written every day. She sends you her
love;' and as Yiolet murmured something of * Dear mammar—^
' Do you wish to have her here?'
'Ko, indeed, I don't wish it now,' said Violet; 'you do make
me so very happy.'
She was returning to her full self, with all her submis&ion to
his will, and in fact she did not wish for any change; her con¬
tent in his attention was so complete, so peaceful, that in her
ETtate of weakness there was an instinctive dread of breaking
the charm. To lie still, her babe beside her, and Arthur watch¬
ing her, was the perfect repose of felicity, and imperceptibly her
faculties were, one by one, awakening. Her thoughtfulness for
others had revived; Arthur had been giving her some nourish*
OR, THE brother'S WIFE,
93
ment, and, for tlie first time, slie had tahen it with a relish,
when it so chanced that the light fell for a moment on his face,
and she was startled by perceiving the effects of anxiety and
want of sleep. In vain he assured her there was nothing the
matter. She accused herself of having been exacting and selfish,
and would not be comforted till he had promised to take a good
night's rest. He left her, at length, nearly asleep, to carry the
tidings to his brother, and enjoy his look of heartfelt rejoicing.
Never had the two very dissimilar brothers felt so much drawn
together; and as John began, as usual, to wait on him, and to
pour out his cofiee, he said, as he sat down wearied, ' Thank you,
John, I can't think what would have become of me without you 1'
* My father would have come to you if I had not been here.'
* Where's his letter—I forgot all about it. Is there none
firom Theodora!'
*Noj I .suppose she waited for further accounts.'
Arthur began reading his father's letter; ' Yery kind! a very
kind letter indeed ? said he, warmly. ' * Earned so high a place
in our regard—^her sweetness and engaging qualities,'—I must
keep that to show her. . This is very kind too about what it
must be to me. I did not think he had appreciated her so well!'
'Yes, indeed, he did,' said John. *This is what he says to
, me. ' Never have I seen one more gentle and enga^ng, and I
feel sure she would have gained more on our affections every
day, and proved herself a treasure to the family.''
' That is right,' said Arthur. ' He will get to know her well
when they come to London! I'll write to him to-morrow, and
thank him, and say, no need for him to come now! ' Hopes
his grandson will live to be a comfort to me 1'' and Arthur
could not help laughing. ,
' Well, I am not come to tlmt yet 1'
' He is much pleased at its being a son,* said J ohn.
'Poor little mortal! said Arthur, 'if he means to be a com"
fort I wish he would stop that dismal little wail—have one
good squall and have done with it. He will worry his mother
and ruin all now she takes more notice. So here's Mrs. Moss'e
letter. I could not open it this morning, and I have been in¬
venting messages to Yiolet from her—poor woman I I have
some good news for her now. It is all about coming, but
Yiolet says she does not want her. I can't read it all, my eyes
are so weak! Yiolet said they were bloodshot,* and he began
to examine them in the glass.
' Yes, you are not equal to much more nursing; you are
quite done for.*
' I am t* said Arthur, stretching. ' I'm off to bed, f\a she
H 2
100
HEARTSEASE;
begged me; but the? worst is over now I We stall do very well
when Theodora comes ; and if she has a taste for the boy, she
and Violet will make friends over him,—^good night.*
With a long yawn, Arthur very stiffly walked up stairs,
where Sarah stood at the top waiting for him. ' Mrs. Martin-
dale is asleep, sir; you had best not go in,* said she. ' I have
made up a bed in your dressing-room, and you'd best not be
lying down in your clothes, but take a good sleep right out, or
you'll be fit for nothing next. I'll see and call if she wants
you.'
* Thank you, Sarah; I wonder how long you have been up;
you will be fit for nothing next.*
' It don't hurt me,* said Sarah, in disdain; and as Arthur shut
his door, she murmured to herself, * I'm not that sort to be
knocked up with nothing; but he is an easy kind-spoken
gentleman after all. I'll never forget what he has done for
missus. There is not so much harm in him neither; he is
nothing but a great big boy as ought to be ashamed of hisself.*
The night passed ofi* well; Violet, with a great exertion ol
self-command, actually composed herself on awaking in one of
her nervous fits of terror; prevented his being called; and
fairly deserved all the fond praise he lavished on her in the
morning for having been so good a child.
* You must not call me child now,' said she, with a happy
little pride. * I must be wiser now.*
* Shall I call you the prettiest and youngest mamma in
England?'
* Ah! I am too young and foolish, I wish I was quite
seventeen r
* Have you been awake long?'
* Yes; but so comfortable. I have been thinking about baby j
name.*
* Too late, Violet; they named him John: they say I de¬
sired it.'
* What! was he obliged to be baptized ? Is he so delicate ?
Oh, Arthur ! tell me; I know he is tiny, but I did not think
he was ill.*
Arthur tried to soothe her with assurances of his well-doing,
and the nurse corroborated them; but though she tried to
believe, she was not pacified, and would not let her treasure be
taken from within her arms till Mr. Harding arrived—his
Inorning visit having been hastened by a despatch from Arthur,
who feared that she would suffer for her anxiety. She asked
so many questions that he, who last night had seen her too
weak to look up or speak, was quite taken by surprise. By a
OH, THE BHGTHEH^S WIEE. 101
■
little exceeding the truth, he did at length satisfy her mind;
but after this there was an alteration in her manner with her
baby; it was not only the mere caressing, there was a sort of
reverence, and look of reflection as she contemplated him, such
as made Arthur once ask, what she could be studying in that
queer little red visage 1
' I was thinking how very good he is !* was her simple
answer; and Arthur's smile by no means comprehended her
meaning.
Her anxious mind retarded her recovery, and Arthur's
unguarded voice on the stairs having revealed to her that a
guest was in the house, led to inquiries, and an endless train of
fears, lest Mr. Martindale should be uncomfortable and uncared
for. Her elasticity of mind had been injured by her long course
of care, and she could not shake off the household anxieties that
revived as she became able to think.
Indeed there were things passing that would have greatly
astonished her. Sarah had taken the management of every¬
thing, including her master; and with iron composure and
rigidity of demeanour, delighted in teasing him by giving him a
taste of some of the cares he had left her mistress to endure.
First came an outcry for keys. They were supposed to be in a
box, and when that was found, its key was missing. Again
Arthur turned out the unfortunate drawer, and only spared the
workbox on John's testifying that it was not there, and sug¬
gesting Violet's watch-chain, where he missed it, and Sarah
found it j and then, with imperturbable precision, in spite of
his attempts to escape, stood over him, and made him unlock
and give out everything himself. ' If things was wrong,' she
said, 'it was her business that he should see it was not owing
to her.'
Arthur was generally indifferent to what he ate or drank,—
the reaction, perhaps, of the luxury of his home; but having
had a present of some peculiar trout from Captain Fitzhugh,
and being, as an angler, a connoisseur in fish, many were his
exclamations at detecting that those which were served up at
breakfast were not the individuals sent.
Presently, in the silence of the house, John heard tones gra¬
dually rising on the stairs, till Arthur's voice waxed loud and
wrathful. ' You might as well say they were red herrings!'
Something shrill ensued, cut short by,' Mrs. Martindale does
as she pleases. Send up Captain Fitzhugh's trout.'
A loud reply, in a higher key.
'Don't tell me of the families where you have lived—the
trout r
103
HEARTSEASE;
Here John's hand was laid upon his arm, with a sign tovrards
his wife's room; whereupon he ran down stairs, driving the
cook before him.
Soon he came hastily up, storming about the woman's imper¬
tinence, and congratulating himself on having paid her wages
and got rid of her.
John asked what was to be done next 1 and was diverted with
his crest-fallen looks, when asked what was to become of Yiolet.
However, when Sarah was consulted, she gravely replied,
' She thought as how she could contrive till Mrs. Martindale
was about againand the comers of her mouth relaxed into a
ghastly smile, as she replied, 'Yes, sir,' in answer to her
master's adjurations to keep the dismissal a secret from Mrs.
Martindale.
.' Ay !' said John, ' I wish you joy of having to tell her what
revolutions you have made.'
' I'll take care of that, if the women will only hold their
tongues.'
They were as guarded as he could wish, seeing as plainly as
he did, how fretting over her household matters prolonged her
state of weakness. It was a tedious recovery, and she was not
able even to receive a visit from John till the morning, when
the cough, always brought on by London air, obliged him reluc¬
tantly to depart.
He found her on the sofa, wrapped in shawls, her hair
smoothed back under a cap; her shady, dark eyes still softer
from languor, and the exquisite outline of her fair, pallid fea¬
tures, looking as if it was cut out in ivory against the white
pillows. She welcomed him with a pleased smile; but he started
back, and flushed as if from pain, and his hand trembled as he
pressed hers, then turned away and coughed.
' Oh, I am sorry your cough is so bad,' said she.
'ISTothing to signify,' he replied, recovering. 'Thank you for
letting me come to see you. I hope you are not tired V
' Oh, no, thank you. Arthur carried me so nicely, and baby
is so good this morning.'
' Where is he 1 I was going to ask for him.*
' In the next room. I want to show him to you, but he is
asleep.'
' A happy circumstance,' said Arthur, who was leaning over
the back of her sofa. ' No one else can get in a word when that
gentleman is awake.*
' Now, Arthur, I wanted his uncle to see him, and say if he
is not grown.*
' Never mind, Yiolet,* said Arthur, ' Nurse vouches for it,
OE, THE BKOTHEE'S WIEE. . 103
that the child, who was put through his mother's wedding-ring,
grew up to be six feet high T
. ' IsTow, Arthur! you know it was only her bracelet.*
' Well, then, our boy ought to be twelve feet high; for if you
had not stuffed him out with long clothes, you might put two
of him through your bracelet.*
' If nurse would but have measured him; but she said it was
unlucky.'
* She would have no limits to her myths; however, he may
make a show in the world by the time John comes to the
christening.'
' Ah !' said Yiolet, with a sweet, timid expression, and a
shade of red just tinting her cheek as she turned to John.
' Arthur said I should ask you to be his god-father.'
*My first god-child!' said John. ^ Thank you, indeed; you
could hardly have given me a greater pleasure.'
* Thank you,' again said Yiolet. ' I like so much for you to
have him,—^you who,' she hesitated, unable to say the right
words,' who did it before his papa or I saw the little fellow;'
then pausing—' Oh, Mr. Martindale, Sarah told me all about it,
and I have been longing to thank you, only I can't;' and her
eyes filling with tears, she put her hand into his, glancing at
the cathedral cup, which was placed on the mantel-shelf * It
was so kind of you to take that.'
'I thought you would like it,' said John; 'and it was the
most ecclesiastical thing I could find.'
' I little thought it would be my Johnnie's font,' said Yiolet,
softly.
' I shall always feel that I have a share in him beyond my
fellow-sponsors.'
' 0, yes, he belongs to you,' said Yiolet; 'besides his other
godfather will only be Colonel Harrington, and his godmother
—^you have written to ask your sister, have you not, Arthur?'
'I'd as soon ask Aunt Nesbit,' exclaimed Arthur. 'I do
believe one cares as much as the other.'
' You must send for me when you are well enough to take
him to church,' said John.
' That I will. I wish you could stay for it. He will be a
month old to-morrow-week, but it may wait, I hope, till I can
go with him. I must soon get down stairs again 1'
' Ah 1 you will find the draught trap mended,' said Arthur.
' Brown set to work on it, and the doors shut as tight'as a new
boot.'
' I am often amused to see Brown scent out and pursue a
draught,' said John.
HEARTSEASE ;
'I have been avoiding Brovm. ever since Friday,* said
Arthur; ' when he met me with a serious ' Captain Martindale,
sir,* and threatened me with your being laid up for the year if
I kept you here. I told him it was his fault for letting you
come home so early, and condoled with him on your insubordi¬
nation.*
' Ah! Yiolet does not know what order Sarah keeps you in?*
retorted John.
' I am afraid you have both been very uncomfortable !*
'No, not in the least; Sarah is a paragon, I assure you.*
' She has been very kind to me, but so has every one. No
one was ever so well nursed! You must know what a perfect
nurse Arthur is !*
Arthur laughed. 'John! Why he would as soon be nursed
by a monkey as by me. There he lies on a perfect bank of
pillows, coughs whenever you speak to him, and only wants to
get rid of every one but Brown. Nothing but consideration
for Brown induces him to allow my father or Percy Fothering-
ham now and then to sit up.
'A comfortable misanthropical picture,* said John, 'but
rather too true. You see, Violet, what talents you have brought
out.*
Yiolet was stroking her husband's hand, and looking very
proud and happy. ' Only I was so selfish! Does not he look
very pale still?'
' That is not your fault so much as that of some one else,*
said John. ' Some one who declares smoking cigars in his den
down stairs refreshes him more than a sensible walk.*
' Of course,* said Arthur, ' it is only ladies, and men, who
have nursed themselves as long as you have, who ever go out for
a constitutional.*
' He will be on duty to-morrow,* said Yiolet, ' and so he will
be obliged to go out.*
' And you will write to me, Yiolet?' said John, ' when you are
ready. I wish I could expect to hear how you get on, but it is
vain to hope for letters from Arthur.*
' I know,* said Yiolet; ' but only think how good he has been
to write to mamma for me. I was so proud when he brought
me the letter to sign.*
'Have you any message for me to take?* said John, rising.
'No, thank you—only to thank Lord and Lady Martindale
for their kind messages. And oh'—but checking herself—' No,
you wont see them.*
'Whom?*
'Lady Elizabeth and Emma. I had suclj a kind letter from
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
105
them. So anxious about me, and begging me to let some one
write; and I am afraid they'll think it neglectful; but I turn
giddy if I sit up, and when I can write, the first letter must be
for mamma. So if there is any communication with ilickworth,
could you let them know that I am getting better, and thank
them very much?'
' Certainly. I will not fail to let them know. Good bye,
Violet, I am glad to have seen you.'
' Good bye. I hope your cough will be better,' said Violet.
He retained her hand a moment, looked at her fixedly, the
sorrowful expresjion returned, and he hastened away in silence.
Arthur followed, and presently coming back said, ' Poor John!
You put him so much in mind of Helen.*
' Poor Mr. Martindale!' exclaimed Violet. * Am I like
her V
* Hot a bit,' said Arthur. ' Helen had light hair and eyes, a
fat sort of face, and no pretence to be pretty—a, downright sort
of person, not what you would fancy John's taste. If any one
else had compared you it would have been no compliment; but
he told me you had reminded him of her from the first, and now
your white cheeks and sick dress recalled her illness so much,
that he could hardly bear it. But don't go and cry about it.'
'Ho, I wont,' said Violet, submissively; 'but I am afraid it
did not suit him for us to be talking nonsense. It is so very
sad.'
'Poor John! so it is,* said Arthur, looking at her, as if
beginning to realize what his brother had lost. ' However, she
was not his wife, though, after all, they were almost as much
attached. He has not got over it in the least. This is the first
time I have known him speak of it, and he could not get out
her name.*
' It is nearly two years ago.*
'Hearly. She died in June. It was that cold late summer,
and her funeral was in the middle of a hail storm, horridly
chilly.*
' Where was she buried?'
' At Brogden. Old Mr. Fotheringham was buried there, and
she was brought there. I came home for it. What a day it
was—^the hailstones standing on the grass, and I shall never
forget poor John's look—all shivering and shrunk up together.'
He shivered at the bare remembrance. ' It put the finishing
touch to the damage he had got by staying in England with her
all the winter. By night he was frightfully ill—^inflammation
worse than ever. Poor John! That old curmudgeon of a
grandfather has much to answer for, though you ought to be
106
HEAETSEASE;
grateful to him, Violet j for I suppose it will end in that boy of
yours being his lordship some time or other.'
The next morning was a brisk one with Violet. She wished
Arthur not to be anxious about leaving her, and having by no
means ceased to think it a treat to see him in uniform, she
gloried in being carried to her sofa by so grand and soldierly a
dgure, and uttered her choicest sentence of satisfaction—* It is
like a story!' while his epaulette was scratching her cheek.
' I don't know how to trust you to your own sUly devices,'
said he layiug her down, and lingering to settle her pillows and
shawls.
* Wise ones,' said she. ' I have so much to do. There's baby
—and there's Mr. Harding to come, and I want to see the cook
—and I should not wonder if I wrote to mamma. So you see
'tis woman's work, aud you had better not bring your red coat
home too soon, or you'll have to finish the letter 1' she added,
with saucy sweetness.
On his return, he found her spread all over with papers, her
little table by her side, with the drawer pulled out.
' Ha ! what mischief are you up to ? You have not got at
those abominable accounts again 1'
' I beg your pardon,' said she, humbly. ' Hurse would not
let me speak to the cook, but said instead I might write to
mamma; so I sent for my little table, but I found the drawer
in such disorder, that I was setting it to rights. Who can
have meddled with it V
' I can tell you that,' said Arthur. ' I ran against it, and it
came to grief, and there was a spread of all your goods and
chattels on the floor.'
' Oh ! I am so glad ! I was afraid some of the servants had
been at it.'
' What! aren't you in a desperate fright 1 All your secrets
displayed like a story, as you are so fond of saying—^what's the '
name of it—^where the husband, no, it was the wife, fainted
away, and broke open the desk with her head.'
' My dear Arthur 1' and Violet laughed so much that nurse
in the next room foreboded that he would tire her.
' I vow it was so ! Out came a whole lot of letters from the
old love, a colonel in the Peninsula, that her husband had never
heard of,—an old lawyer he was.*
' The husband ? What made her marry him V
' They were all ruined horse and foot, and the old love was
wounded, kiU, or disposed of, till he turned up, married to her
best friend.'
* What became of her ?'
on, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
107
'I forget — there was a poisoning and a paralytic stroke
in it.*
* Was there 1 How delightful! How I should like to read
it. What was its name V
' I don't remember. It was a green railway book. Theodora
made me read it, and I should know it again if I saw it.
I'll look out for it, and you'll find I was right about her head.
But how now 1 Haven't you fainted away all this time V
* Ho j why should I
' How do you know what I may have discovered in your
papers ? Are you prepared 1 It is no laughing matter,' added
he, in a Blue Beard tone, and drawing out the paper of calcula¬
tions, he pointed to the tear marks. ' Look here. What's this,
I say, what's this, you naughty child V
* I am sorry! it was very silly,' whispered Violet, in a con¬
trite ashamed way, shrinking back a little.
s' What business had you to break your heart over these
trumpery butchers and bakers and candlestick makers V
'Only candles, dear Arthur,' said Violet, meekly, as if in
extenuation.
' But what on earth could you find to cry about f
' It was very foolish ! but I was in such a dreadful puzzle. I
could not make the cook's accounts and mine agree, and I
wanted to be sure whether she really—•.
' Cheated !' exclaimed Arthur. 'Well, that's a blessing!'
' What is V asked the astonished Violet.
' That I have cleared the house of that intolerable woman !
' The cook gone !' cried Violet, starting, so that her papers
slid away, and Arthur shuffled^ them up in his hand in renewed
confusion. ' The cook really gone 1 Oh ! I am so glad!'
' Capital 1' cried Arthur. ' There was John declaring you
would be in despair to find your precious treasure gone.'
' Oh! I never was more glad I Do tell me 1 Why did she
go r
' I had a skrimmage with her about some trout Fitzhugh sent,
which I verily believe she ate herself.'
' Changed with the fishmonger 1'
' I dare say. She sent us in some good-for-nothing wretches,
all mud, and vowed these were stale—then grew impertinent.'
' And talked about the first families V
' Exactly so, and when it came to telling me Mrs. Martindale
was her mistress, I could stand no more. I paid her her wages,
and recommended her to make herself scarce,'
'When did it happen V
' Bather more than a fortnight ago,*
lOS HEARTSEASE;
Violet lauglied heartily. * 0-ho! there's the reason mirso
scolds if I dare to ask to speak to the cook. And oh ! how
gravely Sarah said 'yes, ma'am,' to aU my messages ! How
very funny ! But how have we been living 1 When I am
having nice things all day long, and giving so much trouble!
Oh dear ! How uncomfortable you must have been, and your
brother too!'
' Am I not always telling you to the contrary 1 Sarah made
everything look as usual, and I suspect Brown lent a helping
hand. John said the coffee was made in some peculiar way
Brown learnt in the East, and never practises unless John is
very ill, or they are in some uncivilized place ; but he told me
to take no notice, lest Brown should think it in/ra dig*
' I'm afraid he thought this an uncivilized place. But what
a woman Sarah is ! She has all the work of the house, and yet
she seems to me to be here as much as nurse !'
' She has got the work of ten horses in her, with the face of a
death's head, and the voice of a walking sepulchre !'
' But isn't she a thorough good creature ! I can't think what
will become of me without her ! It will be like parting with a
friend.'
' What would you part with her for ? I thought she was the
sheet-anchor.'
' That she is; but she wont stay where there are children.
She told me so long ago, and only stayed because I begged her
for the present. She will go when I am well.'
' Better give double wages to keep her,' said Arthur.
'I'd do anything I could, but I'm afraid. I was quite
dreading the getting about again, because I should have to lose
Sarah, and to do something or other with that woman.'
' What possessed you to keep her V
' I wasn't sure about her. Your aunt recommended her, and
I thought you might not like—and at first I did not know what
things ought to cost, nor how long they ought to last; and that
was what I did sums for. Then when I did prove it, I saw
only dishonesty in the kitchen, and extravagance and mismanage¬
ment of my own.'
' So the little goose sat and cried 1'
' I could not help it. I felt I was doing wrong; that was
the terrible part; and I am glad you know the worst. I have
been very weak and silly, and wasted your money sadly, and I
did not ]^ow how to help it; and that was what made me so
miserable. And now, dear Arthur, only say you overlook my
blunders, and indeed I'll try to do better.*
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
109
' Overlook 5 The only thing I don't know how to forgive is
your having made yourself so ill with this nonsense.'
' I can't be sorry for that/ said Violet, smiling, though the
tears came. ' That has been almost all happiness. I shall have
the heart to try more than ever—^and I have some experience ;
and now that cook is gone, I really shall get on.'
' Promise me you'll never go bothering yourself for nothing
another time. Take it easy! That's the only way to get
through the world.'
'Ah! I will never be so foolish again. I shall never be
afraid to make you attend to my difficulties.'
' Afraid! That was the silliest part of all! But here—^will
'you have another hundred a year at once ? and then there'll be
no trouble.'
' Thank you, thank you ! How kind of you ! But do you
know, I should like to try with what I have. I see it might
be made to do, and I want to conquer the difficulty j if I can't,
I will ask you for more.'
'Well, that maybe best. I could hardly spare a hundred
pounds without giving up one of the horses j and I want to see
you riding again.'
' Besides, this illness must have cost you a terrible quantity
of money. But I dare say I shall find the outgoings nothing to
what the cook made them.' And she was taking up the accounts,
when he seized them, crumpling them in his hand. 'Non¬
sense ! Let them alone, or I shall put them in the fire at
once.'
' Oh, don't do that, pray I' cried she, starting, ' or I shall be .
ruined. Oh, pray!'
' Very well / and rising, and making a long arm, he deposited
them on the top of a high wardrobe. 'There's the way to
treat obstinate women. You may get them down when you
can go after them—I sha'n't.'
' Ah ! there's baby awake !'
' So, I shall go after that book at the library; and then I've
plenty to tell you of enquiries for Mrs. Martindale. Good-bye,
again.'
Violet received her babe into her arms with a languid long-
drawn sigh, as of one wearied out with happiness. ' That he
should have heard my confession, and only pet me the more !
Foolish, wasteful thing that I am. Oh, babe ! if I could only
make you grow and thrive, no one would ever be so happy as
your mamma.'
Perhaps she thought so still more some hours later, when she •
110 HEAETSEASE)
awoke from a long sleep, and saw Artliur reading
Wyndliamf and quite ready to defend Ms assertion tkat the
wife broke open the desk with her head.
CHAPTER HI.
But there was one fairy who was offended because she was not invited to
the Christening.—Mother Bunch.
Theodora had spent the winter in trying not to think of
her brother.
She read, she tried experiments, she taught at the school, she
instructed the dumb boy, talked to the curate, and took her
share of such county gaieties as were not beneath the house of
Martindale; but at every tranquil moment came the thought,
' What are Arthur and his wife doing !'
There were rumours of the general admiration of Mrs. Mar¬
tindale, whence she deduced vanity and extravagance; but she
heard nothing more till Jane Gardner, a correspondent, who per¬
severed in spite of scanty and infrequent answers, mentioned
her call on poor Mrs. Martindale, who, she said, looked sadly
altered, unwell, and out of spirits. Georgina had tried to per¬
suade her to come out, but without success; she ought to have
some one with her, for she seemed to be a good deal alone, and
no doubt it was trying j but, of course, she would soon have
her mother with her.
He leaves her alone—he finds home dull! Poor Arthur!
A moment of triumph was followed by another of compunc¬
tion, since this was not a doll that he was neglecting, but a
living creature, who could feel pain. But the anticipation of
meeting Mrs. Moss, after all those vows against her, and the
idea of seeing his house filled with vulgar relations, hardened
Theodora against the wife, who had thus gained her point.
Thus came the morning, when her father interrupted break¬
fast with an exclamation of dismay, and John's tidings were
communicated.
I wish I had been kind to her ! shot across Theodora's mind
with acute pain, and the image of Arthur in grief swallowed
up everything else. ' I will go with you, papa—^you will go at
once !'
' Poor young thing !* said Lord Martindale; ' she was as
pretty a creature as I ever beheld, and I do believe, as good.
Poor Arthur, I am glad he has John with him.'
Lady Martindale wondered how John came there,—and
oil, tfie buother's wife. ^ 111
remarks ensued on Ms imprudence in risking a spring in Eng¬
land. To Theodora this seemed indifference to Arthur's dis¬
tress, and she impatiently urged her father to take her to him
at once.
He would not have delayed had Arthur been alone; but
since John was there, he thought their sudden arrival might be
more encumbering than consoling, and decided to wait for a
further account, and finish affairs that he could not easily
leave.
Theodora believed no one but herself could comfort Arthur,
and was exceedingly vexed. She chafed against her father for
attending to his business—against her mother for thinking of
John; and was in charity with no one except Miss Piper, who
came out of Mrs. Hesbit's room red with swallowing down tears,
and with the under lady's-maid, who could not help begging to
hear if Mrs. Martindale was so HI, for Miss Standaloft said,
* My lady had been so nervous and hysterical in her own room,
that she had been forced to give her camphor and sal volatile.'
Never had Theodora been more surprised than to hear this
of the mother whom she only knew as calm, majestic, and im¬
passible. With a sudden impulse, she hastened to her room.
She was with Mrs. Nesbit, and Theodora following, found her
reading aloud, without a trace of emotion. No doubt it was a
figment of Miss Standaloft, and there was a side-long glance of
satisfaction in her aunt's eyes, wMch made Theodora so indig¬
nant, that she was obliged to retreat without a word.
Her own regret and compassion for so young a creature thus
cut off were warm and keen, especially when the next post
brought a new and delightful hope, the infant, of whbse life
John had yesterday despaired, was said to be improving.
Arthur's child ! Here was a possession for Theodora, an object
for the affections so long yearning for something to love. She
would bring it home, watch over it, educate it, be all the world
to Arthur, doubly so for his son's sake. She dreamt of putting
his child into his arms, and bidding Mm live for it, and awoke
clasping the pillow!
What were her feelings when she heard Yiolet was out of
danger] For humanity's sake and for Arthur's, she rejoiced;
but it was the downfall of a noble edifice. * How that silly-
young mother would spoil the poor child I'
* My brothers' had always been mentioned in Theodora's
prayer, from infancy. It was the plural number, but the
strength and fervency of petition were reserved for one; and
with Mm she now joined the name of his child. But how pray
for the son without the mother] It was positively a struggle;
112
HEAETSKASE ,
/
for Theodora had a horror of mockery and formality; but the
duty was too clear, the evil which made it distasteful, too evi¬
dent, not to be battled with; she remembered that she ought
to pray for all mankind, even those who had injured her, and,
on these terms, she added her brother's wife. It was not much
from her heart; a small begianing, but still it was a beginning,
that might be blessed in time.
Lord Martindale wished the family to have gone to London
immediately, but Mrs. Nesbit set herself against any alteration
in their plans being made for the sake of Arthur's ■wife. They
were to have gone only in time for the first drawing-room, and
she treated as a personal injury the proposal to leave her sooner
than had been originally intended; making her niece so un-
happy that Lord Martindale had to yield. JoWs stay in London
was a subject of much anxiety; and while Mrs. Nesbit treated
it as an absurd trifling with his 0"wn health, and his father re¬
proached himself for being obliged to leave Arthur to him,
Theodora suffered from compKcated jealousy. Arthur seemed
to want John more than her, John risked himself in London, in
order to be with Arthur and his wife.
She was very eager for his coming; and when she expected
the return of the carriage which was sent to meet him at the
Whitford station, she betook herself to the lodge, intending him
to pick her up there, that she might skim the cream of his
information.
The carriage appeared, but it seemed empty. That dignified,
gentlemanly personage, Mr. Brown, alighted from the box, and
advanced with afiability, replying to her astonished query, 'Mr.
Martindale desired me to say he should be at home by dinner¬
time, ma'am. He left the train at the Enderby station, and
is gone round by Bickworth Priory, with a message from Mrs.
Martindale to Lady Elizabeth Brandon.*
Theodora stood transfixed; and Brown, a confidential and
cultivated person, thought she waited for more information.
'Mr. Martindale has not much cough, ma'am, and I hope
coming out of London will remove it entirely. I think it was
chiefly excitement and anxiety that brought on a recurrence of
it, for his health is decidedly improved. He desired me to
mention that Mrs. Martindale is much better. She is on the
sofa to-day for the first time; and he saw her before leaving.'
' Do you know how the little boy is V Theodora could not
help asking.
' He is a little stronger, thank you, ma'am,' said Brown, with
much interest; ' he has cried less these last fe'W days. He is
said to bo extremely like Mrs. Martindale.'
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
lis
Brown remounted to his place, the carriage drove on, and
Theodora impetuously walked along the avenue.
' That man is insufferable! Extremely like Mrs. Martindale!
Servants' gossip! How could I go and ask him ] John has
perfectly spoilt a good servant in him ! But John spoils every¬
body. The notion of that girl sending him on her messages!
John, who is treated like something sacred by my father and
mother themselves! Those damp Bickworth meadows! How
could Arthur allow it ? It would serve him right if he was to
marry Emma Brandon after all 1'
She would not go near her mother, lest she should give her
aunt the pleasure of hearing where he was gone; but as she
was coming down, dressed for dinner, she met her father in the
hall, uneasily asking a servant whether Mr. Martindale was come.
' Arthur's wife has sent him with a message to Bickworth,'
she said.
'John? You don't mean it. You have not seen himV
'No; he went round that way, and sent Brown home. He
said he should be here by dinner-time, but it is very late. Is
it not a strange proceeding of hers, to be sending him about
the country V
I don't understand it. Where's Brown V
' Here's a fly coming up the avenue. He is come at last.'
Lord Martindale hastened down the steps; Theodora came
no further than the door, in so irritated a. state that she did not
like John's cheerful alacrity of step and greeting. 'She is up
to-day, she is getting better,* were the first words she heard.
'Well, Theodora, how are you?' and he kissed her with more
warmth than she returned.
' Did I hear you had been to Bickworth ?' said his father.
'Yes; I sent word by Brown. Poor Yiolet is still so weak
that she cannot write, and the Brandons have been anxious
about her; so she asked me to let them know how she was, if I
had the opportunity, and I came round that way. I wanted to
know when they go to London; for though Arthur is as atten¬
tive as possible, I don't think Violet is in a condition to be
left entirely to him. When do you go ?'
'Not till the end of May—just before the drawing-room,'
said Lord Martindale.
' I go back when they can take the boy to church. Is my
mother in the drawing-room? I'll just speak to her, and dress
—it is late I see.'
' How well he seems,* said Lord Martindale, as John walked
quickly on before.
' There was a cough,* t«vid Theodonv,
I
114
HEAPwTSEASE ;
' Yes j but so cbeerfuL I have not seen him so animated for
years. He must be better !*
His mother was full of delight. ' My dear John, you look
so much better! Where have you been V
' At E/ickworth. I went to give Lady Elizabeth an account
of Violet. She is much better.*
' And you have been' after sunset in that river fog! My dear
John r
* There was no fog; and it was a most pleasant drive. I had
no idea Eickworth was so pretty. Violet desired me to thank
you for your kind messages. You should see her to-day, mother j
she would be quite a study for you; she looks so pretty on her
pillows, poor thing! and Arthur is come out quite in a new
character—as an excellent nurse.*
* Poor thing! I am glad she is recovering,* said Lady Martin-
dale. ' It was very kind in you to stay with Arthur. I only-
hope you have not been hurting yourself.*
' 'Ho, thank you; I came away in time, I believe: but I
should have been glad to have stayed on, unless I made room
for some one of more , use to Violet.*
'I wish you had come home sooner. We have had such a
pleasant dinner-party. You would have liked to meet the
professor.*
It was not the first time John had been sensible that that
drawing-room was no place for sympathy; and he felt it the
more now, because he had been living in such entire participation
of his brother's hopes and fears, that he could hardly suppose
any one could be less interested in the mother and child in
Cadogan-place. He came home, wishing Theodora would go
and relieve Arthur of some of the care Violet needed in her
convalescence; and he was much disappointed by her apparent
indifference—in reality, a severe fit of perverse jealousy.
All dinner-time she endured a conversation on the subjects
for which she least cared; nay, she talked ardently about the
past dinner-party, for the very purpose of preventing John from
suspecting that her anxiety had prevented her from enjoying it.
And when she left the dining-room, she felt furious at knowing
that now her father would have all the particulars to himself, so
that none would transpire to her.
She longed so much to hear of Arthur and his child, that
when John came into the drawing-room she could have asked 1
But he went to greet his aunt, who received him thus :
' Well, I am glad to see you at last. You ought to have good
reasons for coming to England for the May east winds, and then
exposing yourself to them in London 1*
I
OB, THE BBOTHEB'S WIFE.
115
' I hope I did not expose myself: I only "went out three or
four times.*
' I know you are always rejoiced to he as little at home as
possible.*
' I could not be spared sooner, ma*am.*
' Spared ? I think you have come out in a new capacity.*
John never went to his aunt without expecting to undergo a
penance.
' I was sorry no one else could be with Arthur j but being
there, I could not leave him.'
* And your mother tells me you are going back again.*
* Yes, to stand godfather.'
' To the son and heir, as they called him in the paper. 1 gave
Arthur credit for better taste j I suppose it was done by some
of her connexions V
' I was that connexion,* said John.
' Oh! I suppose you know what expectations you will
raise V
John making no answer, she grew more angry. ' This one,
at least, is never likely to be heir, from what I hear; it is only
surprising that it is still alive.*
How Theodora hung upon the answer, her very throat aching
"vdth anxiety; but hardening her face because John looked
towards her.
*We were very much afraid for him at first,* he said; 'but
they now think there is no reason he should not do well. He
began to improve from the time she could attend to him.*.
A deep sigh from his mother startled J ohn, and recalled the
grief of his childhood—^the loss of two young sisters who had
died during her absence on the continent. He crossed over and
stood near her, between her and his aunt, who, in agitated haste
to change the conversation, called out to ask her about some
club-book. For once she did not attend; and while Theodora
came forward and answered Mrs. Nesbit, she tremulously asked
J ohn if he had seen the child.
* Only once, before he was an hour old. He was asleep when
I came a"way; and, as Arthur says, it is a serious thing to dis¬
turb him, he cries so much.*
' A little low melancholy wailing,* she said, with a half sob.
But Mrs. Nesbit would not leave her at peace any longer, and
her voice came beyond the screen of John's figure :—
* Lady Martindale, my dear, have you done with those books ?
They ought to be returned.'
* Which, dear aunt V And Lady Martindale started up as if
she had been caught off duty, and, with a manifest effort, brought
1 2
116 HEARTSEASE;
her wandering thoughts hack again, to say which were read and
which were unread.
John did not venture to revert to a subject that affected his
mother so strongly; but he made another attempt upon his
sister, when he could speak to her apart. ' Arthur has been
wondering not to hear from you.'
* Every one has been writing,' she answered, coldly.
' He wants some relief from his constant attendance,' continued
John; * I was afraid at first it would be too much for him, sit¬
ting up three nights consecutively, and even now he has not at
all recovered his looks.'
* Is he looking ill V said Theodora.
' He has gone through a great deal, and when she tries to
make him go out, he only goes down to smoke. You would do
a great deal of good if you were there.'
' Theodora would not reply. For Arthur to ask her to come
and be godmother was the very thing she wished; but she would
not offer at John's bidding, especially when Arthur was more
than ever devoted to his wife; so she made no sign; and John
repented of having said so much, thinking that, in such a humour,
the farther she was from them the better.
Yet what he had said might have worked, had not a history
cf the circumstances of Yiolet's illness come round to her by
way of Mrs. Nesbit. John had told his father; Lord Martin-
dale told his wife; Lady Martindale told her aunt, under whose
colouring the story reached Theodora, that Arthur's wife had
been helpless and inefficient, had done nothing but cry over her
household affairs, could not bear to be left alone, and that the
child's premature birth had been occasioned by a fit of hysterics
because Arthur had gone out fishing. Ho wonder Theodora
pitied the one brother, and thought the other infatuated. To
write to Arthur was out of the question; and she could only
look forward to consoling him when the time for London
should come. Hor was she much inclined to compassionate
John, when, as he said, the east wind—as his aunt said, the
liondon fog—as she thought, the Kickworth meadows—^brought
on such an accession of cough that he. was obliged to confine
himself to his two rooms, where he felt unusually solitary.
She went in one day to carry him the newspaper. ' I am
writing to Arthur,' he said, * to tell him that I shall not be able
to be in London next Sunday; do you like to put in a note V
' Ho, I thank you.'
* You have no message V j,
' Hone.'
He paused and looked at her. ' I wish you would write,* he
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
117
said. 'Ai'tliur has been watching eagerly for your congra¬
tulation.*
' He does not give much encouragement/ said Theodora, mov¬
ing to the door.
' I wish he was a letter writer! After being so long
with them, I don't like hearing nothing more; but his
time has been so much engrossed that he could hardly have
written at first. I believe the first letter he looked for was
from you.'
' I don't know what to say. Other people have said all the
common-place things.'
'You would not speak in that manner—^you who used to be
so fond of Arthur—if you by any means realized what he has
gone through.'
Theodora was touched, but would not show it. ' He does not
want'me now,' she said, and was gone, and then her lips relaxed,
and she breathed a heavy sigh.
John sighed too. He could not understand her, and was sen¬
sible that his own isolation was as a consequence of having lived
absorbed in his afiection and his grief, without having sought the
intimacy of his sister. His brother's family cares had, for the first
time, led him to throw himself into the interests of those around
him, and thus aroused from the contemplation of his loss, he
began to look with regret on opportunities neglected and influ¬
ence wasted. The stillness of his own room did not as formerly
suffice to him; the fears and hopes he had lately been sharing
rose more vividly before him, and he watched eagerly for the
reply to his letter.
It came, not from Arthur, but in the pointed style of
Violet's hardest steel pen, when Matilda's instructions were
•most full in her mind; stiff, cramped, and formal, as if it had
been a great effort to write it, and John was grieved to find
that she was still in no state for exertion. She had scarcely
been downstairs, and neither she nor the baby were as. yet
likely to be soon able to leave the house, in spite of all the
kind care of Lady Elizabeth and Miss Brandon. Violet made
numerous apologies for the message, which she had little thought
would cause Mr. Martindale to alter his route.
In fact, those kind friends had been so much affected by
John's account of Violet's weak state, under no better nursing
than Arthur's, that, as he had hoped, they had hastened their
visit to London, and were now settled as near to her as possible,
spending nearly the whole of their time with her. Emma
almost idolized the baby, and was delighted at Arthur's grateful
request that she would be its sponsor, and Violet was as happy
118
HEARTSEASE ;
in their company as the restlessness of a mind which had nC/t
yet recovered its tone, wonld allow her to be.
In another fortnight John wrote to say that- he found he
had come home too early, and must go to the Isle of Wight
till the weather was warmer. In passing through London, he
would come to Cadogan-place, and it was decided that he
should arrive in time to go with the baby to church on the
Tuesday, and proceed the next morning.
He arrived as Violet came down to greet her party of
sponsors. Never had she looked prettier than when her
husband led her into the room, her taper figure so graceful
in her somewhat languid movements, and her countenance so
sweetly blending the expression of child and mother. Each
white cheek was tinged with exquisite rose colour, and the
dark liquid eyes and softly smiling mouth had an affectionate
pensiveness far lovelier than her last year's bloom, and yet
there was something painful in that beauty—it was too like the
fragility of the flower fading under one hour's sunshine; and
there was a sadness in seeing the matronly stamp on a face so
young that it should have shown only girlhood's freedom from
care. Arthur indeed was boasting of the return of the colour,
which spread and deepened as he drew attention to it; but John
and Lady Elizabeth agreed, as they walked to church, that
it was the very token of weakness, and that with every kind
intention Arthur did not know how to take care of her—^how
should he?
The cheeks grew more brilliant and burning at church, for
on being carried to the font, the baby made his doleful notes
heard, and when taken from his nurse, they rose into a positive
roar. Violet looked from him to his father's face, and there
saw so much discomposure that her wretchedness was complete,
enhanced as it was by a sense of wickedness in not being able
to be happy and grateful. Just as when a few days previously
she had gone to return thanks, she had been in a nervous
state of fluttering and trembling that allowed her to dwell on
nothing but the dread of fainting away. The poor girl's nerves
had been so completely overthrown, that even her powers of
mind seemed to be sufiering, and her agitated manner quite
alarmed Lady Elizabeth. She was in good hands, however;
Lady Elizabeth went home with her, kept every one else away,
and nursing her in her own kind way, brought her back to,
common sense, for in the exaggeration of her weak spirits, she
had been feeling as if it was she who had been screaming through
the service, and seriously vexing Arthur.
He presently looked in himself to say the few fond merry
. OR, THE brother'S WIPE.
119
words that vreve only needed to console her, and she was then
left alone to rest, not tranquil enough for sleep, hut reading
hymns, and trying to draw her thoughts up to what she
thought they ought to he on the day of her child's baptismal
vows.
It was well for her that the christening dinner (a terror to
her imagination) had heen deferred till the family should he in
town, and that she had no guest hut John, who was very sorry
to sec how weary and exhausted she looked, as if it was a positive
eflort to sit at the head of the tahle.
When the two brothers came up to the drawing-room, they
found her on the sofa. 'Kegularly done for!' said Arthur,
sitting down by her. * You ought to have gone to bed, you
perverse woman.'
^ I shall come to life after tea,' said she, beginning to rise as
signs of its approach were heard.
* Lie still, I say,' returned Arthur, settling the cushion. ' Do
you think no one can make tea but yourself 1 Out with the
key, and lie still.'
'I hope, Violet,' said John, 'you did not think the Hed
Hepublicans had been in your drawers and boxes. I am afraid
Arthur may have cast the blame of his own doings on the absent,
though I assure you I did my best to protect them.'
'Indeed he did you more justice,' said Violet; 'he told me
the box was your setting to rights, and the drawer his. It
was very honest of him, for I must say the box did you most
credit.*
' As to the drawer,' said Arthur, ' I wish I had put it into
the fire at once! Those accounts are a monomania! She
has been worse from the day she got hold of that book of hers
again, and the absurd part of it is that these are all bills that
she pays^'
' Oh! they are all comfortable now,' said Violet.
' And what did you say to Arthur's bold stroke?' said John
' Oh! I never laughed more in my life.'
' Ah ha!' said Arthur, ' it was all my admirable sagacity!
Why, John, the woman was an incubus saddled upon us by
Miss Standaloft, that this poor silly child did not know how to
get rid of, though she was cheating us out of house and home.
Never were such rejoicings as when she found the Old Man of
the Sea was gone!'
'It is quite a different thing now,* said Violet. 'Nurse
found me such a nice niece of her own, who does not consume
as much in a fortnight as that dreadful woman did in a week
Indeed, my great book has some satisfaction in it now.'
120
HEARTSEASE;
' And yet he accuses it of having thrown you back.'
'Everything does thatl' said Arthur. 'She will extract
means of tiring herself out of anything—^pretends to be well,
and then is good for nothing 1*
'Arthur! Arthur! do you know what you are doing with
the tea?' cried Yiolet, starting up. 'He has put in six shell-
fuls for three people, and a lump of sugar, and now was shutting
up the unfortunate teapot without one drop of water!' And
gaily driving him away, she held up the sugar-tongs with the
lump of sugar in his face, while he laughed and yielded the
field, saying, disdainfully, 'Woman's work.'
' Under the circumstances,' said John, ' putting in no water
was the best thing he could do.'
'Ay,' said Arthur, 'a pretty fellow you for a West Indian
proprietor, to consume neither sugar nor cigars.'
' At this rate,' said John, ' they are the people to consume
nothing. There was such an account of the Barbuda property
the other day, that my father is thinking of going to see what
73 to be done with it.'
'Ho bad plan for your next winter,' said Arthur. 'How,
Violet, to your sofa! You have brewed your female potion in
your female fashion, and may surely leave your betters to pour'
it out.'
'Ho, indeed! How do I know what you may serve us upf
said she, quite revived with laughing. ' I wont give up my
place.'
' Quite right, Violet,* said John, ' don't leave me to his
mercy. Last time he made tea for me, it consisted only of the
other ingredient, hot water, after which I took the law into
my own hands for our mutual benefit. Pray what became of
him after I was gone?'
' I was obliged to have him up into my room, and give him
his tea properly there, or I believe he would have existed on
nothing but cigars.'
' Well, I shall have some opinion of you when you make
Iiim leave off cigars.'
' Catch her 1' quietly responded Arthur,
'There can't be a worse thing for a man that gets bad
coughs.'
'That's all smoke, Violet,* said Arthur. 'Don't tell her so,
or I shall never have any peace.'
'At least, I advise you to open the windows of his den
before you show my mother and Theodora the house.*
' As to Theodora! what is the matter with her V said
Arthur.
OE, THE brother'S WIFE. 1^1
* I don*t know,' said Jolm.
'Ill one of her moods ? Well, we shall have her here in ten
days* time, and I shaU know what to be at with her.*
' I know she likes babies,* said Violet, with confidence.
She had quite revived, and was lively and amused; but as
soon as tea was over, Arthur insisted on her going to bed.
The loss of her gentle mirth seemed to be felt; for a long
silence ensued ; Arthur leaning against the mantelshelf, solacing
himself with a low whistle, John sitting in meditation. At last
he looked up, saying, ' I wish you would all come and stay with
me at Yentnor.'
' Thank you j but you see there's no such thing as my going.
Fitzhugh is in Norway, and till he comes back, I can't get
away for more than a day or two.*
'Suppose,* said John, rather doubtingly; 'what should you
think of putting Violet under my charge, and coming back¬
wards and forwards yourself?'
' Why, Harding did talk of sea air, but she did not take to
the notion; and I was not sorry ; for, of all things I detest,
the chief is sticking up in a sea place, with nothing to do. But
it is wretched work going on as we do, though they say there is
nothing the matter but weakness. I verily believe it is all that
child's eternal noise that regularly wears her out. She is upset
in a moment 5 and whenever she is left alone, she sets to work
on some fidget or other about the house, that makes her worse
than before.*
' Going from home would be the best cure for that.*
' I suppose it would. I meant her to have gone out with my
mother, but that can't be anyway now ! The sea woidd give
her a chance; I could run down pretty often; and you would
see that she did not tire herself*
' I would do my best to take care of her, if you would trust
her to me.*
' I know you would; and it is very kind in you to think of it.*
' I will find a house, and write as soon as it is ready. Do
you think the end of the week would be too soon for her ? I
am sure London is doing her harm.*
' Whenever you please; and yet I am sorry. I wanted my
father to have seen the boy; but perhaps he had better look a
little more respectable, and learn to hold his tongue first. Be¬
sides, how will it be taken, her going out of town just as they
come up V
* I rather think it would be better for her not to meet them
till she is stronger. Her continual anxiety and effort to please
would be too much strain.*
HEARTSEASE;
' Very likely; and I am sure I wont keep lier here to expose
her to Miss Martindale's airs. She shall come as soon as you
like.'
Arthur was strengthened in his determination by the first
sound that met Lim on going upstairs—^the poor babe's lament
able voice j and by finding Violet, instead of taking the rest
she so much needed, vainly trying to still the feeble moaning.
He was positively angry; and almost as if the poor little thing
had been wilfully persecuting her, declared it would be the
death of her, and peremptorily ordered it upstairs; the nurse
only too glad to carry it off, and agreeing with him that it was
doing more harm to its mother than she did good to it. Violet,
in submissive misery, gave it up, and hid her face. One of
her chief subjects for self-torment was an imagination that
Arthur did not like the baby, and was displeased with its
crying ; and she felt utterly wretched, hardly able to bear the
cheerful tone in which he spoke ! * Well, Violet, we shall soon
set you up. It is all settled. You are to go, at the end Of the
week, to stay with John in the Isle of Wight.' •
' Go away V said Violet, in an extinguished voice.
^ Yes ; it is the very thing for you. I shall stay here, and
go backwards and forwards. Well, what is it now V
She was starting up, as the opening of the door let out
another scream. 'There he is still! Let me go to him for one
minute.*
' Folly I' said Arthur, impatiently. ' There's no peace day
or night. I wont stand it any longer. You are half dead
already. I will not have it go on. Lie down; go to sleep
directly, and don't trouble your head about anything more till
morning.'
Like a good child, though chokitig with tears, she obeyed the
first mandate; and presently was rather comforted by his
listening at the foot of the stairs, and reporting that the boy
seemed to be quiet at last. The rest of the order it was not in
her power to obey; she was too much fatigued to sleep soundly,
nr to understand clearly. Most of the night was spent in
broken dreams of being separated from her child and her hus¬
band, and wakening to the knowledge that something was going
to happen.
At last came sounder slumbers; and she awoke with sn
aching head, but to clearer perceptions. And when Arthur,
before going down to breakfast, asked what she wished him to
say to John, she answered: ' It is very kind of him—but you
never meant me to go without you V
' I shall take yon there, and run down pretty often; and
on, THE BEOTflEn'S WIPE. " - 1^3
Jolin lias been used to coddling liimself all his life, so of course
he will know how to take care of you.'
' How kind he is, but I don't'—she broke off, and looked at
the little pinched face and shrivelled arms of the tiny creature,
wliich she pressed more closely to her; then, with a hesitating
voice, * Only, if it would do baby good !'
* Of course it would. He can't be well while things go on at
this'rate. Only ask Harding.'
' I wonder whether Mr. Martindale knew it was what Mr.
Harding recommended 1 But you would be by yourself.'
' As if I had not taken care of myself for three-and-twenty
years without your help 1'
' And all your party will be in town, so that you will not
miss me."^
'I shall be with you very often. Shall I tell John you
accept ]'
'Tell him it is very kind, and I am so much obliged to him,'
said Yiolet, imable to speak otherwise than disconsolately.
Accordingly the brothers agreed that Arthur should bring
her to Yentnor on Saturday, if, as John expected, he could be
prepared to receive her; placing much confidence in Brown's
sgavoir faire, though Brown was beyond measure amazed at
such a disarrangement of his master's methodical habits j and
Arthur himself gave a commiserating shake of the head as he
observed that there was no accounting for tastes, but if John
chose to shut himself up in a lodging with the most squallingest
babby in creation, he was not the man to gainsay him; and
further reflected, that if a man must be a younger son, John
was a model elder brother.
Poor Yiolet! Her half-recovered state must be an excuse
for her dire consternation on hearing it was definitively settled
that she was to be carried off to Yentnor in four days' time 1
How arrange for Arthur ? "Where find a nursemaid 1 What
would become of the baby so far from Mr. Harding ? The Isle
of Wight seemed the ends of the earth—out of England! Help¬
less and overpowered, she was in despair; it came to Arthur's
asking, in displeasure, what she wanted—whether she meant to
go or not. She thought of her drooping infant, and said at
once she would go.
' Well, then, what's all this about V
Then came tears, and Arthur went away, declaring she did
not know herself what she would be at. He had really borne pa¬
tiently with much plaintiveness, and she knew it. She accused
herself of ingratitude and unreasonableness, and went into a
fresh agony on that score ; but soon a tap at the door warned
124,
HEARTSEASE;
her to strive for composure. It was Sarah, and Violet felt sure -
that the dreaded moment was come of her giving warning; hut
it was only a message. ' If you please, ma'am, there's a young
person wants to see you.*
' Come as a nursery maid ^ said Violet, springing up in her
nervous agitated way. ' Do you think she will do V
'I don't think nothing of her,' said Sarah, emphatically.
' Don't you go and be in a way, ma'am; there's no hurry.'
' Yes, but there is, Sarah. Baby and I are to go next Saturday
to the Isle of Wight, and I can't take old nurse. I must have
some one.*
' You wont get nobody by hurr3dng,* said Sarah.
' But what's to be done, Sarah ? I can't bear giving the dear
baby to a stranger, but I can't help it.'
' As for that,' said Sarah, gloomily, ' I don't see but I could
look after Master John as well as any that is like to ofier for
the present.'
* You! Oh, that would be nice! But I thought you did not
like children V
* I don't; but I don't mind while he is too little to make a
racket, and worrit one out of one's life. It is only for the pre¬
sent, till you can suit yourself, ma'am—-just that you may not
be lost going into foreign parts with a stranger.'
Sarah had been nursing the baby every leisure moment, and
had, during the worst part of Violet's illness, had more to do
with him than the regular nurse. This was happily settled;
and all at which Violet still demurred was how the house and
its master should be provided for in their absence; to which
Sarah replied, * Mary would do well enough for he / and before
Violet knew to which she must suppose the pronoun referred,
there was a new comer. Lady Elizabeth, telling her that Arthur
had just been to beg her to come to her, saying he feared he had
hurried her and taken her by surprise.
Under such kind soothing Violet's rational mind returned
She ceased to attempt to put herself into a vehement state of
preparation, and began to take so cheerful a view of affairs that
she met Arthur again in excellent spirits.
Emma Brandon pitied her for being left alone with Mr. Mar-
tindale, but this was no subject of dread to her, and she con¬
fessed that she was relieved to escape the meeting with the rest
of the family. The chief regret was, that the two friends would
miss the constant intercourse with which they had flattered
themselves—the only thing that made London endurable to
poor Emma. She amused Violet'with her lamentations over her
gaieties, and her piteous accounts of the tedium of parties and
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
125
balls; whereas Violet declared that she liked them very much.
It was pleasant to walk about with Arthur and hear his droll
remarks, and she liked seeing people look nice and well dressed.'
' Ah ! you are better off. You are not obliged to dance, and
you are safe, too. How, whenever any one asks to be intro¬
duced to me I am sure he wants the Priory, and feel bound to
guard it.'
' And so you don't like any one, and find it stupid V
' So I do, of course, and I hope I always shall. But oh! Violet,
I have not told you that I saw that lady again this morning at
the early service. She had still her white dress on, I am sure it
is for Whitsuntide; and her face is so striking—so full of
thought and earnestness, just like what one would suppose a
novice. I shall take her for my romance, and try to guess at her
history.'
* To console you for your godson going away T
* Ah! it wont do that! But it will be something to think of,
and I will report to you if I make out any more about her. And
mind you give me a full account of the godson.'
Arthur wished the journey well over; he had often felt a
sort of superior pity for travellers with a baby in company, and
did not relish the prospect; but things turned out well; he
found an acquaintance, and travelled with him in a different
carriage, and little Johnnie, lulled by the country air, slept so
much that Violet had leisure to enjoy the burst into country
scenery, and be refreshed by the glowing beauty of the green
meadows, the budding woods, and the brilliant feathery broom
blossoms that gilded the embankments. At Winchester Arthur
came to her window, and asked if she remembered last year.
' It is the longest year of my life,' said she. ' Oh, don't laugh
as if I had made a bad compliment, but so much has happened!'
There was no time for more; and as she looked out at the cathe¬
dral as they moved on, she recollected her resolutions, and
blamed herself for her failures, but still in a soothed and happier
frame of hope.
The crossing was her delight, her first taste of sea. There
was a fresh wind, cold enough to make Arthur put on his great
coat, but to her it brought a delicious sense of renewed health
and vigour, as she sat inhaling it, charmed to catch a drop of
spray on her face, her eyes and cheeks brightening and hei
spirits rising.
The sparkling Solent, the ships at Spithead, the hills and
wooded banks, growing more defined before her; the town of
Hyde and its long pier, were each a new wonder and delight,
and she exclaimed with such ecstasy, and laughed so like the
126
HEAETSEASE;
joyous girl slie used to be, that Artbur felt old times come back j
and wben be banded ber out of tbe steamer be entirely forgot
tbe baby.
At last sbe was tired witb pleasure, and lay back in tbe car¬
riage in languid enjoyment; fields,, cottages, bawtborns, lilacs,
and glimpses of sea flitting past ber like pictures in a dream, a
sort of waking trance tbat would bave been broken by speaking
or positive thinking.
Tbey stopped at a gate: sbe looked up and gave a cry of deligbt.
Sucb a cottage as sbe and Annette bad figured in dreams of rural
bliss, gable-ends, tbatcb, verandah overrun witb myrtle, rose,
and honeysuckle, a little terrace, a steep green slope of lawn
shut in witb laburnum and lilac, in tbe flush of tbe lovely close
of May, a view of tbe sea,, a green wicket, bowered over witb
clematis, and within it Jobn Martindale, bis look of welcome
overpowering bis usual gravity, so as to give bim an air of glad¬
ness sucb as sbe bad never seen in bim before.
CHAPTEE lY.
The inmost heart of man if glad
Partakes a livelier cheer,
And eyes that cannot but be sad
Let fall a brightened tear.
Since thy return, through days and weeks
Of hope that grew by stealth,
How many wan and faded cheeks
Have kindled into health.
Wordswokth's Ode to May,
%
* T SAY,* called Artbur, standing half in and half out of tbe
X French window, as Sarah paced round tbe little garden,
holding a parasol over ber charge, ' if tbat boy kicks up a row
at night, don't mind Mrs. Martiudale. Carry bim off, and lock
tbe door. D'ye bear?'
* Yes, sir,' said tbe unmoved Sarah.
'Stern, rugged nurse 1' said Artbur,.drawing in bis bead.
'Your boy ought to be virtue itself, Yiolet. Now for you,
John, if you see ber at those figures, take them away. Don't
let ber think what two and two make.*
' You are like one of my little sisters giving ber doll to tbe
other to keep,* said Yiolet.
'Some folks say it is a doll, don't tbey, John?*
'Well, I will try to take as much care of your doll as she does
of hers,' said J obn, smiling.
" Violet went to the gate with him, while John stood at the window watching the slender
girlish figure under the canopy of clematis, as she stood gazing after her husband."—
Page 127.
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
127
* Good-bye, then! I wish I could stay!'
Violet went to the gate with him, while John stood at the
window watching the slender girlish figure under the canopy of
clematis, as she stood gazing after her husband, then turned
and slowly paced back again, her eyes on the ground, and her
face rather sad and downcast.
That pretty creature was a strange new charge for him, and
he dreaded her pining almost as he would have feared the crying
of a child left alone with him.
'Well, Violet,' said he, cheerfully, 'we must do our best.
What time would you like to take a drivel'
' Any time, thank you,' said she, gratefully, but somewhat
plaintively; 'but do not let me be a trouble to you. Sarah is
going to hire a chair for me to go down to the beach. I only
want not to be in your way.'
'I have nothing to do. You know I am no great walker,
and I am glad of an excuse for setting up my carriage. Shall we
dine early, and go out when the sun is not so highl'
' Thank you! that will be delightful. I want to see those
beautiful places that I was too tired to look at on Saturday.'
Sarah's rounds again brought her in sight; Violet crossed
the grass, and the next moment was under the verandah, with
the little long-robed chrysalis shape in her arms, declaring he
was growing quite good, and getting fat already; and though to
John's eyes the face was as much as ever like a 7ery wizened
old man, he could not but feel heartfelt pleasure in seeing her
for once enjoying a young mother's exultation.
'Poor thingr said he to himself, as she carried the babe
upstairs, ' she has done too much, thought too much, felt too
much for her years. Life has begun before she has strength for
the heat and burthen of the day. The only hope is in keeping
those overtasked spirits at rest, guarding her from care, and
letting her return to childhood. And should this work fall on
me, broken down in spirits and energy, with these long¬
standing habits of solitude and silence? If Helen was but
here 1'
He was relieved by Violet's re-appearance at dinner time,
full of smiles, proud of Johnnie's having slept half the morning,
and delighted - with Mary Barton^ which on his system of
diversion for her mind, he had placed in her way. She was
amazed and charmed at finding that he could discuss the tale
with interest and admiration.
' Arthur calls such books trash,* said she.
' He reads them, though.*
' Yes, he always reads the third volume while I read the first.*
128
HEAETSEASE;
The best way. I always begin at the end to judge whether
a book is worth reading.'
' I saw a French book on the table; are you reading itl*
' Consulting it. You are welcome to it.*
' I think,' she said, timidly, ' I ought to read some history and
French, or I shall never be fit to teach my little boy.*
'I have a good many books at home, entirely at your
service.'
' Thank you, thank you! I thought last winter if I could
but have rend, I should not have minded half so much.*
'And why could you noti'
' I had finished all my own books, and they cost too much to
hire, so there was only a great Roman history that Arthur had
had at school I could not read more than thirty pages of that
a day, it was so stupid.*
' And you read those as a task! Very wise I*
' Matilda said my education was incomplete, and she feared
I should be found deficient; and mamma told me to make a
point of reading something improving every day, but I have not
begun again.*
' I have some work on my hands,' said John. ' I was with
Percy Fotheringham eight years ago in Syria and Asia Minor.
He has gone over the same places a second time, and has made
the journals up into a book on the Crusaders, which he has sent
from Constantinople for me to get ready for publication. I shall
come to you for help.*
'Me! How can II' exclaimed Violet, colouring with
astonishment.
'Let us enjoy our holiday first,' he replied, smiling. 'See
there.'
A low open carriage and a pair of ponies came to the gate;
Violet was enchanted, and stood admiring and patting them,
while John looked on amused, telling her he was glad she
approved, for he had desired Brown to find something in which
Captain Martindale would not be ashamed to see her.
They drove along the IJndercliff, and her enjoyment was
excessive. To one so long shut up in town, the fresh air, blue
sky, and green trees were charms sufficient in themselves, and
when to these were added the bright extent of summer sea,
the beautiful curving outline of the bay ending in the bold
Culver Clifis; and the wall of rocks above, clothed in part
with garland-like shrubs and festoons of creepers, it was to her
a perfect vision of delight. There was an alternation of long
pauses of happy contemplation, and of smothered exclamations
of ecstasy, as if eye and heart were longing to take a still
4
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
129
fuller grasp of the beauty of the scene. The expression her
face had worn at the cathedral entrance was on it now, and
seemed to put a new soul into her features, varied by the
beaming smiles as she cried out joyously at each new object—
the gliding sails on the water, the curious forms of the crags, or
the hawks that poised themselves in the air.
The flowers, too! They came to a lane bordered with copse,
blue with wild hyacinth. * Oh! it was so long since she had
seen a wild flower! Would he be so kind as to stop for one
moment to let her gather one. She did so much wish to pick
a flower for herself once more!*
He drew up, and sat, leaning back, watching her with one
of his smiles of melancholy meaning, as she lightly sprang up
the bank, and dived between the hazel stems; and there he
remained musing till, like a vision of May herself, she re¬
appeared on the bank, the nut-bushes making a bower around
her, her hands filled with flowers, her cheek glowing like her
wild roses, and the youthful delicacy of her form, and the
transient brightness of her sweet face, suiting with the fresh
tender colouring of the foliage, chequered with flickering sun¬
shine.
' Oh! I hope I have not kept you waiting too long ! but,
indeed, I did not know how to turn back. I went after an
orchis, and then I saw some Solomon's seal; and oh! such blue¬
bells, and I could not help standing quite stiU to feel how
delicious it was ! I hope that it was not long.'
' No, not at all, I am glad.'
There was a moisture around the bright eyes, and perhaps
she felt a little childish shame, for she put up her hand to brush
it off. * It is very silly,' she said. * Beautiful places ought not
to make one ready to cry—and yet somehow, when I stood
quite still, and it was all so green, and I heard the cuckoo and
all the little birds singing, it would come over me 1 I could
not help thinking who made it all so beautiful, and that He
gave me my baby too.'—And there, as having said too much,
she blushed in confusion, and began to busy herself with her
flowers, delighting herself in silence over each many-belled
hyacinth, each purple orchis, streaked wood sorrel, or delicate
wreath of eglantine, deeming each in turn the most perfect she
had ever seen.
John let her alone; he thought the May blossoms more
suitable companions for her than himself, and believed that it
would only interfere with that full contentment to be recalled
to converse with him. It was pleasure enough to watch that
child-like gladsomeness, like studying a new life, and the relief
K
ISO
HEARTSEASE;
it gave Mm to see her so happy perhaps opened his mind to
somewhat of the same serene enjoyment.
That evening, when Brown, on bringing in the tea, gave an
anxious glance to judge how Ms master fared, he augured from
his countenance that the change of habits was doing Mm no
harm.
In the evening, Mr. Fotheringham's manuscript was brought
out; John could never read aloud, but he handed over the
sheets to her, and she enjoyed the vivid descriptions and anec¬
dotes of adventures, further illustrated by comments and details
from John, far more entertaining than those designed for the
public. This revision was their usual evening occupation, and
she soon became so well instructed in those scenes, that she felt
as if she had been one of the travellers, and had known the
handsome Arab sheik, ^whose chivalrous honour was only
alloyed by desire of bg^cksheesh, the Turkish guard who
regularly deserted on the v first alarm, and the sharp knavish
Greek servant with Ms contempt for them all, more especially
for the grave and correct Mr. Brown, pining to keep up Mar-
tindale etiquette in desert, caravanserai, and lazzeretto. She
went along with them in the'researches for Greek inscription,
Byzantine carving, or Frank fortress; she shared the exultation
of decyphering the ancient record in the venerable mountain
convent, the disappointment when Percy's admirable entrenched
camp of Bohemond proved to be a case of 'prsetorian here, prae¬
torian thereshe listened earnestly to the history, too deeply
felt to have been recorded for the general reader, of the feelings
which had gone with the friends to the cedars of Lebanon, the
streams of Jordan, the peak of Tabor, the cave of Bethlehem,
the hills of Jerusalem. Perhaps she looked up the more to
John, when she knew that he had trod^that soil, and with so
true a pilgrim's heart. Then the narratioi^ led her through the
purple mountain islets of the Archipelago, and the wondrous
scenery of classic Greece, with daring adventures among robber
Albanians, such as seemed too strange for the quiet inert John
Martindale, although the bold and gay temper of his companion
appeared to be in its own element; and in tru-^ it was as if
there was nothing that came amiss to Percival Fotheringham,
who was equally ready for deep and scholarly dissertation, or '
for boyish drollery and good-natured tricks. He had a peculiar
talent for languages, and had caught almost every dialect of the
natives, as well as being an excellent Eastern scholar, and tMs had
Jed to his becoming attached to the embassy at Constantinople,
where John had left him on returning to England. He was
there highly esteemed, and in the way of promotio?!^ to the
OK, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
131
great satisfaction of Jolm, who took a sort of affectionate fatherly
pride in his well-doing.
The manuscript evinced so much ability and research, and
was so full of beautiful and poetical description, as not only
charmed Violet, but surpassed even John's expectations; and
great was his delight in dwelling on its perfections, while he
touched it up and corrected it with a doubtful, respectful hand,
scarcely perceiving how effective were his embellishments and
refinements. Violet's remarks and misunderstanding were
useful, and as she grew bolder, her criticisms were often much
to the point. She was set to search in historical authorities,
and to translate from the French for the notes, work which she
thought the greatest honour, and which kept her mind happily
occupied to the exclusion of her cares.
Fresh air, busy idleness, the daily renewed pleasure of
beautiful scenery, the watchful care of her kind brother, and
the progressive improvement of her babe, produced the desired
effect; and when the promised day arrived, and they walked to
the coach-office to meet Arthur, it was a triumph to hear him
declare that he had been thinking that for once he saw a pretty
girl before he found out it was Violet, grown rosy in her sea¬
side bonnet.
If the tenor of John's life had been far less agreeable, it would
have been sufficiently compensated by the pleasure of seeing how
happy he had made the yoimg couple, so joyously engrossed with
each other, and full of spirits and merriment.
Violet was gladsome and blithe at meeting her husband
again, and Arthur, wholesomely and affectionately gay, appear¬
ing to uncommon advantage. He spoke warmly of his father.
It seemed that they had been much together, and had under¬
stood each other better than ever before. Arthur repeated
gratifying things which Lord Martindale had said of Violet,
and, indeed, it was evident that interest in her was the way to
find out his heart. Of his mother and sister there was less
mention, and John began to gather the state of the case as he
listened in the twilight of the summer evening, while Arthur
and Violet sat together on the sofa, and he leant back in his
chair opposite to them, his book held up to catch the fading
light; but his attention fixed on their talk over Arthur's news,
* You have not told me about the drawing-room.*
' Do you think I am going there till I am obliged
'What! You did not go with Lady Martindale and
Theodora. I should like to have seen them dressed. Do teil
me how they looked.'
* Splei}.4i<i; np doubt; but you must take it on trust*
K 2
i82
HEARTSEASE;
' You did not see tliem 1 Wliat a pity! How disappointed
Theodora must have been !*
'Were there not folks enough to look at herf
' As if they were of any use without you.'
* Little goose ! I am not her husband, thank goodness, and
wishing him joy that gets her.'
' O, Arthur, don't! I want to hear of Lady Albury's party.
You did go to that!'
* Yes, my mother lugged me into it, and a monstrous bore it
was. I wish you had been there.'
* Thank you, but if it was so dull
''Emma Brandon and I agreed that there was not a woman
who would have been looked at twice if you had been there.
We wanted you for a specimen of what is worth seeing. Eancy!
it was such a dearth of good looks that they were making a star
of Mrs. Finch ! It was enough to put one in a rage. I told
Theodora at last, since she would have it, there was nothing in
the woman but impudence.'
John glanced over his book, and perceived that to Arthur
there appeared profanation in the implied comparison of that
flashy display of beauty with the pure, modest, tender loveliness,
whose every blush and smile, as well as the little unwonted
decorations assumed to honour his presence, showed that its
only value was the pleasure it gave to him. His last speech
made her tone somewhat of reproof. 'Oh! that must have
vexed her, I am afraid. She is very fond of Mrs. Finch.'
' Out of opposition,' said Arthur. ' It is too bad, I declare!
That Georgina was well enough as a girl, spirited and like
Theodora, only Theodora always had sense. She was amusing
then, but there is nothing so detestable as a woman who con¬
tinues fast after marriage.'
' Except a man,' observed J ohn, in a tone of soliloquy.
' She has grown so thin, too 1' continued Arthur. ' She used
to be tolerably handsome when she was a fine plump rosy girl.
Now she is all red cheek-bone and long neck! We are come
to a pretty pass when we take her for a beauty 1'
' Oh 1 but there is your sister,* said Yiolet. ' Do tell me how
she likes going out. She thought it would be such a penance.'
' All I know is, that at home she is as sulky as a Greenland
bear, and then goes out and flirts nineteen to the dozen.'
'Arthur!' came the remonstrating voice again, 'how you
talk—do you mean that she is silent at home ? Is she unhappy S
What can be the matter with her V
' How should I know V
' Has not she said anything about baby V , .
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. 188
* Not she. Not one of them has, except my father.*
*I thought she would have liked to have heard ofbahy,* said
Violet, in a tone of disappointment; ' but if there is anything
on her spirits, perhaps she cannot think about him. I wonder
what it can be. It cannot be any—any—
* Any love affair ! No! no! Miss Martin dale may break
hearts enough, but she will take care of her own, if she has
one.*
* Is she so much admired V
' Of course she is. You do not often see her style, and she
talks and goes on at no end of a rate.*
* I remember how she grew excited at the ball, after disliking
the prospect.*
' Is this mere general admiration,' asked John, ' or anything
more serious ]*
* Upon my word, I cannot say. There is no earnest on hei
part. She will rattle on with a poor fellow one night as if she
had eyes for no one else, then leave him in the lurch the next.
She cares not a rush for any of them, only wants to be run
after. As to her followers, some of them are really smitten, ]
fancy. There was Fitzhugh, but he is an old hand, and can pay
her in her own coin, and that sober-paced young Mervyn—^it is
a bad case with him. In fact, there is a fresh one whenever she
goes out—a Jenny Dennison in high life—but the most bitten
of all, I take it, is Lord St. Erme.'
' Lord St. Erme !* exclaimed both auditors in a breath.
'Ay. She met him at that breakfast, walked about the
gardens with him all the morning, and my mother wrote to my
aunt, I believe, that she was booked. Then at this Bryanstone
soiree^ the next night, Eitzhugh was in the ascendant—^poor St.
Erme could not so much as gain a look.'
'So he is in London!' said Violet. ' Do tell me what he is
like
' Like a German music-master,* said Arthur. ' As queer a
figure as ever I saw. Keeps his hair parted in the middle,
hanging down in long lank rats' tails, meant to curl, moustache «
ditto, open collar turned down, black ribbon tie.'
' Oh ! how amazed the Wrangerton people would be !'
' It is too much to study the picturesque in one's own person
in England!' said John, laughing. 'I am sorry he continues
that fashion.'
' So, of course,' continued Arthur, ' all the young ladies are
raving after him, while he goes mooning after Theodora.
How the fair sex must solace itself with abusing ' that Miss
Martindalo 1''
134
HEARTSEASE ;
' I wisli lie would be a little more sensible/ said Jobn. * Ee
really is capable of something better.*
* >^ere did you know him V
' At Naples. I liked him very much till he persecuted me
beyond endurance with Tennyson and Browning. He is always
going about in raptures with some new-fashioned poet.*
' I suppose he set up Theodora for his muse. My mother
is enchanted; he is exactly one of her own set, music, pictures,
and all. The second-hand courtship is a fine chance for her
when Miss Martindale is ungracious.*
' But it will not come to anything,* said John.
' In the meantime, her ladyship gets the benefit of a lion, and
a very tawny lion, for her soirees*
' Oh! that soiree will be something pleasant for you,* said
Violet.
^ I shall cut it. It is the first day I can be here.*
* Not meet that great African traveller V
* What good would Baron Munchausen himself do me in the
crowd my mother is heaping together V
^ I am sure your mother and sister must want you.*
' Want must be their master. I am not going to elbow my¬
self about and be squashed flat for their pleasure. It is a doeen
times worse to be in a mob at home, for one has to find chairs
for all the ladies. Pah 1*' • '
' That is very lazy !' said the wife. 'You will be sorry to
' have missed it when it is too late, and your home people will be
vexed.*
' Who cares 1 My father does not, and the others take no
pains not to vex us.'
' O, Arthur! you know it makes it worse if you always come
to me when they want you. I could wait very well. Only
one day above all you must come,' said she, with lowered voice,
in his ear.
' What's that !*
J ohn could not see how, instead of speaking, she guided her
husband's hand to her wedding-ring. His reply transpired—
' I'll not fail. Which day is it V
' Priday week. I hope you will be able !*
' I'll manage it. Why, it will be your birthday, too !'
'Yes, I shall be so glad to be seventeen. I shall feel as if
baby would respect me more. Oh ! I am glad you can come,
but vou must be good, and go to the soirie. I do think it would
not be right always to leave them when they want'you. Tell
him so, please, Mr. Martindale.*
Join did so, but Arthur made no promises, and even when
OE, THE BEOTHER'S WIFE.
185
the day came, they were imcertain whether they might thiiik of
him at the party, or as smoking cigars at home.
Her seourge is felt, miseen, unheard.
Where, though aloud the laughter swells,
Her secret in the bosom dweUs,
There is a sadness in the strain
As from a heart o'ercharged with pain.
HEODORA had come to London, hating the idea of gaieties.
liking nothing but the early service and chemical lectures,
and shrinking from the meeting with her former friend. She
enjoyed only the prospect of the comfort her society would
afford her brother, depressed by attendance on • a nervous wife,
in an unsatisfactory home.
No Arthur met them at the station; he had left a message
that he was taking Mrs. Martindale to the Isle of Wight, and
should return early on Tuesday.
Theodora stayed at home the whole of that day, but in vain.
She was busied in sending out cards to canvass for her dumb
boy's admission into an asylum, when a message came up to
her sitting-room. She started. Was it Arthur % No ; Mrs.
Finch was in the drawing-room; and at that moment a light
step was on the stairs, and a flutter of gay ribbons advanced.
' Ha, Theodora ! I knew how to track you. The old place I
Dear old school-room, how happy we have been here! Not
gone out % Any one would think you had some stern female
to shut you up with a tough exercise! But I believe you
always broke out.'
' I stayed in to-day, expecting my brother.*
^ Captain Martindale ? Why, did not I see him riding with
your father ? Surely I did.'
' Impossible !' exclaimed Theodora.
'Yes, but I did though; I am sure of it, for he bowed. He
had that sweet pretty little mare of his. Have you seen her,
Theodora ? I quite envy her; but I suppose he bought it for
his wife; and she deserves all that is sweet and pretty, I am
sure, and has it, too.*
Theodora could not recover from the thrill of pain so as tu
speak, and Mrs. Finch rattled on. ' She was not in good looks
when I saw her, poor thing, but she looked so soft and fragile,
it quite went to my heart j though Jane will have it she is
CHAPTER V.
The Baj^tielery^
136
HEAETSEASE ;
deep, and gets lier own way by being meek and helpless, I
don't go along with Jane throughout; I hate seeing holes picked
in everybody.*
'Where is Jane f
'Gone to some charity sermonizing. She will meet some
great folks there, and be in her element. I am glad to have
you alone. Why, you bonny old Greek empress, you are as
jolly a gipsy queen as ever! How you will turn people's
heads ! I am glad you have all that bright red brown on your
cheeks !*
'Ho self-preservation like a country life and early rising,*
said Theodora, laughing. ' You have not kept yourself as well,
Georgina. I am sorry to see you so thin.'
' Me ! Oh, I have battered through more seasons than you
have dreamt ofl' said Mrs. Finch, lightly, but with a sigh.
' And had a fever besides, which disposed of all my fat. I am
like a hunter in fine condition, no superfluous flesh, ready for
action. And as to action—^what are you doing, Theodora ?—
where are you going V
' I don't know. Mamma keeps the cards. I don't want to
know anything about it.'
Georgina burst into a laugh, rather unnecessarily loud.
' Just like you 1 Treat it as you used your music! What
can't be cured must be endured, you know. Well, you poor
victim, are you going to execution to-night V
' Hot that I know of.'
' Famous ! Then I'll tell you what: there is going to be a
lecture on Mesmerism to-night. Wonderful! Clairvoyante
tells you everything, past, present, and to come ! You'll detect
all the impostures ; wont it be fun ? I'll call for you at eight
precisely.'
Theodora thought of Arthur, and that she should miss the
tidings of his child ; then recollected that he had not aflbrded
her one minute's greeting. She would show him that she did
not care, and, therefore, made the agreement.
Cold and moody she came down to dinner, but her heart was
beating with disappointment at not seeing Arthur, though a
place was prepared for him. Mrs. Finch was right; he had
been with his father all the afternoon, but had not supposed the
ladies to be at home ; an explanation which never occurred to
Theodora.
He came in a few minutes after they had sat down ; he was
heated by his hasty walk from his empty house, and his greet¬
ing was brief and disconcerted at finding himself late. His
mother made her composed inquiries for the party at Yentnor,
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIEE. * 137 '
without direct mention of the child, and he replied in the same
tone. His cordial first intelligence had been bestowed upon
his father, and he was not disposed to volunteer communications
to the sister, whose apparent gloomy indifference mortified
him.
He had not sat down ten minutes before word came that
Mrs. Finch was waiting for Miss Martindale. Theodora rose,
in the midst of her father's and brother's amazement. * I told
mamma of my arrangement to go with Georgina Finch to a
lecture on Mesmerism,' she said.
' Mesmerism!' was the sotto voce exclamation of Lord Martin-
dale. * But, my dear, you did not know that Arthur was at
home this evening V
* Yes, I did,' said Theodora, coldly; mentally adding, ' and 1
knew he had been five hours without coming near me.'
* Who is going with you 1 Is Mr. Finch V
* I have not heard. I cannot keep Georgina waiting.'
It was no place for discussion. Lord Martindale only said—
* Arthur, cannot you go with your sister V
Arthur muttered that ' it would be a great bore, and he was
as tired as a dog.' He had no intention of going out of his
way to oblige Theodora, while she showed no feeling for what
concerned him most nearly; so he kept his. place at the table,
while Lord Martindale, displeased and perplexed, came out to .
say a few words to his daughter, under pretext of handing her
to the carriage. *I am surprised, Theodora. It cannot be
helped now, but your independent proceedings cannot go on
here as at home.'
Theodora vouchsafed no answer. The carriage contained
only Mrs. Finch and Miss Gardner. Lord Martindale paused
as his daughter stept in, gravely asking if they were going to
take up Mr. Finch. Georgina's laugh was not quite what it
would have been to a younger inquirer, but it did not tend to
console him. *Mr. Finch ! O no ! We left him to the society
of his port wine. I mean to test the clairvoyante by asking
what he is dreaming about. But there is no fear of our coming
to harm. Here's sister Jane for a duenna, and I always find
squires wherever I go.*
Lord Martindale sat at home much annoyed, and preparing
a lecture for his wilful daughter on her return. Sooth to say,
Theodora did not find any great reward in her expedition. The
sight was a painful one; and her high principles had doubts
whether it was a legitimate subject for encouragement. She
longed all the time to be sitting by Arthur's side, and hearing
of big little boy. How young and gay he looked to be a father
138
HEAPvTSEASE;
and liead of a family ! and how satisfying it seemed to have his
bright eyes in sight again! She looked so thoughtful that
Georgina roused her by threatening to set the poor clairvoyante
to read her meditations.
When Theodora came home, she would have gone straight
up to her own room, but her father waylaid her, and the first
sound of his voice awoke the resolution to defend her freedom
of action. Perhaps the perception that he was a little afraid of
the rebuke he was about to administer added defiance to hei
determination.
' Theodora, I wish to speak to you. I do not wish to restrain
your reasonable freedom, but I must beg that another time you
will not fix your plans without some reference.*
' I told mamma,' she answered.
am not satisfied with the subject you have chosen—and I
do not quite like what I see of Mrs. Pinch. I had rather you
made no engagements for the present.'
'I will take care,' said Theodora; 'but when mamma does
not go out, I must have some one. I will do nothing worthy
of disapproval. Good night.'
She walked off, leaving Lord Martindale baffled.
That evening seemed to give its colour to the subsequent
weeks. It was a time of much pain to Theodora, estranging
herself from her brother, fancying him prejudiced against her,
and shutting herself up from her true pleasures to throw herself
into what had little charm for her beyond the gratification of
her self-will.
She really loved Georgina Finch. There was the bond of
old association and girlish friendship, and this could not be set
aside, even though the pair had grown far asunder. Perhaps
the strongest link had been their likeness in strength of expres¬
sion and disregard of opinion; but it now seemed as if what in
Theodora was vehemence and determination, was in Georgina
only exaggeration and recklessness. However, Georgina had a
true affection for Theodora, and looked up to her genuine good¬
ness, though without much attempt to imitate it, and the posi¬
tive enthusiasm she possessed for her friend was very winning
to one who was always pining for affection. Therefore Theodora
adhered to her intimacy through all the evidences of disapproval,
and always carried the day.
Georgina was well-born, and her sphere was naturally in the
higher circles; and though her marriage had been beneath her
own rank, this was little thought of, as she was rich^ and by
many considered very handsome, fashionable, and agreeable.
Mr. Finch was hardly ever seen, and little regarded when he
OH, THE brother'S WIFE. 1S9
was; he was a quiet, good-natured old man, who knew nothmg
but of money matters, and was proud of his gay young wife.
She had her own way, and was much admired; sure to be
in every party, and certain to be surrounded with gentlemen,
to whom she rattled away with lively nonsense, and all of whom
were ready to be her obedient squires. Her manners were im¬
petuous, and, as well as her appearance, best to be described as
dashing. Some people disliked her extremely; but she v»us
always doing good-natured generous things, and the worst that
could be said of her was, that she was careless of appearances,
and, as Arthur called her, 'fast.' Theodora knew there
was sincerity and warmth of heart, and was always trusting
that these might develope into further excellences; moreover,
she was sensible of having some influence for good. More than
one wild freak had been relinquished on her remonstrance;
and there was enough to justify her, in her own eyes, for con¬
tinuing Georgina's firm friend and champion.
She had no other friendships; she did not like young ladies,
and was still less liked by them; and Jane Gardner was nobody
when her sister was by, though now and then her power was
felt in double-edged sayings which recurred to mind.
However, Theodora found society more intoxicating than she
had expected. Hot that her sober sense enjoyed or approved;
but in her own county she was used to be the undeniable
princess of her circle, and she could not go out without trying
to stand first still, and to let her attractions accomplish what
her situation effected at home. Her princely deportment,
striking countenance, and half-repelling, half-inviting manner,
were more effective than the more regular beauty of other
girls; for thero was something irresistible in the privilege of
obtaining a bright look and smile from one whoSe demeanour
was in general so distant; and when she once began to talk,
eager, decided, brilliant, original, and bestowing exclusive and
flattering attention, for the time, on the favoured individual,
no marvel that he was bewitched, and when, the nexl night,
she was haughty and regardless, he only watched the more
ardently for a renewal of her smiles. The general homago was
no pleasure to her; she took it as her due, and could not have
borne to be without it. She had rather been at home with her
books, or preparing lessons to send to her school at Brogden;
but in company she could not bear not to reign supreme, and
put forth every power to maintain her place, though in her
grand, careless, indifferent manner, and when it was over,
hating and despising her very success.
Arthur had thawed after his second "visit to Ventnor; Ke
140
HEARTSEASE }
had brought away too much satisfaction and good humour to
be pervious to her moody looks; and his freedom and ease had
a corresponding effect upon her. They became more like their
usual selves towards each other; and when he yielded, on being
again exhorted to stay lor the soiree, she deemed it a loosening
of the trammels in which he was held. He became available
when she wanted him; and avoiding all mention of his family,
they were very comfortable until Theodora was inspired with a
desire to go to a last appearance of Mademoiselle Hachel, un¬
fortunately on the very evening when Violet had especially
begged him to be with her.
If he would have said it was his wedding-day, there could
have been no debate; but he was subject to a sort of schoolboy
reserve, where he was conscious or ashamed. And there were
unpleasant reminiscences connected with that day—that unac¬
knowledged sense of having been entrapped—that impossibility
of forgetting his sister's expostulation—^that disgust at being
conspicuous—^that longing for an excuse for flying into a pas¬
sion—that universal hatred of everything belonging to the
Mosses. He could not give a sentimental reason, and rather
than let it be conjectured, he adduced every pretext but the
true one; professed to hate plays, especially tragedies, and
scolded his sister for setting her heart on a French Jewess when
there were plenty of English Christians.
' ' If you would only give me your true reason, I should be
satisfied,' said she at last.
' I love my love with a V,' was his answer, in so bright a tone,
as should surely have appeased her; but far from it; she
exclaimed,
* Yentnor! Why, will no other time do for tlml V
' I have promised,' Arthur answered, vexed at her tone.
'What possible difference can it make to her which day
you go?'
' I have said.*
' Come, write and tell her it is important to me. Rachel
will not appear again, and papa is engaged. She must see the
sense of it. Come, write.'
' Too much trouble.'
' Then I will; I shall say you gave me leave.*
' Indeed,* said Arthur, fully roused, ' you will say no such
thing. You have not shown so much attention to Mrs. Mar-
tindale, that you need expect her to give way to your con¬
venience.*
He walked away, as he always did when he thought he had
provoked a female tongue. She was greatly mortifi.ed at having
OE, THE brother'S WIFE.
141
allowed her eagerness to lower her into offering to ask a favour
of that wife of his ; who, no doubt, had insisted on his coming,
after having once failed, and could treat him to plenty of nervous
and hysterical scenes.
Him Theodora pitied and forgave !
But by and by her feelings were further excited. She went
with her mother to give orders at Storr and Mortimer's, on the
setting of some jewels which her aunt had given her, and there
encountered Arthur in the act of selecting a blue enamel locket, -
with a diamond fly perched on it. At the soiree she had heard
him point out to Emma Brandon a similar one, on a velvet
round a lady's neck, and say that it would look well on Violet's
white skin. So he was obliged to propitiate his idol with trin¬
kets far more expensive than he could properly afford !
Theodora little guessed that the gift was received without one
thought of the white throat, but with many speculations whe¬
ther little Johnnie would soon be able to spare a bit of flaxen
down to contrast with the black lock cut from his papa's head.
There was nothing for it but to dwell no more on this de¬
luded brother, and Theodora tried every means to stifle the
thought. She threw herself into the full whirl of society, rat¬
tling on in a way that nothing but high health and great bodily
strength could have endured. After her discontented and un¬
gracious commencement, she positively alarmed her parents by
the quantity she undertook, with spirits apparently never flag¬
ging, though never did she lose that aching void. Books, lec¬
tures, conversation, dancing, could not banish that craving for
her brother; nothing but the three hours of sleep that she
allowed herself. If she exceeded them, there were unfailing
dreams of Arthur and his child.
She thought of another cure. There was another kind of
affection, not half so valuable in her eyes as fraternal love ; it
made fools of people, but then they were happy in their blind¬
ness, and could keep it to themselves. She would condescend to
lay herself open to the infection. It would be satisfying if she
could catch it. She examined each of her followers in turn,
but each fell short of her standard, and was repelled just as his
hopes had been excited. One * Hollo, Theodora, come along,'
would have been worth all the court paid to her by men, to
some of whom Arthur could have ill borne a comparison.
142
HEARTSEASE
CHAPTEE. VI.
Uhy precious tilings, whate'er they be
That haunt and vex thee, heart and brain.
Look to the Cross, and thou shalt see
How thou mayst turn them all to gain.
Christicnn, Yea/r.
All went well and smootMy at Yentnor, until a sudden and
severe attack of some baby ailment threatened to render
fruitless all Mr. Martindale's kind cares.
Yiolet's misery was extreme, though silent and unobtrusive ;
and John was surprised to find how much he shared it, and
how strong his own personal afiection had become for his little
nephew ; how many hopes he had built on him as the point of
interest for his future life; the circumstances also of the baptism
giving him a tenderness for him, almost a right in him such as
he could feel in no other child.
Their anxiety did not last long enough for Arthur to be sent
for j a favourable change soon revived the mother's hopes; and
the doctor, on coming downstairs after his evening's visit, told
John that the child was out of danger for the present; but
added that he feared there were many more such trials in store
for poor Mrs. Martindale; he thought the infant unusually
delicate, and feared that it would hardly struggle through the
first year.
J ohn was much shocked, and sat in the solitary drawing-room,
thinking over the disappointment and loss, severely felt for his
own sake, and far more for the poor young mother, threatened
with so grievous a trial at an age when sorrow is usually scarcely
known, and when she had well nigh sunk under the ordinary
wear and tear of married life. She had been so utterly cast
down and wretched at the sight of the child's sufiering, that it
was fearful to imagine what it would be when there would be
no recovery.
' Yes!' he mused with himself; * Yiolet has energy, conscien¬
tiousness, high principle to act, but she does not know how to
apply the same principle to enable her to endure. She knows
religion as a guide, not as a comfort. She had not grown up to
it, poor thing, before her need came. She wants her mother,
and knows not where to rest in her griefs. Helen, my Helen, how
you would have loved and cherished her, and led her to your own
recious secret of patience and peace 1 What is to be done for
er % Arthur cannot help her; Theodora will not if she could;
she is left to me. And can I take Helen's work on* myself^ anc}
OR. THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
143
tay to lead our poor young sister to what alone can support her 1
I must try—^mere humanity demands it. Yes, Helen, you would
tell me I have lived within myself too long. I can only
dare to speak through your example. I will strive to overcome
my reluctance to utter your dear name.'
He was interrupted by Yiolet coming down to make tea. She
was now happy, congratulating herself on the rapid improvement
in the course of the day, and rejoicing that John and the doctor
had dissuaded her from sending at once for Arthur.
* You were quite right,' she said, ' and I am glad now he was
not here. I am afraid I was very fretful j but oh! you don't
know what it is to see a baby so ill.'
' Poor little boy—John would have said more, but she went
on, with tearful eyes and agitated voice.
* It does seem very hard that such a little innocent darling
should suffer. He is not three months old, and his poor little
life has been almost all pain and grief to him. I know it is
wrong of me, but I cannot bear it! If it is for my fault, why
cannot it be myself? It almost makes me angry.'
* It does seem more than we can understand,' said John,
mournfully j ^but we are told, ^What I do thou knowest not
now, but thou shalt know hereafter.''
* When all the other young things—lambs, and birds, and all
—-are so happy, and rejoicing in the sunshine 1' continued
Yiolet J ' and children too !' as some gay young voices floated in
on the summer air, and brought the tears in a shower.
' Don't grudge it to them, dear Yiolet,' said John, in his
gentlest tone ; ' my dear little godson is more blessed in his gift.
It seems to accord with what was in my mind when we took
him to church. I do not know whether it was from my hardly
ever having been at a christening before, or whether it was the
poor little fellow's distressing crying ; but the signing him with
the cross especially struck me, the token of suffering even to
this lamb. The next moment I saw the fitness—the cross given
to him to turn the legacy of pain to the honour of partaking of
the Passion—^how much more for an innocent who has no
penalty of his own to bear 1'
' I have read things like that, but—^I know I am talking
wrongly—it always seems hard and stern to tell one not to
grieve. You think it very bad in me to say so; but, indeed, I
never knew how one must care for a baby.'
*!N"o, indeed, there is no blaming you; but what would com¬
fort you would be to think of the Hand that is laid on him in
love, for his highest good.'
]But he wants no good done to him/ cried Yiolet. ' He has
144
HEARTSEASE ;
been good and sinless from the time before even his father or I
saw him, when yon—
' We cannot tell what he may need. We are sure all he
undergoes is sent by One who loves him better than even yon
do, who may be disciplining him for fntnre life, or fitting bim
for brighter glory, and certainly giving him a share in the cross
that has saved him.'
His gentle tones had calmed her, and she sat listening as if
she wished him to say more. ' Do yon remember,' he added,
'that pictnre yon described to me this time last year, the
Ghirlandajo's Madonna V
* Oh, yes,' said Violet, pleased and snrprised.
' She does not hold her son back from the cross, does she
thongh the sword was to pierce through her own heart V
' Yes; but that was for the greatest reason.'
' Indeed, it was j but He who was a Child, the firstborn Son
ofiHis mother, does not afflict yonr baby without cause. He
has laid on him as much of His cross as he can bear; and if it
be yours also, yon know that it is blessed to yon both, and will
turn to glory.'
' The cross!' said Violet; adding, after some thought,
'Perhaps thinking of that might make one bear one's own
troubles better.'
' The most patient person I ever knew found it so,' said
John; and with'some hesitation and efibrt, ' Yon know about
her V
' A little,' she timidly replied; and the tears flowed again as
she said, ' I have been so very sorry for yon.'
' Thank yon,' he answered, in a suppresed tone of grateful
emotion, for never was sympathy more refreshing to one who
had long monined in loneliness.
Eager, thongh almost alaVmed,' at being thus introduced to
the melancholy romance of his history, Violet thought he waited
for her to speak. ' It was dreadful,' she said ; ' it was so cruel,
to sacrifice her to those old people.'
'Was it cruel? Was it wrong?' said John, almost to
himself. ' I hope not. I do not think I could have decided
otherwise.'
' Oh, have I said anything wrong ? I don't properly know
about it. I fancied Arthur told me—I beg your pardon.'
' I do not think Arthur knew the circumstances; they have
never been much talked of. I do not know whether you would
care to listen to a long story; but I should like you, as far as
may be, to understand her, and consider her as your sister, who
would have been very fond of you,'
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. 145
And do you like to talk of it ]'
'That I do, now,' said Jolm j her delicate, respectful sym¬
pathy so opening his heart, that what had been an effort became
a relief
* I should be so glad. Baby is asleep, and I came down to
stay with you. It is very kind of you.'
* You are very kind to listen,' said John. ' I mast go along
way back, to the time when I lost my little sisters.'
* Had you any more sisters V said Yiolet, startled.
'Two; Anna, and another Theodora. They died at four and
two years old, within two days of each other, while my father
and mother were abroad with my aunt.'
' What was their illness, poor little things V anxiously asked
Violet.
'I never knew. We all of us have, more or less, a West
Indian constitution j that accounts for anything.'
' How old were you ? Do you remember them V
' I was five. I have no distinct recollection of them, though
I was very fond of Anna, and well remember the dreariness
afterwards. Indeed, I moped and pined so much, that it. was
thought that to give me young companions was the only chance
for me; and the little Fotheringhams were sent for from the
parsonage to play with me.'
' And it really began then V
'Yes,' said John, more cheerfully. 'She was exactly of my
own age, but with all the motherly helpful kindness of an elder
sister, and full of pretty, childish compassion for the little
wretched solitary being that I was. Her guarding me from the
stout riotous Percy—a couple of years younger—^was the first
bond of union; and I fancy the nurses called her my little
wife; I know I believed it then, and ever after. We were a
great deal together. I never was so happy as with them j and
as I was a frail subject at the best, and Arthur was not. born
till I was nine years old, I was too great a treasure to be con¬
tradicted. The parsonage was the great balance to the home
spoiling ; Mr. and Mrs. Fotheringham were most kind and
judicious ; and Helen's character could not but tell on all
around.'
' Was she grave ]'
'Very merry, full of fun, but with a thoughtful staidness in
her highest spirits, even as a girl. I saw no change when we
met again'—after a pause : ' No, I cannot describe her. When
we go home you shall see her picture. No one ever reminded
me of her as you do, though it is not flattering you to say so.
If the baby had been a girl, I think I should have asked you to
L
146
HEAETSEASE ;
call it by your second name. Well, we seldom spent a day
without meeting, even after I had a tutor. The beginning of
our troubles was her fifteenth birthday, the loth of July. I
had saved up my money, and bought a coral cross and a chain
for her j but Mrs. Fotheringham would not let her keep it; she
said it was too costly for me to give to any one but my sister.
She tried to treat it lightly; but I was old enough to perceive
her reason ; and I can feel the tingling in all my veins as
I vowed with myself to keep it till I should have a right to
offer it.'
* What did she do
' I cannot tell; we did not wish to renew the subject. The
worst of it was, that my aunt, who hears everything, found this
out. She interrogated me, and wanted me to give it to Theo¬
dora, a mere baby. I felt as if I was defending Helen's
possession, and refused to give it up unless at my father's
command.'
* I hope he did not order you.*
* He never said a word to me. But our comfort was over;
suspicion was excited; and I am afraid my aunt worried Mrs.
Fotheringham. Nothing was said, but there was a check upon
us. I was sent to a tutor at a distance ; and when I was at
home, either she went out on long visits in the holidays, or there
«v^as a surveillance on me j and when I did get down to the par¬
sonage it was all formality. She took to calling me Mr. Mar-
tindale (by the bye, Yiolet, I wish you would not), was shy,
and shrank from me.'
'Oh! that was the worst,' cried Yiolet. 'Did not she
carel'
' I believe her mother told her we were too old to go on as
before. They were all quite right; and I can now see it was
very good for me. When Mr. Fotheringham died, and they
were about to leave the parish, I spoke to my father. He had
the highest esteem for them all, was fond of her, knew they
had behaved admirably. I verily believe he would have con¬
sented at once—^nay, he had half done so, but—'
' Mrs. Nesbit, I am sure,' exclaimed Yiolet.
' He was persuaded to think I had not had time to know my
own mind, and ought not to engage myself tiU I had seen more
of the world.'
'How old were you?'
' Nineteen.'
' Nineteen I If you did not know your own mind then, when
could you?'
John smiled, and replied, 'It was better to have such a
motive. My. position was one of temptation, and this was a
OS, THE BSOTHER'S WIFE.
147
safeguard as well as a clieck on idle prosperity. An incentive
to exertion, too; for my father held out a hope that if I
continued in the same mind, and deserved his confidence, he
would consent in a few years, but on condition I should neither
say nor do anything to show my feelings.'
' Then you never told her?'
' No.'
*I should not have liked that at all! But she must have
guessed.'
'She went with her mother to live in Lancashire, with
old Mr. and Mrs. Percival, at Elsdale. There she lost her
mother.'
'How long did it go on before Lord Martindale consented?'
asked Violet, breathlessly.
' Pive years, but at last he was most kind. He did fully
appreciate her. I went to Elsdale'—and he paused. ' Eor a
little while it was more than I can well bear to remember.'
'You gave her the cross?' said Violet, presently.
'On her next birth-day. Well, then came considerations.
Old Mrs. Percival was nearly blind, and could hardly move
from her chair, the grandfather was very infirm, and becoming
imbecile. His mind had never been clear since his daughter's
death, and he always took Helen for her. She was everything
to them.'
' And they would not spare her?'
' She asked me what was to be done. She put it entirely in
my hands, saying she did not know where her duty lay, and she
would abide by my decision.'
' Then it was you I I can't think how you could.*
'I trust it was not wrong.. So asked, I could not say she
ought to leave those poor old people to their helplessness for
my sake, and I could not have come to live with them, for it
was when I was in Parliament, and there were other reasons.
We agreed, then, that she should not leave them in her grand¬
father's lifetime, and that afterwards Mrs. Percival should
come to our home, Brogden, as we thought it would be. In¬
deed, Violet, it was a piteous thing to hear that good venerable
old lady entreating my pardon for letting Helen devote herself,
saying, she would never have peimitted it but for Mr. Percival,
for what would become of him without his granddaughter—
hoping they would not long stand in our way, and promising
us the blessing that Helen enjoys. We could not regret our
decision, and to'be allowe<l to stand on such terms with each
, other was happiness enough then; yet all the time I had a
Presentiment that I was giving her up for ever, though I
h 2
148
HEARTSEASE;
tliouglit it would be tbe otber way; tbe more when the next
year I had the illness that has made me good for nothing ever
since. That made it much easier to me, for I should have led
her sueh a life of nursing and anxiety as I would not inflict on
any woman.'
' Surely she had the anxiety all the same?'
' There is a good deal spared by not being on the spot.*
How can he think so? said Violet to herself. I can't
imagine how she lived as long as she did. * Did you not see her
at all when you were ill?' she said.
* Yes, we had one great treat that winter when I was at the
' worst. It was one of my father's especial pieces of kindness; he
wrote to her himself, and sent Simmonds to fetch her to Mar-
tindale.'
. 'And were you able to enjoy having her?'
'It was inflammation on the chest, so all my senses were
free. She used to sit by me with her sober face, at work, ready
to read and talk to me, and left sayings and thoughts that have
brought refreshment at every such time. It was indeed a
blessing that she could come that first time to teach me how to
bear illness.'
' How long did she stay?'
' Only three weeks, for her absence only showed how little
she could be spared; but she left an influence on that room of
mine that it has never lost.'
' How solitary it must have been when you were recovering.*
' I had her letters. I will show you some of them some day.
She used to write almost daily.'
' And it was when you were getting better that you took the
great journey in the East?'
'Yes; Percy had just left Cambridge, and was ready to take
the care of me on his hands. Those two years went pleasantly
by, and what a happy visit it was at Elsdale afterwards! You
can't think how this talking over our travels has brought it
back. As long as Mrs. Percival lived we did pretty well.
She made Helen take care of herself, and I could go and stay
there; but after her death the poor old man grew more
childish and exacting. I once tried staying at the curate's, but
it did not answer. He could not bear to have her out. of his
sight, and had taken an unhappy aversion to me, fancying me
some old admirer of his own daughter, and always warning her
against me.'
' How distressing! How wretched! It would have killed mer
long before! How did she bear it? I know it was patiently,,
but I cannot understand it 1' '
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. H9
' Her letters "will best sbo"W you. It "was the perfect trust
that it was good for us; but what she underwent in those last
three years we never knew. Her brother was at Constantinopl®.
I could not go to Elsdale, and there was no one to interfere.
We could not guess from her cheerful letters how she was
wearing herself out, bearing his caprices, giving up sleep and
exercise, I knew how it would be the first moment I met her,
- when I went to Elsdale to the funeral; but it was supposed to
be only over-fatigue, and her aunt, Lady Eotheringham, took
her home to recover. She. grew worse, and went to London
for advice. There I met her, and—and there she herself
told me she had disease of the heart, and could not live a
year.'
Violet gave a sort of sob.
* She held up to me that cross—^that first gift—she bade me
think of the subjection of wills and affections it betokened.
Little had we once thought of that meaning!'
'And then?' asked Violet, "with face flushed and hands
clasped.
• 'Lady Eotheringham took her to Worthboume.'
' Could you be with her?'
'Yes. One of the especial subjects of thankfulness was that
I was well enough to stay with her. She was perfectly happy
and contented, chiefly concerned to soften it to me. It was as
if she had finished her work, and was free to enjoy, as she sank
into full repose, sunsets, hoar frosts, spring blossoms, the
having me with her, her brother's return—everything was a
pleasure. I can hardly call it a time of grief, when she was so
placid and happy. All the wishing and scheming was over, and
each day that I could look at her in her serenity, was only too
precious.'
' Was there much suffering ?'
' At times there was, but in general there was only languor.
She used to lie by the window, looking so smiling and tranquil,
that it was hard to believe how much she had gone through;
and so peaceful, that we could not dare to wish to bring her
back to care and turmoil. The last time she was able to talk to
me, she showed me the cross still round her neck, and said she
should like to think it would be as much comfort to any one
else as it had been to her. I did not see her again till I was
called in for her last look on anything earthly, when the suffer¬
ing was passed, and there was peaceful sinking.*
Violet was crying too much for words, imtil at last she
managed to say, ' How could you—^what could you do ?'
' My illness was the best thing^ that could happen to me.*
150
HEARTSEASE;
' How sorry you must have been to get well.
He replied,
' Her wings were grown.
To heaven she's flown,
'Ganse I had none I'm left.
* Those lines haunted me when I found myself reviving to the
weary useless life I spend here.'
' O how can you call it so V cried Violet. ' How could Arthui
and I do without you V
There was a sound upstairs, and she started to the door, ran
up, but came down in a few moments. 'He is awake and
better,' she said. ' I cannot come down again, for Sarah must
go to supper. Good night, thank you for what you have told
me / then, with an earnest look, ' only I can't bear you to say
your life is useless. You don't know how we look to you.'
' Thank you for your kind listening,' he answered. ' It has
done me a great deal of good; but do not stay,' as he saw her
evidently longing to return to her child, yet lingering in the
fear of unkindness to him. ' I am glad he is better j you and
he must both have a good night.'
John was indeed refreshed by the evening's conversation. It
had disclosed to him a new source of comfort, for hitherto his
grief had never known the relief of sympathy. His whole soul
had been fixed on one object from his boyhood; the hopes of
deserving Helen had been his incentive to exertion in his youth,
and when disabled by sickness, he had always looked forward to
a new commencement of active usefulness with her. It had
been a life of waiting: patient, but without present action, and
completely wrapt up in a single attachment and hope. When
that was taken from him he had not failed in faith and submis¬
sion, but he had nothing to occupy him or afibrd present solace
and interest; he had no future save lonely waiting still, until
he should again rejoin her who had been his all on earth.
However, the effort made to reconcile his brother with the
family had produced an unlooked-for influence, and enlarged his
sphere of interest. At first came languid amusement in con¬
templating the pretty young bride, then liking and compassion
for her, then the great anxiety in her illness, and afterwards
real affection and solicitude for her and her child had filled his
mind, and detached him from his own sorrows; and he now became
sensible that he had, indeed, while trying to serve her and his
brother, done much for his own relief. What she said of their
dependence on him was not only a pleasure to him, but it awoke
him to the perception that he had not been so utterly debarred
from usefulness as hehadimagined, and that he had neglected much
OR, THE BROTHER^S WIFE.
151
tliat might have infinitely benefited his brother, sister, and
father. He had lived for himself and Helen alone !
He tried to draw out Helen's example to teach Violet to
endure, and in doing so the other side of the lesson came home
to himself. Helen's life had been one of exertion as well as of
submission. It had not been merely spent in saying, ' Thy will
be done,' but in doing it; she had not merely stood still and
uncomplaining beneath the cross, but she had borne it onward
in the service of others.
CHAPTEH YIL
Sweeter 'tis to hearken
Than to bear a part.
Better to look on happiness
Than to cany a light heart,
Sweeter to walk on cloudy hills,
With a sunny plain below,
Than to weary of the brightness
Where the floods of sunshiae flow. Altoed.
ONE morning John received a letter from Constantinople,
which he had scarcely opened before he exclaimed, ' Ha !
what does he mean ? Given up his appointment! Coming
home ! It is just like him. I must read you what he says,
it is so characteristic.'
* You must have been provoked at my leaving you all this
time in doubt what to do with our precious tour; but the fact
is, that I have been making a fool of myself, and as the Crtc-
saders are the only cover my folly has from the world, I must
make the most of them. I give out that my literary afiairs
require my presence; but you, as the means of putting me into
my post, deserve an honest confession. About six weeks ago,
my subordinate, Evans, fell sick—an estimable chicken-hearte(f
fellow. In a weak moment, I not only took his work on my
hands, but bored myself by nursing him, and thereby found il
was a complaint only to be cured by my shoes.'
' Shoes 1' exclaimed Violet. John read on.
[It was a dismal story of an engagement to a clergyman's
daughter; her father just dead, she reduced to go out as a go¬
verness, and he having half nothing of his own, mending the
matter by working himself into a low fever, and doing his best
to rid her of all care on his account. Of course I rowed him
well, but I soon found I had the infection—a bad fit of soft-
heartedness came over me.'
lo2 HEARTSEASK;
' Oh !' cried Violet, ' he gives up for this poor man's sake.
' I thought all peace was over if 1 was to see poor Evana
enacting the enamoured swain every day of my life, for the fellow
had not the grace to carry it off like a man—besides having his
business to do; or, if he should succeed in dying, I should not
only be haunted by his ghost, but have to convey his last words
to the disconsolate governess. So, on calculation, I thought
trouble would be saved by giving notice that I was going home
to publish the Crusaders^ and sending him to fetch his bride,
on whose arrival I shall bid a long farewell to the Grand Turk.
I fancy I shall take an erratic course through Moldavia and
some of those out of the way locations, so you need not
write to me again here, nor think of me till you see me about
the end of August. I suppose about that time Theodora will
have finished the course of severe toil reserved for young ladies
every spring, so I shall come straight home expecting to see
you all.'
' Home; does that mean Martindale V said Violet.
' Yes. He has never looked on any place but Brogden as his
home.'
* You don't think he repents of what he has done ?'
*Ho, certainly not. He has seen what a long engage¬
ment is.'
' Yes; I almost wonder at his writing to you in that tone.'
' He banters because he cannot bear to show his real feeling.
I am not anxious about him. He has 300?. a year of his own,
and plenty of resources,—^besides, the baronetcy must come to
him. He can afford to do as he pleases.'
' What a noble character he must be!' said Violet; * it is like
a story. How old is he V
* About nine-and-twenty. I am glad you should see him. He
is a very amusing fellow.'
' How clever he must be 1'
' The cleverest man I know. I hope he will come soon. I
should like to have a little time with him before my winter
migration. W e have not met since he was obliged to return, a
fortnight after her death, when I little expected ever to see him
again.'
This prospect seemed to set John's mind more than ever on
Helen, as if he wanted to talk over her brother's conduct with
her, and was imagining her sentiments on it.
He spoke much of her in the day, and in the evening brought
down a manuscript-book.
' I should like to read some of this to you,' he said. ' She had
BO few events in her life at Elsdale that her letters, written to
OK, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
158
pccupy me when I was laid up, becMiie almost a journal of her
thoughts. I copied out some parts to carry about with me;
and perhaps you would like to hear some of them.'
' Indeed, I should, thank you, if you ought to read aloud.*
He turned over the pages, and seemed to be trying whether
he could bear to read different passages; but he gave up
one after another, and nearly half an hour had passed before he
began.
' February 20. It was the winter after her coming to Mar-
Undale.'
' This morning was a pattern one for February, and I went out
before the brightness was passed, and had several turns in the
walled garden. I am afraid you will never be able to under¬
stand the pleasantness of such a morning. Perhaps you will
say the very description makes you shiver, but I must tell you
how beautiful it was. The frost last night was not sharp, but
just sufficient to detain the dew till the sun could turn it into
diamonds. There were some so brilliant, glancing green or red
in different lights, they were quite a study. It is pleasant to
think that this pretty frost is not adorning the plants with un¬
wholesome beauty, though the poor little green buds of currant
and gooseberry don't like it, and the pairs of woodbine leaves
turn in their edges. It is doing them good against their will,
keeping them from spreading too soon. I fancied it like early
troubles, keeping baptismal dew fresh and bright; and those
jewels of living light went on to connect themselves with the
radiant coronets of some whom the world might call blighted
in
It had brought on one of his severe fits of coughing. Yiolet
was going to ring for Brown, but he stopped her by a sign,
which he tried to make reassuring. It was worse, and lasted
longer than the former one, and exhausted him so much, that
he had to rest on the sofa cushions before he could recover
breath. At last, in a very low voice, he said, ' There, it is of
no use to try.'
* I hope you are better; pray don't speak; only will you have
anything V
* No, thank you; lying still will set me to rights. It is only
that these coughs leave a pain—nothing to mind.*
He settled himself on the sofa, not without threatenings of a
return of cough, and Violet arranged the cushions, concerned
at his trying to thank her. After a silence, he began to breathe
more easily, and said,
' Will you read me the rest of that Y
She gave him the book to find the place, and then read •
154
HEARTSEASE ;
' Tlie world miglit call tliem bliglited in their early hlooin,
and deprived of all that life was bestowed for; but how different
is the inner view, and how glorious the thought of the numbers
of quiet, common-place sufferers in homely life, like my currant
and gooseberry bushes, who have found their frost has preserved
their dewdrops to be ^amends for ever. If this is too fanciful,
don't read it, but I go rambling on as the notions come into my
head, and if you only get a laugh at my dreamings, they will
have been of some use to you.*
' How beautiful!' said Yiolet; 'how you must have liked re¬
ceiving such letters!'
'Yes; the greatest blank in the day is post time.'
He held out his hand for the book, and found another passage
for her.
' I have been thinking how kindly that sentence is framed :
' Casting aU your care on Him.' All, as if we might have been
afraid to lay before Him our petty perplexities. It is the
knowing we are cared for in detail, that is the comfort; and
that when we have honestly done our best in little things, our
Father will bless them, and fill up our shortcomings.
' That dressmaker must have been a happy woman, who never
took home her work without praying that it might fit. I always
liked that story particularly, as it shows how the practical life
in the most trivial round can be united with thus casting all our
care upon Him—^the being busy in our own station with choos¬
ing the good part. I suppose it is as a child may do its own
work in a manufactory, not concerning itself for the rest; or a
coral-worm make its own cell, not knowing what branches it is
helping to form, or what an island it is raising. What a mercy
that we have only to try to do right from moment to moment,
and not meddle with the future!'
' Like herself,' said John.
'I never thought of such things,* said Violet. 'I never
thought little matters seemed worth treating in this way.'
' Everything that is a duty or a grief must be worth it,' said
John. 'Considerthe worthlessness of what we think most im¬
portant in That Presence. A kingdom less than an ant's nest in
comparison. But, here, I must show you a more everyday bit.
It was towards the end, when she hardly ever left her grand¬
father, and I had been writing to urge her to spare herself.'
Yiolet read—
' You need not be afraid, dear John; I am quite equal to all
I have to do. Fatigue never knocks me up, which is a great
blessing; and I can sleep anywhere at the shortest notice. In¬
deed, I don't know what should tire me, for there is not even
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
155
ftny running up and down stairs j and as to spirits, you would
not tliink them in danger if you heard how I talk parish matters
to the' curate, and gossip with the doctor, till grandpapa
brightens, and I have to shout an abstract of the news into his
ear. It is such a treat to bring that flash of intelligence on
his face—and it has not been so rare lately ; he seems now and
then to follow one of the Psalms, as I read them to him at in¬
tervals through the day. Then for pastime, there is no want of
that, with the two windows looking out different ways. I can't
think how you could forget my two beautiful windows—one
with a view of the back door for my dissipation, and the other
with the garden, and the varieties of trees and the ever-chang¬
ing clouds. I never look out without finding some entertain¬
ment; my last sight was a long-tailed titmouse, popping into,
the yew tree, and setting me to think of the ragged fir tree at
Brogden, with you and Percy spying up, questioning whether
golden-crest or long-tailed pye lived in the dome above. llTo,
no; don't waste anxiety upon me. I am very happy, and have
everything to be thanliil for.'
' *My mind to me a kingdom is,' she might have said,* ob¬
served John.
' She might indeed. How beautiful! How ashamed it does
make one of oneself 1'
So they continued, he choosmg passages, which she read
aloud, till the evening was over, when he asked her whether
she would like to look through the book ?
' That I should, but you had rather I did not.'
'Yes, I do wish you to read it, and to know Helen. There
is nothing there is any objection to your seeing. I wrote them
out partly for Percy's sake. Your reading these to me has been
very pleasant.'
' It has been so to me, I am sure. I do not know how to
thank you; only I am grieved that you have hurt yourself I
hope you are better now.'
' Yes, thank you; I shall be quite right in the morning.'
His voice was, however, so weak, and he seemed so uncom¬
fortable, that Violet was uneasy; and as Brown lighted her
candle in the hall, she paused to consult him, and found that,
though concerned, he did not apprehend any bad consequences,
saying that these attacks were often brought on by a chill, or
1^7 aiiy strong excitement; he had no doubt this was occasioned
by hearing of Mr. Potheringham's intended return; indeed, he
had thought Mr. Martindale looking flushed and excited all
day.
Never did charge appear more precious than those extracts.
156
i
HEARTSEASE j
She had an enthusiastic veneration for Helen, and there was a
youthful, personal feeling for her, which made her apply the
words and admire them far more than if they had been in
print.
As she dwelt upon them, the perception grew on her, that
not only was it a duty to strive for contentment, but that to
look on all trials as crosses to be borne daily, was the only way
to obtain it.
Helen's many homely trials and petty difficulties were what
caime to her chiefly as examples and encouragements, and she
began to make resolutions on her own account.
Yet, one day, when Arthur was expected and did not come,
she conjured up so many alarms, that it was well that con¬
sideration for her companion obliged her to let him divert her
mind.
The next day John led her to the beach, and set her to flnd
rare sea-weeds for his mother. The charm of the pursuit,' the
curling tide, the occasional peeps at Johnnie as he was paraded,
serene and sleepy, in Sarah's arms, made time speed so fast that
she was taken by surprise when voices hailed them, and she
beheld Arthur and his father.
No wedding-day being in the case, Arthur had gladly put off
his coming on a proposal from his father to accompany him, see
John's menagef and be introduced to his grandson.
Much more warmly than in former times did Lord Martin-
dale greet his daughter-in-law, and quickly he asked for the
baby. In spite of the doctor's prognostications, the little fellow
had begun to mend, and he looked his best, nearly hidden in
hood and mantle, and embellished by his mother's happy face,
as she held him in her arms, rejoicing in the welcome bestowed
on the first grandson.
Yiolet had never been so comfortable with Lord Martindale.
There was the advantage of being the only lady, and he unbent
more than he ever did at home. He had come partly to see
what was to be the next arrangement. Five weeks of London
had been almost too much for Lady Martindale, with whom it ,
never agreed, and who had found a season with her unmanage¬
able daughter very different from what it had formerly been,
when lier aunt arranged everything for her; and the family
were about to return home. Arthur was to bring his wife to
Martindale as soon as his leave began—^but this would not be
for a month ; and his father, concerned to see her still so deli¬
cate, advised him not to think of her return to London in the
hottest part of the year, and proposed to take her and the baby
home with him. J ohn, however, declared that he should prefer
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. - 157
staying on at Ventnor with her; the place agreed with him,
and he liked the quiet for finishing Percy Fotheringham's
work; besides, it suited Arthur better to be able to come back¬
wards and forwards. The only doubt was whether she was tired
of his dull company.
Arthur ai^wered for her, and she was well satisfied, thinking
it a great escape not to have to go to Martindale without him^
but afraid John was giving up a great deal to her, when she
must be a very tiresome companion j at which Arthur laughed,
telling her of John's counter fears, and adding, that he had
never seen his brother in such good spirits in all his life—he
was now actually like other people.
Lord Martindale also feared that John found his undertaking
wearisome, and talked it over with him, saying it was very kind
of him, very good for Arthur's wife; but was she society
enough 1 * Would he not like to have Theodora to relieve him.
of the charge, and be more of a companion ?'
* Thank you,' said John, * we shall be very glad to have Theo¬
dora, if she likes to come. It is a very good opportunity for
them to grow intimate.'
' I'll send her next time Arthur comes.'
*But you must not think it an act of compassion, as if Violet
was on my hands. She is a particularly agreeable person, and
we do very well together. In fact, I have enjoyed this time
very much; and Theodora must not think herself obliged to
come for my sake, as if I wanted help.'
' I imderstand,' said his father; ' and of course it will depend
on what engagements they have made ;. but I should be very
glad she should be mT)re with you, and if she saw more of
Arthur's wife, it might detach her from those friends of hers.
I cannot think how it is Theodora is not disgusted with Mrs.
Pinch ! It is a comfort, after all, that Arthur did not marry
Miss Gardner!'
* A great one 1'
* This girl has simplicity and gentleness at least, poor thing,'
continued Lord Martindale ) * and I am quite of your opinion,
John, that marriage has improved him greatly. I never saw
him so free from nonsense. Strangely as it has come about,
this may be the making of him. I only wish I could see her
and the poor child looking stronger. I will send your sister, by
all moans.'
So Lord Martindale returned, and proposed the plan to his
daughter. At first, she was flattered at being wanted, and
graciously replied, * Poor J ohn, he must want some variety.'
* Not exactly that,' said her father. < They are so comfortable
158 - HEARTSEASE;
together, it is a pleasure to see them. I should like to stay there
myself, and it is a very agreeable scheme for you.*
*I was considering my engagements,' said Theodora. 'Of
course, if I am really wanted, everything must be put aside.'
' John desired you would not think it an act of charity,* said
her father. ' He says he finds her a most agreeable companion,
and you need only look upon it as a pleasant scheme for all
parties.'
' Oh,' said Theodora, in a different tone.
' He said you were not to put yourself out of the way. He
would be very glad of your company, and it will be very good
for you all to be together.'
' Oh! then I don't think it is worth while for me to go,'
said Theodora. ' I am much obliged to John, but I should only
interfere with his course of education.'
' JSTot go V said her father.
'Ho, there is no occasion; and I wish to be at home as soon
as I can.'
'Well, my dear, you must decide your own way, but I
thought you would be glad of the opportunity of being with
John, and I should be glad, too, that you should see more of
your sister. She is a very engaging person, and I am sure
you would find her a more satisfactory companion than Mrs.
Finch.
After this speech, Theodora would have suffered considerably
rather than have gone. ' They will soon be at Martindale,* she
said, ' and I cannot stay longer away from the village.*
' I wish at least that you would go down as I did for a day
with Arthur. You would enjoy it, and it would give them all
pleasure. Indeed, I think it would only be a proper piece of
attention on your part.*
She made no answer, but the next time Arthur was going,
she instantly stopped all her father's arrangements for her
accompanying him, by saying she was going to a lecture on
electricity j then, when Lord Martindale began asking if Arthur
could not change his day, she majestically said, 'Ho, Arthur
would not disappoint Mrs. Martindale on my account.*
' If you would go, Theodora,* said Arthur, eagerly, ' Violet
would not mind waiting. She would be specially pleased to
show you the boy. It is very jolly there.'
The first time he had spoken to her of his three months* old
son. If she had not been in a dire fit of sullen jealousy, it
would have softened as much as it thrilled her, but she had the
notion that she was not wanted, except to do homage to the
universally-petted Violet.
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
159
' I cannot spare a day.'
So Arthur was vexed, and the frost was harder.
John had not much expected Theodora, and was more sorry
for her sake than his own. The last month was still better
than the first, the brother and sister understood each other more
fully, and their confidence had become thoroughly confirmed.
The baby had taken a start, as Sarah called it, left off unreason¬
able crying, sat up, laughed and stared about with a sharp look
of inquiry in his dark eyes and tiny thin face, so ridiculously
like his grandfather, Mr. Moss, that his mother could not help
being diverted with the resemblance, except when she tormented
herself with the fear that the likeness was unpleasing to Arthur,
if perchance he remarked it; but he looked so little at the child,
that she often feared he did not care for him personally, tlxough
he had a certain pride in him as son and heir.
Violet herself, though still delicate and requiring care, had
recovered her looks and spirits, and much of her strength, and
John walked and conversed more than he had done for years,
did not shrink from the society of the few families they were
acquainted with, and seemed to have derived as much benefit
from his kind scheme as the objects of it. In fact' his hopes
and affections were taking a fresh spring—the effects of his
kindness to Arthur and Violet had shown him that he could be
useful to others, and he thus discovered what he had missed in
his indulged life, crossed in but one respect—^he saw that he -
had set himself aside from family duties, as well as from the
more active ones that his health prohibited, and with a feeling
at once of regret and invigoration, he thought over the course
that lay open to him, and soon began to form plans and discuss
them with his ever ready listener. His foreign winters need
no longer be useless, he proposed to go to Barbuda to look after
his mother's estates—^indeed, it seemed so obvious that when he
once thought of it he could not imagine why it had never
occurred to him before; it would save his father the voyage,
and when he and Violet began to figure to themselves the good
that could be done there, they grew animated and eager in their
castles.
That month sped fast away, and their drives were now last
visits to the places that had charmed them at first. Their work
was prepared for Mr. Fotheringham's inspection, and Violet
having copied out her favourite passages of Helen's book,
returned it on the last evening. * I don't think I half under¬
stand all she says, though I do admire it so much, and wish I
was like it.'
* You will be. von are in the wav.*
160
HEARTSEASE ;
* You don't know how foolish I am/ said Violet, almost as if
he was disrespectful to Helen.
* Helen was once seventeen/ said John, smiling.
' Oh, but I have no patience. I fret and tease myself, and
fancy all sorts of things, instead of trusting as she did. I don't
know how to do so.'
* I know how weakness brings swarming harassing thoughts,*
said John; 'it is well for us that there are so many external
helps to patience and confidence.'
'Ah! that is what shows-how bad I am,' said Violet,
despondingly. ' I never keep my mind in order at church, yet
I am sure I was more unreasonably discontented when I was
not able to go.'
' Which shows it is of use to you. Think of it not only as a
duty that must be fulfilled, but watch for refreshment from it,
and you will find it come.'
' Ah 1 I have missed all the great festivals this year. I have
not stayed to the full service since I was at Rickworth, and
what is worse, I do not dislike being prevented,' said Violet,
falteringlyj as if she must say the words, 'I'don't like staying
alone.'
' You must conquer that,' said Jolm, earnestly. ' That feeling
must never keep you away. Your continuance is the best hope
of bringing him; your leaving off would be fatal to you both.
I should almost like you to promise never to keep away because
he did.'
' I think I can promise,' said Violet, faintly. ' It is only
what mamma has always had to do; and, last Christmas, it did
keep me away. I did think then he would have come; and
when I found he did not—then I was really tired—^but I know
I could have stayed—^but I made it an excuse, and went away.'
The tears began to flow. ' I thought of it again when I was
ill; and afterwards when I found out how nearly I had been
dying, it was frightful. I said to myself, I would not miss
again; but I have never had the opportunity since I have been
well.'
' It is monthly at home,' said John. ' Only try to look to it
as a favour and a comfort, as I said about church-going, but in
a still higher degree—^not merely as a service required from
you. Believe it is a refreshment, and in time you will find it
the greatest.'
' I'll try,' she said, in a low, melancholy voice; ' but I never
feel as good people do.'
'You have had more than usual against you/ said John;
'cares for which you were not prepared, and weakness to
on, THE.BnOTIIEn's "WIFE,
161
exaggerate them; but you will have had a long rest, and I hope
may be more equal to the tasks of daily life.'
They were interrupted by tea being brought; and the com
versation continued in a less serious style.
' Our last tea-drinking,' said John. ' Certainly, it has been
very pleasant here.'
'This island, that I thought so far away, and almost in
foreign parts,' said Violet, smiling; ' I hope it has cured me of
foolish terrors.'
' You will bravely make up your mind to Martindale.'
'I shall like to show Johnnie the peacock,' said Violet, in a
tone as if seeking for some pleasant anticipation.
John laughed, and said, 'Poor Johnnie ! I shall like to see
him there in his inheritance.'
' Dear little man! I hope his grandfather will think him
grown. I am glad they did not see him while he was so tiny
and miserable. I am sure they must like him now, he takes so
much notice.'
' You must not be disappointed if my mother does not make
much of him,' said John; ' It was not her way with her own.'
Then, as Violet looked aghast, ' You do not know my mother.
It requires a good deal to show what she can be, beneath her
distant manner. I never knew her till two years ago.'
'When you were past thirty %' broke from Violet's lips, in a
sort of horror.
' When I was most in need of comfort,* he answered. ' There
has been a formality and constraint in our life that has not
allowed the affections their natural play, but indeed they exist.
There have been times when even I distrusted my mother's
attachment; but she could not help it, and it was all the
stronger afterwards. Madeira taught me what she is, away
from my aunt.'
' I do hope it is not wrong to feel about Mrs. Nesbit as I do!
I am ready to run away from her. I know she is spying for
my faults. Oh! I cannot like her.*
' That is a very mild version of what T have felt,* said John;
' I believe she has done us all infinite harm. But I am hardlj?-
qualified to speak; for, from the time she gave up the hope of
my being a credit to the family, she has disliked me, said
cutting things, well nigh persecuted me. She did harass Helen
to give me up; but, after all, poor woman, I believe I have
been a great vexation to her, and I cannot help being sorry
for her. It is a pitiable old age, straining to keep hold of
what xised to occupy her, and irritated at her own failing
faculties.*
162
HEARTSEASE;
* I will try to tliink of that,* said Violet.
'I wonder what powers she will give me over her West
Indian property; I must try/ said John; 'it will make a great
difference to my opportunities of usefulness. I must talk to my
father about it.'
' How very kind Theodora is to poor little Miss Piper/ said
Violet.
'Yes; that is one of Theodora's best points.'
' Oh! she is so very good; I wish she could endure me.'
' So do 1/ said John. ' I have neglected her, and now I reap
the fruits. In that great house at home people live so much
apart, that if they wish to meet, they must seek each other.
And I never saw her as a child but when she caitie down in the
evening, with her great black eyes looking so large and fierce.
As a wild high-spirited girl I never made acquaintance with her,
and now I cannot.'
' But when you were ill this last time, did she not read to
you, and nurse you?'
'That was not permitted; there might have been risk; and
besides, as Arthur says, I only wished to be let alone. I had
not then realized that sympathy accepted for the sake of the
giver will turn to the good of the receiver. Ho; I have thrown
her away as far as I am concerned; and when I see what noble
character and religious feeling there is with that indomitable
pride and temper, I am the more grieved. Helen walked with
her twice or three times when she was at Martindale, and she
told me how much there was in her, but I never tried to
develope it. I thought when Helen was her sister-^but that
chance is gone. That intractable spirit will never be tamed but
by affection; but, unluckily, I don't know/ said John, smiling,
' who would marry Theodora.'
' Oh ! how can you say so ? She is so like Arthur.*
John laughed. 'Ho, I give up the hope of a Petruchio.*
' But Mr. Wingfield, I thought
' "Wingfield 1' said John, starting. ' Ho, no, that's not
likely.'
'Hor Lord St. Erme ?'
'I hope not. He is fancy-bit, I suppose, but he is not her
superior. Life with him would harden rather than tame her.
Ho. After all, strangely as she has behaved about him, when
she has him in sight, I suspect there is one person among us
more likely to soften her than any other.'
' Arthur ?'
' Arthur's son.*
'Oh 1 of course, and if she will but love my Johnnie, I don't
nnuch care about his mamma.'
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
163
CHAPTER VIII.
In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease.
You know so ill to deal with time.
You needs must play such pranks as these.
Tennison.
IN spite of herself, Theodora's heart bounded at the prospect
of having Arthur's child in the house. She visited the
babies in the village, and multiplying their charms by the
superior beauty of Arthur and his wife, proportionably raised
her expectations, but, of course, she betrayed none of her eager¬
ness, and would not give up one iota of her course of village
occupations for the sake of being at home for the arrival.
Nevertheless, she returned across the park, through burning
sunshine, at double-quick pace, only slackened on seeing a
carriage; but it proved to be her aunt, who was being assisted
out of it, and tottering up the steps with the help of Lady
Martindale's arm, whHe Miss Piper coming down to give her
assistance, informed them that the party had arrived about an
hour before. The two gentlemen had gone out, and Mrs. Arthur
Martindale was in her own room.
Trembling with eagerness, Theodora followed the tardy steps
of her mother and aunt as they mounted the stairs. As they
entered the gallery, a slender figure advanced to meet them, her
apple-blossom face all smiles, and carrying a thing like a middle-
sized doll, if doll had ever been as bald, or as pinched, or as
skinny, or flourished such spare arms, or clenched such claw-like
fingers. Was this the best she could give Arthur by way of
son and heir 1 Yet she looked as proud and exulting as if he
had been the loveliest of children, and the little wretch him¬
self had a pert, lively air of speculation, as if he partook her
complacency.
Lady Martindale gave her stately greeting, and Mrs. Nesbit
coldly touched her hand; then Theodora, with some difficulty
pronounced the words, ' How are you V and brought herself to
kiss Violet's cheek, but took no apparent notice of the child,
and stood apart while her mother made all hospitable speeches,
moving on, so as not to keep Mrs. Nesbit standing.
Theodora followed her aunt and mother, and as soon as the
baize door was shut on them, Violet hugged her baby closely,
whispering, ' No welcome for the poor little boy ! nobody cares
for him but his own mamma 1 Never mind, my Johnnie, we
are not too grand to love each other.*
164
IIEAETSEASE;
Theodora in the meantime could not help exclaiming, ' Poor
child I It is just like a changeling !'
* Don't talk of it, my dear,' said Lady Martindale, with a
shudder and look of sufferiug. ' Poor little dear! He looks
exactly as your poor little brother did!' and she left the room
with a movement far unlike her usually slow dignified steps.
'Ahr said her aunt, in a tone between grief and dis¬
pleasure ; * here's a pretty business ! we must keep him out of
her way! Don't you ever bring him forward, Theodora, to
revive all that.'
' What is the meaning of it V said Theodora. ' I did not
know I ever had another brother.'
* It was long before your time, my dear, but your mamma
has never entirely got over it, though he only lived ninp
weeks. I would not have had the recollection recalled on any
account. And now John has brought this child here ! If he
was to die here I don't know what the efiect on your mamma
would be.'
* He is not going to die !' said Theodora, hastily; ' but let me
hear of my other brother, aunt.'
' There is nothing to hear, my dear,' said Mrs. Hesbit. ' How
could the girl think of bringing him on us without prepara¬
tion 1 An efiect of John's spoiling her, of course. She expects
him to be made much of; but she must be taught to perceive
this is no house of which she can make all parts a nursery.'
' Let me hear about my brother,' repeated Theodora. ' How
old would he be 1 What was his name V
' His name was Theodore. He never could have lived,' said
Mrs. Nesbit: * it was much as it was with this child of Arthur's.
He was born unexpectedly at Vienna. Your mamma had a
dreadful illness, brought on by your father's blundering sudden
way of telling her of the death of poor little Dora and Anna.
He has not a notion of self-command or concealment; so,
instead of letting me prepare her, he allowed her to come home
from the drive, and find him completely overcome.'
Theodora better understood her mother's stifled sympathy
for Violet, and her father's more openly shown feeling for
Arthur.
'We were in great alarm for her,' continued Mrs. Nesbit;
'and the poor child was a miserable little thing, and pined
away till we thought it best to send him home to be under
English treatment; and your father chose to go with him to see
John, who was in a very unsatisfactory state.'
' And mamma did not go ?'
' Bhe was unfit for the journey, and I remained with her. It
OR, THE brother'S WIPE. 165
was a fortunate arrangement of mine; for I knew lie could not
survive; and anxiety for him retarded her recovery, though we
had hardly ever let her see hkn.*
' Then he died ?—how soon f
' At Frankfort, a fortnight after we parted with him. It was
a dreadful shock to her; and if it had happened in the house,
I do not think she would ever have recovered it. Was it a
fortnight ? Yes, I know it was; for it was on the 3rd of Sep¬
tember that I had your papa's letter. We were going to a party
at Prince K—^*8, where there was to be a celebrated Italian
improvisatrice, and I would not give her the letter till the next
morning.'
Theodora stared at her in incredulous horror.
' It threw her back sadly; but I did my utmost to rally her
spirits, and her health did not suffer so materially as I feared;
but she has strong feelings, and the impression has never been
entirely removed. She scarcely ventured to look at Arthur or
at you. How could your papa have let this child come here f
* Is he like poor little Theodore?' said the sister.
' Only as one wretched-looking baby is like another. This
one is not a bit like the Martindales; it is exactly his mother's
face.'
* Is he buried here V
* Who—Theodore 1 Yes; your papa came home, and managed
matters liis own way, sent off all the governesses, put John
under that ignorant old nurse, and began the precious intimacy
with the Fotheringhams, that led to such results. I could
have told him how it would be; but I believe he did repent of
that!'
'Did John know about Theodore?'
'No; his sister's death had such an effect on him that they
kept the knowledge from him. You had better never mention
it, my dear; and especially,' she added, somewhat pleadingly,
' I would not have the party at the Prince's transpire to your
papa.*
Theodora felt her indignation would not endure concealment
much longer. She called Miss Piper, and hastened away, the
next moment finding herself vis-ct-vis with John.
' Are you just come in?' said he, greeting her.
'No, I have been with my aunt. How are you now?'
'Quite well, thank you. I wish you could have come to
Ventnor. You would have enjoyed it very much.*
' Thank you.*
'Have you seen Violet?'
' I have.'
166
heahtsease ;
* And tlie little boy 1'
' Yes.'
' I can't say he is a beauty, but you who are such a baby
fancier will find him a very animated, intelligent child. I hope
all fear is over about him now; he has thriven wonderfully of
late.'
Perverseness prompted Theodora to say, ' The baby at the
lodge is twice the size.'
John saw there was no use in talking, and shut himself into
his room. The next instant Sarah appeared, with the baby on
one arm, and a pile of clothes on the other.
No one was in sight, so Theodora could gratify her passionate
yearnings for her brother's babe; justifying herself to her own
pride, by considering it charity to an overloaded servant.
' Let me have him. Let me carry him up.'
' Thank you, ma'am, I'll not fash you,' said Sarah, stiffly.
* Let me ! Oh! let me. I have often held a baby. Come
to me, my precious. Don't you know your aunt, your papa's
own sister 1 There, he smiled at me ! He will come I You
know me, you pretty one V
She held him near the window, and gazed with almost
devouring eyes.
' He will be handsome—^he will be beautiful 1' she said. ' Oh!
it is a shame to say you are not! You are like your papa—
you are a thorough Martindale! That is your papa's bright
eye, and the real Martindale brow, you sweet, little, fair, feeble,
helpless thing! Oh! nurse, I can't spare him yet, and you
have to unpack. Let me hold him. I know he likes me.
Don't you love aunt Theodora, babe V
Sarah let her keep him, mollified by her devotion to him,
and relieved at having him off her hands in taking possession of
the gi'eat, bare, scantily-furnished nursery. Theodora lamented
over his delicate looks, and was told he would not be here now
but for his mamma, and the Isle of Wight doctor, who had
done him a power of good. She begged to hear of all his
wants; rang the bell; and walked up and down the room,
caressing him, until he grew fretful; and no one answering the
bell she rang again in displeasure, Sarah thanking her, and
saying she wished to have him ready for bed before his mamma
came up.
After her public reception, Theodora would not be caught
nursing him in secret, so hastily saying she would send some
one, she kissed the little blue-veined forehead, and rushing at
full speed down the back stairs, she flew into the housekeeper's
room j ' Jenkins, there's no one attending to the nursery belL
OR, THE brother'S WIPE.
167
I wish you would see to it. Send up some one with some hot
water to Master Martindale directly.'
As fast she ran back to her own room, ordered off Pauline to
help Master Martindale's nurse, and flung herself into her
chair, in a wild "fit of passion.
' Improvisatrice 1 Prince's parties! this is what it is to be
great, rich, horrid people, and live a heartless, artificial life!
Even this silly, affected girl has the natural instincts of a
mother; she nurses her sick child, it lies on her bosom, she
guards it jealously! And we 1 we might as well have been
hatched in an Egyptian oven! !N"o wonder we are hard,
isolated, like civil strangers. I have a heart! Yes, I have, ,
but it is there by mistake, while no one cares for it—all throw
it from them. Oh! if I was but a village child, a weeding
woman, that very baby, so that I might only have the affection
that comes like the air to the weakest, the meanest. That
precious baby! he smiled at me; he looked as if he would
know me. Oh! he is far more loveable, with those sweet,
little, delicate features, and large considering eyes, than if he
was a great, plump, common-looking child. Dearest little
Johnnie! And my own brother was like him—my brother,
whom my aunt as good as killed! If he had lived, perhaps I
might still have a brother to myself. He would be twenty-
eight. But I mind nothing now that dear child is here!
Why, Pauline, I sent you to Master Martindale.'
'Yes, ma'am; but Mrs. Martindale is there, and they are
much obliged to you, but want nothing more.'
Indeed Violet, who had been positively alarmed and depressed
at first, at the waste and desolate aspect of the nursery, which
seemed so far away and neglected, as almost, she thought, to
account for the death of the two little sisters, had now found
Sarah beset on all sides by offers of service from maids
^ constantly knocking at the door, and Theodora's own Pauline, -
saying she was sent by Miss Martindale.
Violet could hardly believe her ears.
' Yes,' said Sarah, ' Miss Martindale has been here herself
ever so long. A fine, well-grown lassie she is, and very like
the Captain.'
' Has she been here V said Violet. ' It is very kind of her.
Did she look at the baby V
'She made more work with him than you do yourself.
Nothing was not good enough for him. Why, she called him
the most beautifullest baby she ever seen !*
'And that we never told you, my Johnnie,' said Violet,
smiling. ' Are you sure she was not laughing at you, baby ?'
168
HEARTSEASE ;
'No, no, ma'am,' said Sarah, affronted; 'it was earnest
enough. She was nigh ready to eat him up, and talked to him,
and he look up quite 'cute, as if he knew what it all meant,
and was quite good with her. She was ready to turn the
house upside down when they did not answer the hell. And
how she did kiss him, to he sure! I'd half a mind to tell her
of old nurse telling you it warn't good for the child to be
always kissing of him.'
' No, no, she wont hurt him,' said Violet, in a half mournful
voice. ' Let her do as she likes with him, Sarah.*
Violet could recover from the depression of that cold
reception now that she found Johnnie did not share in the
dislike. ' She loves Arthur's child,* thought she, ' though she
cannot like me. I am glad J ohnnie has been in his aunt's arms!'
Violet, as she sat at the dinner-table, understood Lord
MArtindale's satisfaction in hearing John talking with anima¬
tion ; btit she wondered at the chill of manner between her
husband and his sister, and began to perceive that it was not,
as she had supposed, merely in an occasional impatient word,
that Arthur resented Theodora's neglect of her.
' How unhappy it must make her ! how much it must add to
her dislike! they must be brought together again 1' were
gentle Violet's thoughts. And knowing her ground better, she
could venture many more steps towards conciliation than last
year: but Theodora disappeared after dinner, and Violet
brought down some plants from the Isle of Wight which John
had prdnounced to be valuable, to his mother; but Mrs.
Nesbit, at the first glance, called them common fiowers, and
shoved them away contemptuously, while Lady Martindale
tried to repair the discourtesy by condescending thanks and
admiration of the neat drying of the specimens; but her state-
liness caused Violet to feel herself sinking into the hesitating
tremulous girl she used to be, and she betook herself to her
work, hoping to be left to silence ; but she was molested by a
very sharp, unpleasant examination from Mrs. Nesbit on the
style of John's house-keeping at Ventnor, and the society they
had met there. It was plain, she thought, he had put himself
to a foolish expense, and something was said of ' absurd' when
cross-examination had elicited the fact of the pony-carriage.
Then came a set of questions about Mr. Fotheringham's return,
and strong condemnation of him for coming* home to idle in
England.
It was a great relief when J ohn came in, and instantly took
up the defence of the ophrys, making out its species so indis¬
putably, that Mrs, Nesbit had no refuge but in saying, specimens
OK, THE brother'S WIRE.
169
were worthless that had not been gathered by the collector^
and Lady MartindaJe made all becoming acknowledgments.
No wonder Mrs. Nesbit was mortified; she was an excellent
botanist, and only failing eye^ght could have made even
prejudice betray her into such a mistake. Violet understood
the compassion that caused John to sit down by her and
diligently strive to interest her in conversation.
Theodora had returned as tea was brought in, and Violet
felt as if she must make some demonstration out of gratitude
for the fondness for her child j but she did not venture on that
subject, and moving to her side, asked, with somewhat timid
accents, after Charlie Layton, the dumb boy.
* He is very well, thank you. I hope to get him into an
asylum next year,' said Theodora, but half-pleased.
' I looked for him at the gate, and fancied it was him I saw
with a broad black ribbon on his hat. Is he in mourning V
* Did you not hear of his mother's death V
* No, poor little fellow.'
Therewith Theodora had the whole history to tell, and thawed
as she spoke; while Violet's deepening colour, and eyes ready
to overflow, proved the interest she took; and she had just
begged to go to-morrow to see the little orphan, when Arthur
laid his hand on her shoulder, and told her he had just come
from the stables, where he'r horse was in readiness for her, and
would she like to ride to-morrow 1
* "What will suit you for us to do V said Violet, turning to
Theodora.
* 0, ib makes no difierence to me.'
'Tuesday. It is not one of your schooldays, is itf said
Violet, appearing unconscious of the chill of the answer; then,
looking up to Arthur, ' I am going, at any rate, to walk to the
lodge with Theodora to see the poor baby there. It is just the
age of Johnnie.'
'You aren't going after poor children all day long,' said
Arthur ; and somehow Violet made a space between them on
the ottoman, and pulled him down into it; and whereas he saw
his wife and sister apparently sharing the same pursuits, and
on friendly terms, he resumed his usual tone with Theodora,
and began coaxing her to ride with them, and inquiring after
home interests, till she lighted up and answered in her natural
manner. Then Violet ventured to ask if she was to thank her
for the delicious geranium and heliotrope she had found in her
room.
' Oh no 1 that is an attention of Harrison or Miss Piper, J
Buppose,*
170
HEAETSEASE ;
' Or 1 probably V suggested Artbur. ' How does tbat
go on
* Take care/ said Theodora, peeping out beyond the shadow
of his broad shoulder. * 'Tis under the strictest seal of confi¬
dence ; she asked my advice as soon as she had done it.'
' What! has she accepted him V said Violet. ' Has it come
to that V
' Ay j and now she wants to know whether people will think
it odd and improper. Let them think, I say.'
' A piece of luck for her,' said Arthur ; ' better marry a coal-
heaver than lead her present life.*
* Yes; and Harrison is an educated man though a coxcomb,
and knows she condescends.'
' But why are they waiting Y asked Violet.
'Because she dares not tell my aunt. She trembles and
consults, and walks behind my aunt's chair in the garden,
exchanging glances with Harrison over her head, while he
listens to discourses on things with hard names. The flutter
and mystery seem to be felicity, and, if they like it, 'tis their
own concern.'
' How I know why Miss Piper told me Miss Martindale was
so considerate,' said Violet.
What had become of the estrangement? Arthur had for¬
gotten it, Violet had been but half-conscious of it, even while
uniting them.; Theodora thought all was owing to his being at
home, and she knew not who had restored him.
Indeed, the jealous feeling was constantly excited, for Arthur's
devotion to his wife was greater than ever, in his delight at
being with her again, and his solicitude to the weakness which
Theodora could neither understand nor tolerate. She took all
unclassified ailments as fine lady nonsense ; and was angry with
Violet for being unable to teach at school, contemptuous if
Arthur observed on her looking pale, and irate if he made her
rest on the sofa.
John added to the jealousy. Little as Theodora apparently
regarded him, she could not bear to be set aside while Violet
held the place of the favourite sister, and while her father
openly spoke of the benefit he had derived from having that
young bright gentle creature so much with him.
The alteration was indeed beyond what could have been
hoped for. The first day, when his horse was led round with
the others, it was supposed to be by mistake, till he came down
with his whip in his hand; and not till they were past the
lodge did Theodora believe he was going to make one of the
riding party. Bhe had never seen him take part in their excur-
0B» THE BROTHER'S WIFE. 171
sions, or appear to consider himself as belonging to the younger
portion of the family, and when they feU in with any acquaint¬
ance Arthur was amused, and she was provoked, at the sur¬
prised congratulations on seeing Mr. Martindale with them.
liord Martindale was delighted to find him taking interest
in matters to which he had hitherto scarcely paid even languid
attention j and the offer to go to Barbuda was so suitable and
gratifying that it was eagerly discussed in many a consultation.
He liked to report progress to Violet, and as she sat in the
drawing-room, the two brothers coming to her with all their
concerns, Theodora could have pined and raged in the lonely
dignity of her citadel upstairs. She did not know the forbear¬
ance that was exercised towards her by one whom she had last
year taught what it was to find others better instructed than
herself in the family , councils.
Violet never obtruded on her, her intimacy with John's de¬
signs, thinking it almost unfair on his sister that any other
should be more in his confidence.
So, too, Violet would not spoil her pleasiure in her stolen
caresses of little Johnnie by seeming to be informed of them.
She was grateful for her love to him, and would, not thrust in
her imwelcome self. In public the boy was never seen and
rarely mentioned, and Theodora appeared to acquiesce in the
general indifference, but whenever she was secure of not being
detected, she lavished every endearment on him, rejoiced in the
belief that he knew and preferred her enough to offend his
doting mamma, had she known it; never guessing that Violet
sometimes delayed her visits to the nursery, in order not to in¬
terfere with her enjoyment of him.
Violet had not yet seen the Brandons, as they had been
making visits before returning home; but she had many ardent
letters from Emma, describing the progress of her acquaintance
with Miss Marstone, the lady who had so excited her imagi¬
nation, and to whom she had been introduced at a schpol
festival. She seemed to have realized all Emma's expectations,
and had now come home with her to make some stay at Hick-
worth. Violet was highly delighted when a few days after their
return, her friends were invited to dinner, on the same evening
that Mr. Eotheringham was expected. The afternoon of that
day was one of glowing August sunshine, almost too much for
Violet, who, after they had ridden some distance, was rather
frightened to hear Theodora propose to extend their ride by a
canter over the downs; but John relieved her by asking her to
return with him, as he wanted to be at home in time to receive
Mr. Eotheringham.
172
HEARTSEASE ;
Accordingly, they rode home quietly together, but about an
hour after, on coming upstairs, he was surprised to find Violet
in her evening dress, pacing the gallery with such a counte¬
nance that he exclaimed, ' I hope there is nothing amiss with
the boy.'
' Oh, nothing, thank you, he is quite well,' but her voice was
on the verge of tears. ' Is Mr. Fotheringham come?'
'Ho, I have given him up now, till the mail train; but it is
not very late; Arthur and Theodora can't be back till past
seven if they go to Whitford down,' said John, fancying she
was in alarm on their account.
' I do not suppose they can.*
'I am afraid we took you too far. Why are you not
resting ?'
' It is cooler here,' said Violet. ' It does me more good than
staying in my room.'
' Oh, you get the western sun there.*
'It comes in hot and dazzling all the afternoon till it is
baked through, and I can't find a cool comer. Even baby is
fretful in such a hot place, and I have sent him out into the
shade.'
' Is it always so?'
' O, no, only' on such days as this; and I should not care
about it to-day, but for one thing'—she hesitated, and lowered
her voice, partly piteous, partly ashamed. ' Don't you know,
since I have been so weak and stupid, how my face burns when
I am tired? and, of'all things, Arthur dislikes a flushed face.
There, now I have told you; but I could, not help it. It is
vain and foolish and absurd to care, almost wicked, and I have
told myself so fifty times; but I have got into a fret, and I
cannot leave off. I tried coming here to be cool, but I feel it
growing worse, and there's the dinner party, and Arthur will be
vexed'—and she was almost ciying. ' I am doing what I thought
I never would again, and about such nonsense.'
' Come in here,' said John, leading her into a pleasant apart¬
ment fitted up as a library, the fresh air coming through the
open window. ' I was wishing to show you my room.'
' How cool! Arthur told me it was the nicest room in the
house,' said Violet, her attention instantly diverted.
' Yes, am I not a luxurious man? There, try my great arm¬
chair. I am glad to have a visit from you. You must come
again.'
'Oh! thank you. What quantities of books! Ho wondei
every book one wants comes out of your room.'
' I shall leave you the use of theift.'
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. 173
Do you mean tliat I may take any of your books home
With mef
' It will be very good for them.'
' How delightful,* and she was up in a moment reading their
titles, but he made her return to the great chair.
* Hest now, there will be plenty of time, now you know your
way. You must make this your retreat from the sun. Ah, by
the bye, I have just Recollected that I brought something for
you from Madeira. I chose it because it reminded me of the
flowers you wore at the Whitford ball.*
It was a wreath of pink and white brier roses, in the feather
flowers of Madeira, and she was delighted, declaring Arthur
would think it beautiful, admiring every bud and leaf, and full
of radiant girlish smiles. It would exactly suit her dress,
Arthur's present, now worn for the first time.
' You are not going yet?'
' I thought I might be in your way.'
* Not at all; if I had anything to do, I would leave you to
the books; but I have several things to show you.'
'I was wishing to look at those drawings. Who is that
queen with the cross on her arm?'
*St. Helena; it is a copy from a fresco by one of the old
masters.'
' What a palm grave face! what strange stiff drawing!—and
yet it suits it: it is so solemn, with that matronly dignity.
That other, too—those apostles, with theu? bowed heads and
clasped hands, how reverent they look!'
* They are from Cimabue,' said John: ' are they not majesti-.
cally humble in adoration?'
Between these two hung that awful dark engraving from
Albert Durer.
* These have been my companions,' said John.
* Through all the long months that you have been shut up
liere?'
* My happiest times.'
' 'Ah! that does, indeed, make me ashamed of my discontent
and ingratitude,' sighed Violet.
'Nay,* said John, 'a little fit of fatigue deserves no such
harsh names.'
' When it is my besetting sin—all here speaks of patience and
unrcpining.'
'No, no,' said John—'if you cannot sit still; I have sat still
too much. We have both a great deal to learn.'
As he spoke he unlocked a desk, took out a miniatur<^
looked at it earnestly, and then in silence put it into her hand.
174
HEABTSEASE ;
Slie was disappointed; steknew slie was not to expect beauty;
but she had figured to herself a saintly, spiritual, pale counte¬
nance, and she saw that of a round-faced, rosy-cheeked, light-
haired girl, looking only as if she was sitting for her picture.
. After much doubt what to say, she ventured only, ' I suppose
this was done a long time ago?'
' When she was quite a girl. Mrs. Percival gave it to me?
it was taken for her long before. I used not to like it.'
' I did not think she would have had so much colour.'
' It was a thorough English face: she did not lose those rosy
cheeks till want of air faded them. Then I should hardly have
known her; but the countenance had become so much more—
calm it had always been, reminding me of the description of
Jeanie Deans' countenance—I cannot tell you what it was then!
I see a little dawning of that serenity on the mouth, even as it
is here; but I wish anything could give you an idea of that look!'
* Thank you for showing it to me,' said Yiolet, earnestly.
After studying it a little while, he restored it to its place.
He then took out a small box, and, after a moment's hesitation,
put into Violet's hands a pink coral cross, shaped by the
animals themselves, and fastened by a ring to a slender gold
chain.
* The cross!' said Violet, holding it reverently: 'it is very
kind of you to let me see it.'
' Would you like to keep it, Violet?'
' Oh!' she exclaimed, and stopped short, with tearful eyes.
'You know she wished some one to have it who would find
comfort in it, as she did.'
' No one will prize it more; but can you bear to part with it?'
' If you will take it, as her gift.'
' But just now, when I have been so naughty—so unlike her I'
'More like her than ever, in struggling with besetting
failings; you are learning to see in little trials the daily cross;
and if you go on, the serenity which was a gift in her v^l be a
grace in you.'
They were interrupted: Brown, with beaming face, announced
' Mr. Eotheringham;' and there stood a gentleman, strong and
broad-shouldered, his face burnt to a deep red, his dark brown
hair faded at the tips to a light rusty hue, and his irregular
features, wide, smiling mouth, and merry blue eyes, bright with
good humour.
'Ha, Percy! here you are!' cried John, springing towards
him with joyful alacrity, and giving a hand that was eagerly
seized.
'Well, John, how are you?' exclaimed a hearty voice.
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
175
' Arthur's "wife ;* and this unceremonious introduction caused
her to be favoured "with a warm shake of the hand; but, much
discomfited at being in their way, she hastily gathered up her
treasures, and glided away as John was saying, ' I had almost
given you up.'
'I walked round by Fowler's lodge, to bestow my little
Athenian owl. I brought it all the way in my pocket, or on
my hand, and I put him in Tom Fowler's charge while I am
here. I could not think what fashionable young lady you had
here. How has that turned out?'
'Excellently!' said John, warmly.
' She is a beauty!' said Fercival.
'She can't help that, poor thing,' said John: 'she is an
admirable creature; indeed, she sometimes reminds me of your
sister.' Then, as Percy looked at him, as if to be certain he
was in his senses, ' I don't expect others to see it; it is only
one expression.'
' How are you? You look in better case.'
'I am wonderfully well, thank you. Has your romance
come to a satisfactory denouement V
' The happy pair were at Malta when I started.'
'And where have you been?'
' Ohl in all manner of queer places. I have been talking
Latin "with the folks in Dacia. Droll state of things there; one
could fancy it Britain, or Gaul half settled by the Teutons, with
the Boman sticking about them. But that's too much to tell;
I have heard nothing from home this age. How is Theodora?
I am afraid she has outgro"wn her antics.'
' She is not too much like other people.'
' Are you all at home, and in statu quo V
' Yes, except that my aunt is more aged and feeble.'
' And Master Arthur has set up for a domestic character. It
must be after a fashion of his o"wn.'
'Bather so,' said John, smiling; 'but it has done him a
great deal of good. He has more heart in 1dm than you and I
used to think; and home is drawing it out, and making a man
of him in spite of himself.*
' How came she to marry him •?*
' Because she knew no better, poor thing; her family promoted
it, and took advantage of her innocence.'
' Is she a sensible woman?'
* Why, poor child, she has plenty of sense, but it is not doing
her justice to call her a woman. She is too fine a creature to
come early to her full growth—she is a woman in judgment
and a child in spirits.*
176 ' HEAETSEASE ;
0
/
* So, Arthur has the best of the bargain.'
' He does not half understand her; but they are very much
attached, and some day she will feel her influence and use it.'
'Form herself first, and then him. I hope Mark Gardner
will keep out of the way during the process.*
* He is safe in Paris.'
' And how have you been spending the summer 1'
'I have been at Ventnor, getting through the Crusaders^ and
keeping house with Violet and her child, who both wanted sea
air.'
' What's her name % *
' Violet.'
' Well, that beats all! Violet! Why, Vi'let was what they
called the old black cart-horse ! I hope the child is Cowslip or
Daisy !'
* Ho, he is John, my godson.*
' Johnl You might as well be called Man I It is no name
at all. That Arthur should have gone and married a wife
called Violet!!'
Meanwhile Violet was wondering'over the honour she had
received, caressing the gift, and thinking of the hopes that had
faded over it till patience had done her perfect work. She did
not remember her other present till she heard sounds betokening
the return of the riders. She placed it on her head, and
behold! the cheeks had no more than their own roseate tinting,
and she was beginning to hope Arthur would be pleased, when
she became aware of certain dark eyes and a handsome face set
in jet black hair, presenting itself over her shoulder in the long
glass!
' You little piece of vanity! studying yourself in the glass, so
that you never heard me come in? Well, you have done it to
some purpose. Where did you get that thing?'
* John brought it from Madeira.'
' I did not think he had so much taste. Where have you
bottled it up all this time?'
* He forgot it till there was an opportunity for wearing it.
Is it not pretty? And this is your silk, do you see?'
* Very pretty, that's the rale thing. I am glad to find you
in good trim. I was afraid Theodora had taken you too far,
and the heat would knock you up, and the boy would roar till
you were all manner of colours.'
* I was hot and tired, but J ohn invited me into his nice cool
room, and only think! he showed me Helen's picture.'
* lie has one, has he? She was nothing to look at\ just like
Percy—you know he is come?'
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
17?
'Yes, he camq while I was in John's room. He is not at all
like what I expected.'
* Ho, ladies always expect a man to look like a hero or a bri¬
gand. She had just that round face, till the last when I saw
her in London, and then she looked a dozen years older than
John—enough to scare one.'
' See what he gave me.'
' Ha! was that hers ? I remember, it was that my aunt
kicked up such a dust about. So he has given you that.'
' Helen said she should like some one to have it who would
find as much comfort in it as she did.'
' Comfort! What comfort do you want %'
Only when I am foolish.'
' I should think so; and pray what is to be the comfort of a
bit of coral like that V
'Hot the coral, but the thoughts, dear Arthur,' said Violet,
colouring, and restoring the cross to its place within her dress.
'Weill you and John understand your own fancies, but I am
glad you can enter into them with him, poor fellow i It cheers
him up to have some one to mope with.'
CHAPTER, IX
P. Henry.—But do you use me thus, Ned; must I marry your sister?
Poim.—May the wench have no worse fortune, but I never said so.
K. Henry IV.
ARTHUII met the new-comer, exclaiming, ' Ha! Fothering-
ham, you have not brought me the amber mouth-piece I
desired John to tell you of.'
' Not I. I don't bring Turk's fashions into Christian countries.
You ought to learn better manners now you are head of a
family.*
Theodora entered, holding her head somewhat high; but
there was a decided heightening of the glow on her cheek as
Mr. Fotheringham shook hands with her. Lord Martindale
gave him an affectionate welcome, and Lady Martindale, though
frigid at first, grew interested as she asked about his journey.
The arriving guests met him with exclamations of gladness,
as if he was an honour to the neighbourhood; and John had
seldom looked more cheerful and more gratified than in watching
his reception.
At l6ngth came the names for which Violet was watching;
find the presence of Lady Elizabeth gave her a sense of motherly
178
HEAETSEASE;
protection, as she was greeted with as much warmth as was
possible for shy people in the midst of a large party. Emma
eagerly presented her two Mends to each other, and certainly
they were a great contrast. Miss Marstone was sallow, with
thin sharply-cut features, her eyes peered out from spectacles,
her hair was disposed in the plainest manner, as well as her
dress, which was anything but suited to a large dinner party.
Violet's first impulse was to be afraid of her, but to admire
Emma for being attracted by worth through so much formidable
singularity.
' And the dear little godson is grown to be a fine fellow,*
began Emma.
*lTot exactly that,' said Violet, 'but he is much improved,
and so bright and clever.'
' You will let us see him after dinner!'
' I have been looking forward to it very much, but he will be
asleep, and you wont see his pretty ways and his earnest dark
eyes.'
' I long to see the sweet child,' said Miss Marstone. ' I dote
on such darlings. I always see so much in their countenances.
There is the germ of so much to be drawn out hereafter in
those deep looks of thought.'
' My baby often looks very intent.'
' Intent on thoughts beyond our power to trace!' said Miss
Marstone.
' Ah! I have often thought that we cannot fathom what may
be passing in a baby's mind,' said Emma.
' With its fixed eyes unravelling its whole future destiny!'
said Miss Marstone.
' Poor little creature!' murmured Violet.
'I am convinced that the whole course of life takes its
colouring from some circumstance at the time unmarked.*
' It would frighten me to think so,' said Violet.
' For instance, I am convinced that a peculiar bias was given
to my own disposition in consequence of not being understood
by the nurse and aunt who petted my brother, while they
neglected me. Perhaps I was not a prepossessing child, but I
had deeper qualities which might have been drawn out, though,
on the whole, I do not regret what threw me early on my own
resources. It has made me what I am.'
Violet was rather surprised, but took it for granted that this
was something admirable.
'Your dear little boy, no doubt, occupies much of your
attention. Training and instruction are so important/
' He is not five months old,' said Violet.
OE, THE BEOTHER'S WIFE. ^ 179
'You cannot begin too early to lead forward Ms mind. Well
chosen engravings, properly selected toys,'the habit of at once
obeying, the choice of nursery songs, all are of much importance
in forming these dear little lambs to the stem discipline of life.'
' You must have had a great deal to do with little children,*
said Violet, impressed.
'Why, not much personally; but I believe Emma has sent
you my little allegory of TKq Folded LcmhSf where you will
find my theories illustrated.*
' Yes, Emma gave it to me—^it is very pretty,* said Violet,
looking down. ' I am too stupid to understand it all, and I
have been hoping for Emma to explain it to me.*
^ Many people find it obscure, but I shall be delighted to
assist you. I am sure you will find some of the ideas useful to
you. What were your difficulties?'
It made Violet so very shy to be spoken to by an authoress
in public about her own books, that she was confused out of all
remembrance of the whole story of the ' Folded Lambs,* and
could only feel thankful that the announcement of dinner came
to rescue her from her difficulties. She was not to escape
authors; for Mr. Fotheringham took her in to dinner. Lady
Martindale assigned Miss Brandon to John; but Arthur, with
a droll look, stepped between and made prize of her, leaving
John to Miss Marstone.
Violet trusted she was not likely to be examined in the
Track of the Crusaders, of which, however, she comprehended
far more than of the Folded Lamhs. Presently her neighbour
turned to her, asking abruptly,' Who is that next to Theodora!*
' Mr. Wingfield, the clergyman here.*
' I know. Is he attentive to the parish?*
' O yes, very much so.*
' Does Theodora take to parish work?'
' Indeed she does.*.
' What, thoroughly?*
' She goes to school twice a week, besides Sundays, and has
the farm children to teach every morning.*
' That's right.*
' And she is so kind to the children at the Lodge.*
'Let me see, they were afraid,the boy was deaf and dumb.'
' Yes, he is, poor little fellow, and Theodora teaches hiTn most
successfully.*
'Well done! I knew the good would work out. How tall
she is! and she looks as full of spirit as ever. She has had a
season in London, I suppose !*
Yes, she went out a great deal this spring.*
N 2
180
HEARTSEASE;
' And it has not spoilt her?*
'O no!* cried "Violet, warmly, feeling as if .she had known
him all her life, ' she is more eager than ever in her parish
work. She spares no trouble. She got up at four one inoming
to sit with old Betty Blain, that her daughter might get a little
rest.'
* That head and brow are a fine study. She has grown up
more striking than even I thought she would. Curious to see
the difference between natural pride and assumed,' and he
glanced from Theodora to her mother. ' How well Lady Mar-
tindale preserves! She always looks exactly the same. Who
is that chatterieg in John's ear?'
' Miss Marstone, a friend of Miss Brandon's 1'
' What makes her go about such a figure?'
' She is very good.'
'I trust, by your own practice, that is not your test of
goodness?'
* I should not think it was,' said Violet, blushing and hesi¬
tating.
' What crypt did they dig her out of? Is she one of the
Marstones of Gothlands?'
' I believe she is. She has two sisters, gay people, whose
home is with an uncle. She lives with a lawyer brother.'
'Sam Marstone! I know him! I pity him. So Emma
Brandon is come out? Which is she?'
' She is next to Arthur, on this side the table where you
cannot see her.'
'What sort of girl is she?'
' Oh!' said Violet, and paused, ' she is the greatest friend I
have in the world!'
He looked surprised, laughed, and said, ' So I must ask no
more questions.'
Violet felt as if she had spoken presumptuously, and said,
' Lady Elizabeth has been so very kisd to me. Emma is my
baby's godmother.'
' And John its godfather.'
'Yes. Did he tell you so?'
' Ay! he spoke as if it was very near his heart.*
'He has been—O, so very—I believe he is very fond of
baby,' hastily concluded Violet, as her first sentence stuck in
her throat.
' I am heartily glad he has something to take interest in. He
looks better and less frail. Is he so, do you think ?'
' O yes, much better. He hardly ever coughs—^
'Does he get those bad fits of cough and breathlessneas ?'
Oil, the brother's wife,
181
'Very seldom j he has not had one since the day we heard
you were coming home, and that, Brown thought, was from the
excitement.'
' Ay! ay ! he seems stronger every way.'
' Yes, he can bear much more exertion.'
' Then I hope he will be stirred up to do something. That's
what he wants.'
' I am sure he is always very busy,' said Violet, displeased.
'Ay? Gutting open a book was rather arduous. If he was
not at his best he left it to Brown.'
' IlTo ! no! I meant going over parchments; writing for Lord
Martindale j' she did not know if she might mention the West
Indian scheme.
'Ho! there's something in that. Well, if he comes to life
after all, there's no one so capable. Hot that I am blaming
him. Illness and disappointment broke him down, and—such
a fellow seldom breathed. If I had not had him at Cambridge
it might have been a different story with me. So you need not
look like his indignant champion.'
' I don't knoAv what Arthur and I should have done without
him,' said Violet.
' Where's the aunt? I don't see her.'
' She never comes down to dinner, she is only seen in the
evening.'
There was a sound in reply so expressive of relief that Violet
caught herself nearly laughing, but he said, gravely, 'Poor
wonjan, then she is growing aged.'
'We thought her much altered this year.'
'Weill' and there was a whole sentence of pardon conveyed
in the word. Then, after an interval, 'Look at John and his "
neighbour.'
' I have been trying to catch what they are saying.'
' They ! It is all on one side.'
' Perhaps,' said Violet, smiling, ' it was something about
chants.'
'Yes. Is it not rare to see his polite face while she bores
him with that kind of cant which is the most intolerable of all,
and he quietly turning it aside?'
' Is it cant when people are in earnest? asked Violet,
'Women always think they are.*
'How are they to know?'
'If they hold their tongues'—a silence—' WelJT
' Well,' said Violet.
'Where's the outcry?'
'Pid you mean me to make one?'
182
HEARTSEASE;
* What could you do but vindicate your sexl'
* Then you would not have thought me in earnest.' He made
a funny pleased face and a little bow.
'The truth was,' said Yiolet, 'I was thinhing whether I
understood you.'
' May I ask your conclusion?'
' I don't exactly know. I don't think you meant we should
never talk of what interests us.'
' When they know when to hold their tongues, perhaps I
should have said.'
' O, yes, that I quite think.*
Another silence, while Violet pondered, and her neighbour
continued his malicious listening to Miss Marstone, who spoke
in a key too audible for such a party. Presently, ' He has got
her to the Royal Academy. She has gone forthwith to the
Prse-Raffaelites. Oh! she is walking Prie-Raffaelitism herself.
Symbols and emblems! Unfortunate John! Symbolic sug¬
gestive teaching, speaking to the eye ! She is at it ding dong!
Oh ! he has begun on the old monk we found refreshing the
pictures at Mount Athos ! Ay, talk yourself, 'tis the only way
to stop her mouth ; only mind what you say, she will bestow it
freshly hashed up on the next victim on the authority of Mr.
Martindale.'
Violet was excessively entertained; and, when she raised
her eyes, after conquering the laugh, was amazed to find how
far advanced was the state dinner, usually so interminable.
Her inquiries after the Athenian owl led to a diverting history
of its capture at the Parthenon, and the adventures in bringing
it home. She was sorry when she found Lady Martindale
rising, while Mr. Fotheringham, as he drew back his chair, said,
' How shall you get on with Prse-Rafiaelitism % I should like
to set her and Aunt Hesbit together by the ears I'
Certainly it was not convenient to be asked by Emma what
made her look so much amused.
She felt as if it would be much pleasanter to show off her
babe without the stranger, and was glad to find that Miss Mar-
stone had fallen into a discussion with Theodora, and both
looked much too eager to be interrupted.
So Violet fairly skipped upstairs before her friends, turning
round to speak to them with such smiling glee, that Lady
Elizabeth dismissed all fears of her present well doing. Emma
fell into raptures over her godson's little cot, and quoted the
Folded Lamhsy and Pearls of the Deepy another as yet unpub¬
lished tale of her friend's, to teach his mother how to educate
him, and stood by impatiently contemning the nursery hints
OB, THE brother'S WIFE.
183
wMch Violet was only too anxious to gather up from Lady
Elizabeth.
'And are you not charmed with herf said Emma, as they
went down stairs.
'I have seen so little of her,* replied Violet, embarrassed.
' Why does she dress in that way V
' That is just what I say,' observed Lady Elizabeth. ' I was
sorry to see her in that dress this evening.*
' Mamma does not like it,* said Emma; ' but Theresa feels it
such a privilege not to be forced to conform to the trammels of
fashions and nonsense.*
' She does everything on high principle,* said Lady Elizabeth,
as if she was trying to bring her mind as usual into unison with
her daughter's. ' She is a very superior person, and one does
not like to find fault with what is done on right motives; but
I should be sorry to see Emma follow the same line. I have
always been taught that women should avoid being conspicuous.'
' That I could never bear to be, mamma,* said Emma ; ' but
Theresa is of a firmer, less shrinking mould.'
Lady Elizabeth repeated that she was a very superior person,
but was evidently not happy in her guest.
Miss Marstone was holding earnest tete-h-tUes all the evening,
but Violet having sheltered herself under Lady Elizabeth's
wing, escaped the expected lecture on the allegories.
When the Bickworth party had taken leave, Mr. Wingfield,
the last guest, was heard to observe that Miss Marstone was an
admirable person, a treasure to any parish.
' Do you wish for such a treasure in your own V said Mr.
Fotheringham, bluntly.
The curate shook his head, and murmuring something about
Brogden being already as fortunate as possible, departed in his
turn ; while Arthur ejaculated, ' There's a step, Wingfield.
Why, Theodora, he was setting up a rival.'
' Who is she ?' said Theodora. ' Where did Emma pick her up V
' Emma was struck with her appearance—
The gentlemen all exclaimed so vehemently, that Violet
had to repeat it again, whereupon Mr. Fotheringham muttered,
' Every one to his taste ;* and Arthur said there ought to be a
law against women making themselves greater frights than
nature designed.
' So, it is a fit of blind enthusiasm,* said John.
' Pray do you partake it V asked Percy. ' How do you feel
after it V
' Why, certainly, I never met with a person of more conver¬
sation/ said John.
184
HEARTSEASE;
' Delicately put T said Arthur, laughing heartily. ' Why,
she had even begun lecturing my father on the niggers !*
' I would not be Lady Elizabeth!' said Mr. Fotheringham.
'Those romantic exaggerations of friendship are not satis¬
factory,' said John. 'Emma is too timid to be eccentric herself
at present; but a governing spirit might soon lead her on.'
' That it might,' said Theodora, ' as easily as I used to drag
her, in spite of her terrors, through all the cows in the park.
I could be worse to her than any cow; and this Ursula—or
what is her outlandish name, Violet V
' Theresa; Sarah Theresa.'
' Well, really,' said John, 'it is not for the present company
to criticize outlandish names.'
' No,' said Arthur, ' it was a happy instinct that made us
give my boy a good rational working-day name, fit to go to
school in, and no choice either to give him the opportunity of
gainsaying it, like Emma's friend, and some others—Sir Per-
cival that is to be ! A hero of the Minerva press 1'
' No, indeed—^if I was to be Sir Anything, which probably
I never shall be, I would hold, like my forefathers, to my good
old Antony, which it was not my doing to disregard.'
' Which earned him the title of Lumpkin, by which only he
was known to his schoolfellow!' said Arthur. 'If you ask
after Fotheringham, they invariably say, ' Oh, you mean old
Lumpkin 1' So much for romantic names !'
' Or imperial ones,' said Percy. ' Did not you tell me
Theodora came straight from the Palseologos who died in the
West Indies'? I always considered that to account for certain
idiosyncrasies.*
Theodora was called away to assist Mrs. Nesbit up-stairs;
and as Violet followed, she heard the aunt observing that
Percival Fotheringham was more bearish than ever * and that
it was intolerable to see him encouraged in his free and easy
manner when he had thrown away all his prospects.
'For poor John's sake,' began Lady Martindale.
' For his own,' interrupted Theodora. ' He has every right
to be at home here, and it is an honour to the place that he
should be so.'
' Oh, yes, T know; and he will be expecting your father to
exert himself again in his behalf.'
' No, he will be beholden to no one,* said Theodora.
' I do wish his manners were less rough and eccentric,* said
Lady Martindale.
'Presuming,* said Mrs. Nesbit; 'in extremely bad taste. 1
never was more sensible of our good fortune in having missed
OE, THE BROTHEIIS XTLFE.
185
that connexion. There was nothing but their being of a good
old family that made it by any means endurable.*
At this hit at her brother's wife, Theodora was going to
speak, but she forbore, and only wished her aunt good night.
It would not be repressed, however; she stood in the gallery,
after parting with the elder ladies, and said, loud enough for
them to hear,
' I hate good old family, and all such humbug! She was a
noble, self-devoted creature; as much above the comprehension
of the rest of the world as her brother i'
' Did you know her well V said Violet.
Theodora's tone instantly changed. She was not going to
gratify childish curiosity. * I never had the opportunity,* she
said, coldly. ' Good night.*
Violet was disappointed; for the tone of enthusiasm had
given her a moment's hope that they had at last found a
subject on which they could grow warm together, but it was
evident that Theodora would never so have spoken had she
been conscious of her presence.
The next morning as Arthur and his wife were going down
to breakfast, he said, * We shall see some rare fun now Theodora
and Fotheringham have got together.*
Theodora, with her bonnet on, was, according to her usual
Sunday fashion, breakfasting before the rest of the party, so as
to be in time for school. John and his friend made their
appearance together; and the greetings had scarcely passed,
before John, looking out of window, exclaimed, * Ah! there's
the boy! Pray come and see my godson. Come, Violet, we
want you to exhibit him.*
Arthur looked up with a smile intended to be disdainful,
but which was gratified, and moved across, with the newspaper
in his hand, to lean against the window-shutter.
* There's J ohn without his hat—^he is growing quite adven¬
turous. Very pretty Violet always is with the boy in her
arms—she is the show one of the two. Hollo, if Percy has
not taken the monkey himself; that's a pass beyond me.
How she colours and smiles—just look, Theodora, is it not a
picture V
If he had called her to look at Johnnie, she must have
come; but she was annoyed at his perpetual admiration, and
would not abet his making himself ridiculous.
.' I must not wait,* she said; * I am late.*
Arthur shrugged his shoulders, and turned to his paper.
She put on her gloves, and took up her books; Percy meet¬
ing her, as she came down the steps, said,
186
HEARTSEASE;
' I have been introduced to your nephew.'
' I hope you are gratified.'
' He has almost too much countenance,* said Percy, * There
is something melancholy in such wistful looks from a creature
that cannot speak, just as one feels with a dog.'
' I am afraid he is very weakly,' said Theodora.
'I am sorry to hear it; it seems like a new life to John;
and that pretty young mother looks so anxious. Do you see
much of her V
' Not much; I have not time to join in the general Violet
worship.'
* They are not spoiling her, I hope. It does one good to see
such a choice specimen of womankind/
* There, don't come any further; I must make haste.'
' Like all the rest,' she thought; ' not a man but is more
attracted by femmine airs and graces than by sterling
qualities.'
On coming out of church, in the afternoon, John, looking at
the beautiful green shady bank of the river, proposed a walk
along it; all the party gladly acceded, except Tjieodora, who,
not without a certain pleasure in separating herself from them,
declared that there was a child, who must be made to say her
hymn, before going home.
' Can't you excuse her for once?' said Lord Martindale.
' No, papa.*
' Not if I beg her off publicly ?'
. 'No, thank you. There is a temper that must be overcome.*
' Then flog her well, and have done with it,' said Arthur.
Deigning no reply, she pounced upon her victim as the pro¬
cession of scholars came out of church, ' Come, I am waiting to
hear you say it. ' How doth the little—*'
The child stood like a post.
' That is a Benson, I am sure,' said Mr. Fotheringham.
Theodora told him he was right, and went on exhorting the
child; ' Come, I know you can say it. Try to be good.'
'' How doth—'
'You know I always keep my word, and I have said I will
hear you before either of us goes home.*
'' How doth—' *
' If you please, papa, would you go on ? I shall never make
her do it with you all looking on.'
She sat down on a tombstone, and placed the child before
her. After an hour's walk, there was a general exclamation of
amusement and compassion, on seeing Theodora and the child
still in the same positions.
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
187
' She will never say'it at all now, poor child,' said Violet;
she can't—she must be stupified.'
' Then we had better send down the tent to cover Theodora
for the night,' said Arthur.
'As if Theodora looking at her in that manner was not
enough to drive off all recollection!' said John.
' It is too much!' said Lord Martindale. ' Arthur, go, and
tell her it is high time to go home, and she must let the poor
child off.'
Arthur shrugged his shoulders, saying, ' You go, John.'
' Don't you think it might do harm to interfere 1' said J ohn
to his father.
' Interfere by no means,' said Arthur. ' It is capital sport.
Theodora against dirty child! Which will you back, Percy 1
Hollo! where is he ? He is in the thick of it. Come on,
Violet, let us be in for the fun.'
' Patience in seven flounces on a monument!' observed Mr.
Potheringham, in an undertone to Theodora, who started, and
would have been angry, but for his merry smile. He then
turned to the child, whose face was indeed stupified with
suUenness, as if in the resistance she had forgotten the original
cause. ' What! you have not said it all this time ? What's
your name ? I know you are a Benson, but how do they call
you?' said he, speaking with a touch of the dialect of the
village, just enough to show h*e was a native.
' Ellen,' said the girl.
' Ellen ! that was your aunt's name. You are so like her.
I don't think you can be such a very stupid child, after all.
Are you? Suppose you try again. What is it Miss Martindale
wants you to say?'
The child made no answer, and Theodora said, ' The Little
Busy Bee.'
' Oh! that's it. Hot able to say the Busy Bee ? That's a
sad story. D'ye think now I could say it, Ellen ?'
' No !' with an astonished look, and a stolid countrified tone.
*So you don't think I'm clever enough! Well, suppose I
try, and you set me right if I make mistakes.'
' How doth the great idle wasp.*
' Busy bee 1' cried the child, scandalized.
By wonderful blunders, and ingenious halts, he drew her into
prompting him throughout, then exclaimed, 'There! you
know it much better. I thought you were a clever little girl!
Come, wont you say it once, and let me hear how well it
sounds ?'
(88
HEARTSEASE;
Slie was actually flattered into repeating it perfectly
' Very well. That's right. Now, don't you think you had
better tell IMiss Martindale you are sorry to have kept her all
this time.*
She hung her head, and Theodora tried to give him a hint
that the apology was by no means desired; but without regard-
• ing this, he continued, ' Do you know I am come from Turkey,
and there are plenty of ladies there, who go out to walk with a
sack over their heads, but I never saw one of them sit on a
tombstone to hear a little girl say the Busy Bee. Should you
like to live there V
'No.*
'Do you suppose Miss Martindale liked to sit among the
nettles on old Farmer Middleton's tombstone V
'No.*
' Why did she do it then % Was it to plague you ]*
' 'Cause I wouldn't say my hymn.'
' I wonder if it is not you that have been plaguing Miss
Martindale all the time. Eh? Come, aren't you sorry you
kept her sitting all this time among the nettles when she might
have been walking to Colman's Weir, and gathering such fine
codlings and cream as Mrs. Martindale has there, and all because
you would not say a hymn that you knew quite well ? Wasn't
that a pity ?'
' Yes,' and the eyes looked up ingenuously.
'Come and tell her you are sorry. Wont you? There,
that's right,* and he dictated as she repeated after him, as if
under a spell. ' I'm sorry, ma'am, that I was sulky and naughty;
I'll say it next Sunday, and make no fuss.*
'There, that will do. I knew you would be good at last,*
said Percy, patting her shoulder, while Theodora signified her
pardon, and they turned homewards, but had made only a few
steps before the gallop of clumsy shoes followed, and there stood
Ellen, awkwardly presenting a bunch of the willow herb.
Theodora gave well-pleased thanks, and told her she should take
them as a sign she was really sorry and meant to do better.
' And as a trophy of the force of Percy's pathetic picture of
Miss Martindale's seven flounces among the nettles on Parmer
Middleton's tombstone,* said Arthur.
'You certainly are very much obliged to him,* said her
father.
' And most ungratefully she wont confess it,* said Arthur.
' I despise coaxing,* said Theodora.
' The question is, what you would have done without it?' said
Jobu.
or, thR brother's wife.
•As if I could not subdue a little sprite like that !*
'You certainly migbt if it was a question of physical force,*
said Percy, as he seemed to be measuring with his eye the
strength of Theodora's tall vigorous person.
' I spoke of moral force.*
' There the sprite had decidedly the advantage. You could
• gar her greet,' but you could not ' gar her know.* She had
only to hold out; and when Miss Martindale found it time to
go home to dinner, and began to grow ashamed of her position,
the victory was hers.*
• He has you there, Theodora,* said Arthur.
' I don't knoAV what he is driving at,' said Theodora.
'I am trying to find out whether Miss Martindale has the
power of confessing that she was in a scrape.'
* That you may triumph,' said Theodora.
'Ho, not for the sake of triumph, but of old times,' he
answered, in a lower, more serious tone.
Theodora's face softened, and drawing nearer, she asked, ' How
are old times to be satisfied by such an admission V
' Because then candour used to boast of conquering pride,*
said Percy, now speaking so as to be heard by her alone.
'Well. It was becoming a predicament, and you rescued
me very ingeniously. There, will that content you?' said
Theodora, with one of the smiles the more winning because so
rare. • ' I am perfectly ready to own myself in the wrong when
I see it.*
' When you see it,* said Percy, drily.
• ' I was wrong just now not to confess my obligation, because
Arthur teased and triumphed; but I don't see why you all treat
me as if I was wrong to set myself to subdue the child's obsti¬
nacy.*
' Hot wrong, but mistaken,* said Percy. ' You forgot your
want of power to enforce obedience. You wanted victory, and
treated her with the same determination she was treating you.
with. It was a battle which had the hardest will and could liold
out longest.'
' And if I had conquered she would have gone away angry
with me, only having yielded because she could not help it.
You softened her and made her sorry. I see. She really is a
good child on the whole, and I dare say I shall do something
with her now.*
' Is old Benson alive V
And a long conversation on village matters ensued.
Theodora was happier that evening than she had been for
more than a year, That home thrust at her pride, astonishing
190
HEAETSEASE;
as it was that any one should venture it, and the submission
that followed, had been a positive relief She thought the
pleasure was owing to the appeal to old times, recalling happy
days of wild frolics, sometimes shared, sometimes censured by
her grown-up playfellow; the few hours with his sister that
had influenced her whole life; and the lectures, earnest, though
apparently sportive, by which he had strengthened and carried
on the impression; that brief time, also, of their last spending
together, when his sorrow for his sister was fresh, and when
John was almost in a hopeless state, and when she had been the
one of the family to whom he came to pour out his grie^ and
talk over what lus sister had been.
It was a renewal of happiness to her heart, wearied with
jealousy, to find one to whom old times were precious, and who
took her up where he had last seen her. His blunt ways, and
downright attacks, were a refreshment to a spirit, chafing against
the external smoothness and refinement of her way of life, and
the pleasure of yielding to his arguments was something new
and unexampled. She liked to gain the bright approving look,
and with her universal craving for attention, she could not bear
not to be engrossing him, whether for blame or praise, it did
not matter; but she had the same wish for his notice that she
had for Arthur's.
ISTot that she by any means always obtained it. He was in
request with every one except Mrs. Hesbit. Even Lady Mar-
tindale took interest in his conversation, and liked to refer
questions about prints and antiques to his decision; and calls
on his time and attention were made from every quarter. Be¬
sides, he had his own manuscript to revise, and what most
mortified Theodora was to hear Violet's assistance eagerly
claimed, as she knew her way better than John did through
the sheets, and could point to the doubtful passages. Never
was work more amusing than this, interspersed with debates
between the two friends, with their droll counter versions of
each other's anecdotes, and Mr. Eotheringham's quizzings of
John, at whom he laughed continually, though all the time it
was plain that there was no one in the world whom he so much
reverenced.
The solitary possession of her own momings'was now no boon
to Theodora. She was necessary to no one, and all her oc¬
cupations could not drive away the ever-gnawing thought that
Violet attracted all the regard and attention that belonged^ to
her. If the sensation went away when ahe was downstairs,
where Percy's presence obliged her to be amiable against her
will, it came back with double force in her lonely moments.
OR, THR BROTHER'S WIFE.
191
One day, when they had dispersed after luncheon, her father
came in, inquiring for Yiolet. He was going' to Rickworth,
and thought she would like to go with him. He wished to
know, as otherwise he should ride instead of driving; and, as
she was upstairs, desired Theodora to go and find out what
would suit her.
' Papa, too r thought Theodora, as with some reluctance, she
for the first time knocked at her sister's door, and found her
with the baby.
' How very kind !* said she. * I should be delighted, but I
don't know whether Arthur does not want me. Is he there?
* I think he is in the library.'
' If I could but go down! But I must not take baby, and
Sarah is at dinner. Should you mind holding him for one
minute ?
Theodora held out her arms, but Johnnie, though usually
delighted to come to her from Sarah, turned his head away,
unwilling to leave his mother. He did not quite cry, but was
BO near it that she had to do her utmost to amuse him. She
caught up something bright to hold before him, and was sur¬
prised to see it was a coral cross, which Violet, in changing her
dress, had laid for a moment on the dressing-table. The coinci¬
dence was strange, thought Theodora.
Violet was coming back, and she would have laid it down,
but Johnnie had grasped it in his little fingers. As his mother
appeared, his merriest smile shone out, and his whole little
person was one spring of eagerness to return to her.
* Little man! Is he glad to come back to his mamma?
. Violet could not help saying, as he nestled joyously on her
neck; but the cold face of Theodora made her sorry that the
words had escaped her, and she began to express her thanks.
Theodora was stooping to pick up the cross, and a concerned
exclamation passed Violet's lips on observing its fall.
' It is safe,' said Theodora. * I beg your pardon, I took it up
to amuse him.*
* Thank you,* said Violet. 'I am sorry I seemed vexed.
There's no harm done; but I was frightened, because it was
Helen's.*
* Helen's!* exclaimed Theodora, extremely amazed, 'Did
John give it to you?
' Yes, a little while ago,* said Violet, colouring. ' He———*
But Theodora was gone, with bitterer feelings than ever.
This girl was absorbing every one's love ! John had never
given her anything that had belonged to Helen; he had never
«ven adverted to his engagement, when she almost adored her
19-2
HEAETSEASEj
memory! She had never supposed him oapable of speaking of
his loss; and perhaps it was the hardest blow of all to find
Violet, whose inquiries she had treated as mere curiosity, pre¬
ferred to such confidence as this. She did not remember how
she had once rejected his sympathy. She forgot whose fault
it was that she had not been in the Isle of Wight; she laid it
all on the proneness of men to be interested by sweetness of
manner, and thought of herself as a strong-minded superior
woman, who could never be loved, and who could only suffer
through her woman's heart.
Yet she could not entirely harden herself as she intended,
while combats with Percy cast brightening gleams across her
existence. She thought she should again settle into the winter's
life of hard work and indifference, which was on the whole
most comfortable to her.
When the party should be broken up, Percy was to be the
first to depart; he was going to publish YAe Crusaders, take a
lodging in London, and there busy himself with literature
while awaiting the fulfilment of a promise of further diplomatic
employment. Arthur and Violet were also to return home
after paying a visit at Pickworth, and John would soon after
sail for Barbuda. In the mean time he was much engaged in
going over accounts, and in consulting with his father and the
man of business.
One morning, towards the end of September, he came down
to Violet in the drawing-room, looking much flushed and ex¬
tremely annoyed.
* Well,' he said, * I have often declared I would never let my
aunt have a discussion with me again. I have been obliged to
submit to this. I hope it will be the last.'
' About the West Indian property,' said Violet.
'Yes. She does give me power to act for her; but it is
dearly bought! I wish I had never asked her ! Every subject
that she knew to be most unpleasant to me has she stirred up !
How a woman of her age can go on with her eyes fixed on these
matters I cannot guess. I am sure it is a warning what one
sets one's heart upon!'
'You are quite worried and tired. Oh! it has made you
cough 1 Y ou had better lie down and rest.*
' I want you to put me into good liumour,* said he, half re¬
clining on the sofa. ' I feel as if I had been under a nutmeg-
grater 1 What do you think of her taking me to task for having
Fotheringham here, for fear he should marry Theodora I I wish
there was any such chance for her; bu]b Percy has far too much
sense 1'
cft, the brother's wife.
193
' Why, how could Mrs. Neshit think it 1 They ,are always
disputing T
* I should not take that as a reason for thinking it impossible.
But Percy knows her far too welL- No, it is only one of my
aunt's fancies. She has set her hopes on Theodora now; but it
is of no use to talk of it. I don't want to dwell on it. It is
too pitiable to be angry about. What are you reading V
Yiolet was as glad to talk to him of her book as he was to loser
the thought of his veratious conversation, which had been even
Diore annoying than he had chosen to tell her.
Mrs. Nesbit had taken occasion to speak of the reversion of
an estate, which she said she wished to go to augment the pro¬
perty of the title; and /low she should have no hesitation in.
bequeathing it to him, provided she could see him, on his side,
make such a connexion as would be for the consequence of the
family,
John tried silence, but she drove him so hard that he was
obliged to reply that, since she had begun on the subject, ho
had only to say that he should never marry; and, with thanks
for her views, the disposal of her property would make no dif¬
ference to him.
She interrupted him by reproaches on a man of his age talk¬
ing romantic nonsense, and telling him that, for the sake of the
family, it was his duty to marry.
*\Vith such health as mine,' replied John, quietly, * I have
long made up my mind that, even if I could enter on a fresh
attachment, it would not be right. I am not likely to live
many years, and I wish to form no new ties. You will oblige
me, ma'am, by not bringing forward this subject again.'
* Ay, I know what you are intending. You think it will
come to Arthur and his wife; but I tell you what, Mr. hlar-
tindale, no attorney's daughter shall ever touch a sixpence of
mine.*
' That is as you please, ma'am. It was not to speak of these
matters that I came here; and if you have told me all you
wish with regard to the property, I will leave the papers for
your signature.'
She was above all provoked by his complete indifference to
the wealth, her chief consideration throughout her life, and
could not cease from reproaching him with absurd disregard to
his own interest, at which he very nearly smiled. Then she
revived old accusations, made in the earlier days of her persecu¬
tion about his engagement, that he was careless of the conse-
qxienco and reputation of the family, and had all his life been
trying to lower it in the eyes of the world; otherwise why had
o
HEARTSEASE}
he set himself to patronize that wife of Arthur s, or why bring
Percy Fotheringham here, just to put his sister in the way of
marrying beneath her? And when he had answered that,
though he saw no probability of such an event, opinions might
differ as to what was beneath Theodora, she took the last means
that occurred to her for tormenting him, by predicting that
Arthur's sickly little child would never live to grow up-—he
need not fix any hopes on him.
He escaped at last, lea^dng her much irritated, as Theodora
presently found her. She began to complain bitterly of the
ingratitude of her great-nephews, after all her labours for the
family I John treating her whole fortune as if it was not worth
even thanks, when she had been ready to settle the whole on
him at once, as she would have done, since (and she looked
sharply at Theodora) he was now free from that Potheringham
engagement; for none of that family should ever have a share
in her property.
Theodora looked, if possible, more indifierent than John, as
she answered,
* John could not want it. I always thought you meant it for
Arthur.'
* Arthur! as if you did not know he had forfeited all claim
upon me 1'
* His marriage is a reason for his needing it more,' said
Theodora.
' It is of no use to speak of him. No, Theodora, you alone
have acted as I could wish; and if you continue to deserve my
regard *
' Don't say that, aunt Nesbit,* said Theodora. ' I shall act as,
I hope, may deserve regard; but I don't want anybody's for¬
tune, and if you left me yours it would be very unfair, and I
certainly should give at least half of it to Arthur. I give you
fair warning; but I did not come to talk of such hateful things,
but to read to you.'
That afternoon Mrs. Nesbit wrote a letter to her lawyer, and
nui-prised Miss Piper by asking if that p\iny child upstairs had
any name but John.
OF, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
195
CHAPTEH X
Unschooled affections, strong and wild.
Have been my playmates from a child.
And strengthening in the breast unseen.
Poisoned the fount within.
Thoughts hi Past Years.
/ plIE morning of the next day had been fine, and was spent in
X shooting by Arthur and Mr. Fotheringham; but the latter
came home in time to ride with John, to make a call on some
old friends, far beyond what had long been John's distance.
The afternoon closed in a violent storm of wind and rain,
which drove Arthur indoors, and compelled Violet to resort for
exercise to the gallery, where she paced up and down with
Johnnie in her arms, watching for the return of the others, as
each turn brought her to the end window.
As Lord Martindale came upstairs, he paused at the sight of
the slender young figm*e—her head bent over her little one.
Perhaps he was thinking what might have been, if his own chil¬
dren had ever been as much to their mother; for when Violet
turned towards him he sighed, as he roused himself, and asked
whether she saw John coming. Then joining her, he looked at
his grandson, saying, * He is improving very fast. How like
you he grows!'
' Poo:: little fellow, he was not at all well yesterday, and I
began to think of asking whether I should send for Mr. Legh.*
* Whatever you do, beware of doctoring !' was Lord Martin-
dale's rather hasty answer. ' Of doctoring and governessing!—
I have seen enough of it, and I resolved my two youngest should
run wholesomely wild, never be dosed, and never learn a lesson
till they were six years old.'
* But this poor little man is really delicate, and I have no
oxperience,' pleaded Violet.
' Depend upon it, my dear,* said Lord Martindale, with sor¬
rowful emotion in his voice, as he saw the little fair head resting
caressingly on her neck, * you are doing more for him than all
tlie physicians in England. You must not tease him and your¬
self with fretting and anxiety.'
* I know it is my duty not to be over-anxious,* said Violet,
with her heart full, as she clasped her hands.close round her
tiny treasure.
* You must not,* said his grandfather. *It was the notion
that mine could never have enough teaching or doctoring—as
if that was what they wanted! Some system or other was
0 2
1S6 HEAP.TSEASS;
0
always "being tried on tliem, and they were never left to liealtby
action of mind or body, till the end was that I lost my two
pretty little girls ! And poor John, I never saw a more
wretched-looking child than he was when I took him to
Dr.
' And what was his advice V
* His advice was this. * Throw away lessons and physic. Give
him other children to play wdth, make him wear a brown hol-
land pinafore, and let him grope in the dirt.' I believe it saved
liis life ! I begged Mrs. Eotheringham to let him do just like
her children, little thinking what was to come of that.' Then,
catching himself up, as if fearing to give Yiolet pain, * Not that
I should have regretted that connexion. She was all that could
be wished, and I judged by personal merits.' He hesitated, but
spoke warmly, as if applying the words to Violet. * Their youth
was my only objection from the first. Nothing would have
rejoiced me more than their marriage.'
' O, yes,' said Violet,' he says so much of your kindness.* She
f^red she had said too much, but Lord hlartindale caught at
her words. * Has he ever adverted to that affair V
' Sometimes,' said Violet, shyly.
'"What! Actually spoken of poor Helen! I am heartily
glad to hear it. How is he bearing it? Does he speak
calmly?'
'Yes, calmly and cheerfully, as if he liked to dwell on the
thought.'
Lord Martindale laid his hand on her arm and said, grate¬
fully, 'You have done him a great deal of good.'
Seldom had she been more gratified; but at that moment a
dripping figure burst on them, and Theodora's voice impetuously
exclaimed,' Violet 1 you must know something of babies 1 What
shall I do for the child at the lodge? She will die if something
is not done quickly.'
She was in an agony of breathless agitation; the motherless
baby at the lodge had been taken violently ill, the parish doctor
was not at home, and she feared that Mr. Legh could not arrive
from Whitford in time I
Violet shared in her distress, and gathering from her
description that it might be such an attack as Johnnie's at
Ventnor, longed to be on the spot, and tried to believe the
rain lessening enough for her to go. Theodora seized on her
proposal, but Lord Martindale interfered. ' How can you bo
BO thoughtless?' said he, in a far more decided manner than
usual.
OR, THE BnOiHEH'S mFE.
1S7
* The child's life depends on it!' said Theodora, vehemently.
' Pshaw!' said Lord Martindale, ' Violet has her own life and
her child's to think of.*
* Then you wont come 1*
* T am afraid I ought not,* said Violet, mournfully.
Theodora flung away in passionate despair and contempt,
and was rusliing off, when Violet pursued her, and implored
lier to listen one moment, and she could not let go her last
hope. Violet offered some medicine that had been prepared
for Johnnie—which she was sure could at least do no harm,
and she could give some advice. Perhaps she mingled it witli
too many excuses and lamentations at being forced to stay at
home; at least, Theodora thought her fanciful, rejoicing in the
self-importance of imaginary ill-health.
' Why! there's the carriage 1' she exclaimed, as it drove down
the avenue.
'Yes, it is gone for John,* said Theodora, bluntly.
'Where is he?'
' At the Goldingsby turnpike. He took shelter there, and
Percy came back to order the carriage to fetch him. Percy is
gone on to Whitford for Mr. Legh.*
'What a pity! I could have gone to the lodge in the
carriage.*
Theodora was provoked that her impatience had made her
miss this chance: so, without answering, she ran down the
steps, and was almost whirled along the avenue by the wild
wind that roared in the branches, tearing the leaves from the
trees, and whirling them round and round. She hardly felt
it—her whole soul was set upon the little orphan; the misery
of watching the suffering she could not relieve, joined with
passionate resentment at her father and sister-in-law, who she
fancied made light of it. Only Mr. Fotheringham, when stopping
at the lodge on his way, had shown what she thought tolerable
humanity. He had shared her concern, consoled her despair,
suggested asking counsel of Mrs. Martindale, and finally rode off
five miles to Whitford in quest of the doctor.
Violet's advice proved not to be despicable; the measures
she recommended relieved the little one, and by the time
Percy and the apothecary made their appearance, it was asleep
on Theodora's lap, and Mr. Legh pronounced that it was in a
fair way to do well. She wished she could have watched it all
night, but it was late, and Mr. Fotheringham stood waiting at
the door. So she laid it in the cradle, gave her directions to
thQ Qld vouiau wl^o ha^ charge of it, an4 resumed her brown
198 HEATwTSEASE;
cloak and hood, in "which she walked ahont in all weathers,
without umbrella, for which, as for parasols, she had a supreme
aversion.
Mr. Legh -wished to prevail on her to let him drive her home,
but she would not hear of it. Percy put up his umbrella, and
offered to shelter her, but she held aloof.
'No, no. Where did you get that elegant cotton machine?'
I borrowed it at the turnpike.'
' And r9de home with it on Arthur's mare?'
' Of course I did. I was not going to get wet through.'
'But how did you get her to let you carry it. She objects to
his taking out his handkerchief.'
' I am not going to be beaten by a mare, and she soon found
that out.'
' What have you done with lier ?'
' I took her home, and came back again. I wonder what
Arthur will say to me for taking his gallant grey on to Whit-
ford. I must get up a pathetic appeal to the feelings of a
father!'
'Well, I did not recollect you had the grey, or I would have
told you to take my horse. However, there's no harm done, and
it saved time.'
' Whoo—h!' as the gust came roaring down furiously upon
them, pelting fiercely with rain, flapping and tearing at Theo¬
dora's cloak, like the wind in the fable, trying to whirl her of!
her feet, and making vehement efforts to wrench the umbrella
out of Percy's hand. A buffet with wind and weather was a
frolic which she particularly enjoyed, running on before the
blast, then turning round to walk backwards and recover
breath to laugh at him toiling with the umbrella. Never had
she looked brighter, her dark eyes lately so sad and soft, now
sparkling and dancing with mirth, her brown cheek glowing
with fresh red from the rain and wind that had loosened her
hair, and was sporting with a long black tress that streamed
beyond her bonnet, and fluttered over her face—life, strength,
and activity in every limb, and her countenance beaming
with sportiveness and gaiety, the more charming because so
uncommon. It was a rare chance to catch Theodora at play.
'Ha! you'll be beat! You will have to shut up the miserable
invention unknown to our forefathers.'
'Not I. I shall not give up the distinction between man and
beast in the rain.*
' Man! Why even ants carry parasols.*
' That is in the sun. Parasols belong to an epoch of earlier
civilization. YidQ Ninevite carvings—Persian satraps!'
OPi, THE BROTHEk'S mEE
m
* So you reduce yourself to a Persian satrap T
'No; it "was reserved for modern times to discover tlie true
application of tlie umbrella. "Were you rational enough to ccuie
baek in the carriage?'
'No, indeed. To do justice to Violet, she "would have come
down in it, if I bad not forgotten to tell ber of it.*
'I am glad you do ber justice for once.'
She would not answer, and took advantage of another combs t
with the "wind to cover her silence.
'Theodora,' said he, abruptly, 'I cannot help it; I must
say it!'
'Well?'
' I do not tliink you feel as you ought towards your brothers
wife.*
'John has told you this?'
'No; I have observed it. You had set your affections on
Arthur; and thinking he had thrown himself away, you do not
resist the common propensity to hate a sister-in-law.'
'You like to provoke me,' said Theodora; 'but,* and, her
voice trembled, 'it is unkind to bring this up—the.paia
and grief of my life, when I was happy and forgetful for
once.'
' Par, far from unkindness. It is because I cannot bear tc
see you unhappy.*
' I trusted no one saw that.*
'I have known you too long, and thought of you too much,
not to be grieved at the sight of your forced spirits and sup¬
pressed sorrow.*
It would have angered .her from another; from him i
touched her to find how closely and kindly he had watched her
' I cannot help it,' she said. ' He was my all.'
' Have you striven with it ?'
' Of course I have. I have lived in a tumult of occupatiou
but—^
' But you have not conquered yourself, and grappled withth
serpents that poison your life.'
' Pray what do you call those serpeuts V
' If you look them in the face, I believe you will find they an
J ride and jealousy.'
'You like to find generic names,* said Theodora, trying for a
cold smile.
' Because it is safer to know and crush a venomous beast
than to dally with it.'
' If I find there are such serpents, I will crush them and
thank you.*
'200
HEARTSEASE ;
'No other woman would so have answered/ cried Percy,
exultingly.
'Because,* said she, her throat swelling, 'no other man is
true and downright friend enough to warn me honestly.*
' Theodora, Theodora, you are a grand creature, nearly thrown
away for \vant of breaking in.*
Too true/ said she, sadly.
'I must say it. "Will you let me? Will you trust yourself
and your happiness to me ? It has been the vision and Lope of
my solitude to see you what you might be! the flaws in that
noble nature corrected, its grandeur and devotedness shining
forth undimmed. Together we -would crush the serpents—
bring out all that is excellent.*
' I think there might be a chance for me with you/ said she,
in an odd sort of tone.
' you mean it V he exclaimed, trying to see her face, but her
hood flapped over it.
'I do. You appreciate me.*
She let him walk beside her, and hold the umbrella over her;,
but not a word was spoken till they were ascending the steps,
when she said, ' Don't tell papa till night. I do not choose to
look foolish.'
' Good luck to thee, umbrella!' said Percy, holding it on
high, ere closing it. ' Thy sea-green dome has been a canopy
of biiss. Honour to thy whalebones!' Then, in a very dif¬
ferent manner, ' Oh ! Theodora, could you but guess how you
have mingled in every scheme or wish of mine; how often I
have laughed myself to scorn for dreaming, as if there could be
any chance!'
' Ah! what an uproar my aunt will make!' exclaimed
Theodora, somewhat exultingly. Some one crossed the hali,
and she ran away, but stept back from the foot of the stairs,
laid her hand on his arm, and with a face inexpressibly sweet
and brilliant, said, 'We shall get on very well together. We
need have no nonsense. But I did not know how happy you
had made me.*
She escaped again; she would not have said thus much if-she
had not known there- could be no reply, for Lady Martin dale
was sailing down the grand staircase.
She met him no more till dinner, when he was silent, and
she talkative and flighty, so that Violet suspected there had
been a quarrel.
The next morning, the first tidings were that John had a
cold and was confined 'to his bed by cough and pain in the
chest; while sometliing too was said of his having been kept up
01?, THE BRGTHEIIS WIFE.
201
late at niglit talking. Theodora paid a visit to the sick child
in the early morning, and after breakfast accompanied Violet to
the lodge, where Violet found the poor little thing nursed with
more goodwill than skill by its old ai ;nt and Theodora, took it
into her own motherly arms, gave it food and medicine, and
hushed it tc sleep so successfully, that Theodora respected what
she called the feminine element.
The two sisters walked back happily together; but at the
door Lord Martindale met them, exclaiming, * Where have you
been, Theodora 1 Come here.*
Violet wished to be certified that John was not worse, but
could find no one but Mr. Fotheringham, who, with a little
twist of the corner of his mouth, assured her that there was no
cause for uneasiness on that account.
Some time had gone by; she was writing letters, while Percy
stood in the deep window, reading the newspapers, and making
a great rustling with them. Suddenly Arthur entered, ex¬
claiming,
* W ell, Violet, here is a piece of news ! Guess !'
* That is the way people always tell wedding news.*
' Right. Now then for the victims.*
* Your sister ] What really 1 And who 1 Oh, not Lord St.
Erme V
* The very antipodes, as Harrison would say ! Guess again.'
' He}p me, Mr. Fotheringham,' she began; but Arthur, with
a tremendous start, exclaimed, ' Hollo 1 if that is not a shame !
How I wish I had said what a shocking bad match it is V
' You think so, do you V said Percy, advancing, and heartily
shaking Arthur's ready hand.
* Oh! that is your look-out,' said Arthur, shrugging his
shoulders.
* But, do you really mean it V said Violet, looking from one
to the other, as Percy's hand seemed to claim the same welcome
from her.
* Indeed, I do,* said Percy, earnestly.
' O, how glad John will be !' was lier congratulation.
* So, I must say nothing about the grey,* proceeded Arthur.
' What is it some one says about Cnpid's steeds ? I vow I will
call her Psyche, if it is only to make Theodora savage T
* Where is your father V said Percy.
* With John. That was where I heard it.* Then, as Percy
was leaving the room, *Wcll, you are a bold man! I hope
you mean to kill the cat on the wedding-day. That is all.'
' I am obliged for your experience,* said Percy.
< If you make her like this one by the end of a year—'
£02
HEARTSEASE ;
* O, liTisli, Artlinr T
Percy hastened from the room* Violet could not recover
from her astonishment. ' Could Lord Martindale actually have
consented V
'Makes no difficulty at all. He has grown wiser since ].uor
John's time. 1 have taught him one may be trusted to choose
for oneself.*
' But your aunt f
'Ah! there is nothing she hates like a Fotheringbam; but
si e has not the power over my father she once had. She will
have to take up with us for very spite. But what they are to
live on I do not know, unless my father keeps them.'
' I thought he was heir to a baronetcy.*
'Yes; but there is a half-witted son of old Sir Antony in
the way, who will keep Percy out of the property for the term
of his natural life, as well as if he was a wise man.'
After luncheon, Violet had a message from John to ask for a
visit from her. She found him on the sofa in the sitting-room,
apparently oppressed and uncomfortable ; but he looked bright¬
ened by her entrance, and pleased when she offered to stay and
read to him.
' The very thing I have been figuring to myself as most
agreeable. I don't want to talk or think. I have been over¬
doing both.*
So she had to repress her curiosity, and give him the repose of
her pleasant reading, till he dropped asleep; and after waiting
some time, in the fear of awakening him, she gently left the
room, and had time for another visit to the lodge, where she
fell in with the lovers, and found them disputing about the
cotton umbrella. Percy announced that he should give his own
in exchange, and retain it for ever, as a trophy of what could
be accomplished with both horse and woman. Theodora was a
little cross. If he wished to keep it out of sentiment, that was
all very well; but to give it the turn of glorying over her was
displeasing. He wanted to make her confess that she had sub¬
mitted to its shelter.
' Ho, you only walked by me, and held it up.*
' I appeal to you, Mrs. Martindale. Is not that the popular
view of being under an umbrella V
Theodora would not speak, and Violet thought him wrong in
teasing her. Silence ensued, but ended in his saying, as they
came to the steps, 'Well, Theodora, shall I restore the umbrella
as a hated object V
'Ho, no,* said she ; 'do what you please with it, only don't
talk nonsense about it.* Then, when Violet was gone,—'You
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE."
203
must not triumph over me, Percy j I cannot bear it. If i*t ia
pride, have patience with me.*
' I should have asked jou to forgive me,* said Percy, affected
by the tone of humility.
' No, no, indeed!' said Theodora, smiling; ' but I warn you,
my serpent is dealt with more safely by treading on it than by
irritating it,* and there was an indignant gleam in her dark eye.
*-Now I am going to tell my aunt.'
* I would wish you well through it; but I believe you are
eager for the battle. Only let me say one thing, Theodora—be
forbearing, or you will be fostering the enemy.'
* I can deal with her,' said Theodora.
But she was met in a manner she had not expected. Mrs.
Nesbit beckoned her to her side, laid her hand on hers, and
peered up in her face with witch-like eyes, that disconcerted her
usually ready speech, and called up a blush.
*I see,' said Mrs. Nesbit. 'I do not blame you for the fault
of your father and brother. I knew how it would be.'
* Has mamma told you f said Theodora. * Papa promised
that I should be the first to tell!'
* Your mamma does not know what will mortify her so ex¬
tremely.*
' Then how have you heard it f
'I have seen it. I knew what you had to tell from the
instant you entered. And your father has given you his
consent V raising her hand, as if to say, * I give up all hopes of
him.*
' Yes, he highly approves.* i
Here Lady Martindale came into the room.
' You need not be vexed, my dear,' began hlrs. Nesbit. 'It
will not be made public, and there will be no harm done.'
' What will not, dear aunt ? you alarm me.'
'This foolish affair into which Lord Martindale and John
ha^ e drawn this poor child.'
' Aunt! aunt!' cried Theodora, 'you do not know what you
8.)y. It is of my own free will—uninfluenced. I would choose
him, and hold fast to him through worlds of opposition.'
'Yes, yes ; we understand all that,' said Mrs. Nesbit, with a
contemptuous accent; ' but as it cannot be at once, you will
soon have enough of that overbearing temper. At twenty,
there is plenty of time to get over such an affair, and form a
more suitable connexion.'
'Never!' cried Theodora.
' What, my dear !' said astonished Lady Martindale, 'You
engaged, and you have not told me I'
204
nEAPwTSEASE ;
' Only since yesterday, mamma. He* spoke to j-apa only tliia
morning.'
* But wko is it 1 NotMng tliat your aunt disapproves, 1
trust, my dear.*
'Percy Fotkeringliam,* said Theodora, standing firm, and
exulting in defiance j but her aunt continued that same pro¬
voking disregard.
'Yes, you see it is of no use to oppose her. For my part, T
think her papa has acted wisely in permitting the engagement.
Contradiction would embellish her hero ; while, left to him, she
will soon find him out. I do not concern myself, for Miss
Martindale can get over a little matter of this kind.'
'It is of no use to make protestations,' said Theodora; and
she left the room much more annoyed than she could have been
by the violent opposition for which she was prepared. Cool
contempt was beyond everything irritating, especially where
reply was impossible, and argument undignified.
Mrs. Nesbit continued to behave as if the engagement did not
exist, and Yiolet could not suppose her informed of it. Ladj
Martindale looked melancholy and distressed, especially after
having been with John, whom, however, she declared to be
better, and desirous of seeing his sister. Theodora went to him,
but remained a very short time.
Violet ventured in with his mother, to wish him good night,
and he thanked her warmly for having read him to sleejr.
' When I am laid up again, you will know where to find a nurse
for me,' added he to his mother ; a speech which obtained for
Viplet a positively cordial and affectionate good night from Lady
Martindale.
Though mending, he did not leave his room the next day, as
it was damp and chilly; and he again asked for Violet's com¬
pany in the afternoon, since he supposed she was not thinking
of going out.
' O, no ; no one does, except Theodora. I saw something
brown half way across the park, which must be either her cloak,
or the old cow-man's worst round frock.'
' And Percy not in attendance V
* No; he and Arthur are lingering at luncheon, talking about
the Austrian army. When did you hear about this V
' As soon as I came in. He marched into my room, sat down,
and said, ' There ! I've done it.' I thought he had broken the.
knees of Arthur's grey, till he explained—' Ho; I have taken
your sister on my hands.''
' So you were watching them all the evening !'
'Yes; I was very anxious as to how my father might view
OR, THE brother'S Wim
205
1 suppose tliat hurt you more than the rain V
* Excitement, as Brown would say. Perhaps it might. We
talked long and late, and afterwards I fell into the old strain of
thought. Prom what Percy tells me, his sister must have
influencf^ Theodora far more than I thought possible. To her
lie ascribes her religious tone. If he is right, my mistake iu
neglecting Imr has been worse than T supposed.'
* Then this is all the better 1 Do you remember saying you
despaired of a Petruchio V
* It is on the Petruchio principle that he takes her, and
avowedly. None but Katharina was ever so wooed or so won I'
* That is very much to her honour.'
* If she realizes his being in ea?"nest. She would make one
doubt whether she has any earnest. Yesterday evening she so
treated the subject that I was on the point of saying, * Beply
not to me with a fool-born jest.' And how do you think she
answered my father, when he asked her if she knew what she
undertook 1 As my namesake said, * I shall wash all day and
ride out on the great dog at night.''
* Was not that a sort of shyness V
* I would fain hope so. If I had ever seen anything like deep
earnest feeling I should be satisfied. Yet Percy declares, I
ti-ust he may be right, that she has the very strongest affections,
and much tenderness of character. He says her nature came
straight from the tropics, and must not be judged by sober
English rules.'
* If you had seen her distress about the child at the lodge 1'
' ' Ah ! he said those tears settled the matter, and showed him
tliat she had the woman's heart as well as the candour that
would conquer her waywardness. It sounds a little too like a
lover's self-justification.*
^ Do you think so ?' said Violet. *You do not know what
she is with the dumb boy, and with Johnnie.'
* I was just going to have instanced her neglect of Johnnie,*
' I assure you,' cried Violet, eagerly, * that is only because
she does not like me. You cannot think how fond she is of
him. When I am out of the way she goes to the nursery and
pets him till Sarah is almost jealous of liis fondness for her.'
' I have no patience with her,' exclaimed John.
* I thought you would have been glad.'
* I do not like Percy to make a mistake, and get his feelinga
trifled with. He deserves a wife like himself.'
* Did you hear of Arthur's advice to him V
* To kill the cat on the wedding-day. That might answer
if it were to be at once j but it is a cat with nine lives, and I
206
HEAKTSEASE;
do not tliink she will bear to have it killed before the wedding-
day/
' Then it is not to be soon V
* No, my father thinks her not fit for a poor man's wife, and
cannot give her more than 5000^., so they must wait till they
can begin on an income equal to yours/
* And I suppose that will be when he gets some appointment/
'And there is the Worthbourne estate as a provision for the
future, so that there is no imprudence. For my part, I regret
the delay; Theodora would shine if she had to rough it, pro¬
vided always she was truly attached to her husband.'
' She would bear poverty beautifully.'
' But it is not a thing to advise. I am accused already of
being romantic and imprudent, yet I would urge it on my
father if I saw them desirous to hasten it. I do not understand
them, and perhaps I am unreasonable. I do not like his happiness
to be in such perverse hands, yet I am uneasy at the delay. It
suits my aunt's predictions, and they are far too apt to come
true. 1 feel them like a spell. She always foretold that Helen
and I should never marry. And it cannot be denied that she
has great insight into character, so that I am alarmed at her
declaring this will not come to good. If not, I have no hope
for Theodora 1 She will either be hard and unfeminine, or.
turn to worldliness, and be such another as my aunt. She has
it in her.'
' You are taking to horrid predictions yourself.'
' Well, I acknowledge her capabilities, but there has been
woful mismanagement, and my father feels it.'
' I was surprised at his consenting so readily.*
' He has once been too much grieved to be led to act against
his own judgment again. He thinks very highly of Percy, and
is glad Theodora should be in safe keeping; she was so wilful
this last season in London as to make him very uneasy.'
Mr. Fotheringham came in, and Violet was going, but was
claimed for some more work upon the GrusaderSy and told that
Arthur was-gone out to inepect his grey.
Arthur found the weather better than it appeared from in¬
doors, and stroUed into the park to indulge in a cigar. Ere
long he perceived the brown waterproof cloak, and throwing
away the end of his cigar, called out, ' Halloa 1 a solitary
ramble. Have you given Earl Percy the slip V
' Vou do not expect him to be always philandering after
me V
' There's a popular delusion with regard to lovers.'
'We are not such ninnies.*
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. ' . *i07
'But seriously, Theodora, what can induce Fotheringhani to
'lave you Y
'I expected you to ask what induced me to have him.*
' That in its own time 1 Tell me, first, why he takes you.
' The same reason that you took Violet.*
' As if you and Violet were to be named together I*
' Or you and Percy !*
They laughed, and Theodora then spoke with deep feeling.
' It does surprise me, Arthur, but it is the more pleasure. He
has known me all my life, and sees there is less humbug in me
than in other women. He knows I have a heart.'
' That scientific discovery is his reason. Now for yours.*
' Because he understands me.'
' So your partnership is founded on a stock of mutual under¬
standing ! I devoutly hope it is; for my notion is that Percy
will stand no nonsense.*
* Of course not.*
' It remains to be proved how you will like that.*
' I am not given to nonsense.*
Arthur whistled.
' That means that I will not yield when I am not convinced.*
' And he will make you.*
* He will never be unreasonable,* exclaimed Theodora.
' It does not follow that you will not.*
'That is unjust. I yield where duty, good sense, or affection
make it needful.*
' Oho ! ATection 1 That is like other people. Now I see
some hope of you.*
' Did you think I would have had him without it Y
'Certainly, it is the only explanation. You will not find
being wife to a scrub of an attache the same thing as being Miss
Martindale.*
' I am glad of it. My mind revolts at the hollowness of my
, present life.*
'Well done!* ejaculated Arthur.
' I do,* said Theodora, vehemently. ' Ours has never been a
home; it was all artificial, and we had separate worlds. You
and I amalgamated best; but, oh! Arthur, you never cared for
me as I did for you. The misery of my life has been want of
affection. Any one who loved me could have guided me at
will. You doubt 1 You don't know what is in me! How
I felt as if I would work night and day at my lessons, if they
were ever to be heard by mammal I remember once, after
a day's naughtiness, lying awake, sobbing, and saying, again
and again, half aloud, ' I would be good if they would lo^ e me I''
HEAETSEASE; -
' No one would have thought such fancies were in a wild colt
like you.'
* I would not have had them guessed for worlds. Then came
that one gleam of Helen. It was a new life; but it could not
last. She went back, and I cannot say things in letters. She
told me to talk to John, but he was of no use. -He has always
despised me.'
' I don't think you are right there.'
' He would help me in trouble, but I am nothing to him.
You were all I had, and when you gave yourself away from me
I was left alone with the heart-ache, and began to think mysell
born to live without love.'
* In spite of the lovers you had in London?'
* You know better. That was the Honourable Miss Martin-
dale. What did they know of the real Theodora?'
'Poor crittui's, what indeed? They would have run far
enough if they had.'
'I knew it. It is the soft, gentle, feminine mould that
attracts men.'
' Another curious discovery.'
' I cannot change my natiire. But when he comes, superior
to them all, understanding my true self, seeing me high spirited
and cold mai/neied,but able to look into me, and perceive there
is warmth and soundness—oh! is not that a new well-spring of
happiness!'
' Yes, he is as much out of the common run of folks as you
are. You'll go as well together as Smithson's pair of piebalds.,
I am satisfied; I only wanted to know whether you cared for
him, for you don't' act as sich*'
' I can't talk stufi*. I managed pretty well with papa, but I
could not bear it with John. He began to praise Percy, which
made me ready to jry, and that provoked me: besides, I know
he does not befieve in me. He cares for Helen's brother far
more than for his own sister, and does not think me good
enough for him. I saw he thought I should trifle, and meant to
give me a lecture; and I could not stand that, you know, so I
got away as fast as I could.'
John does not lecture as you might expect, if you give him
his full swing. He is the best and kindest fellow in the
world.*
' I know how Percy looks up to him. The only thing I don't
like is, that I believe one cause of Percy's attachment is my
being his sister.'
'I tell you, Theodora, if you are so outrageously jealous, yoa
will never get through the world in peace.'
on, THE BKOTHEE'S WIFE.
£09
*I sliall have no reason for jealousy.'
* And for fear he should, had you not better give a hint to
Wingfield? You are turning the poor fellow's head with your
confabulations over the dirty ciiildren, and you'll have him
languishing in an unrequited attachment.'
* He understands me too well,' said Theodora.
* You reckon a great deal on understanding! And you put
yourselves to the test. Why don't you marry out of hand, and
trust to the fates 1'
' We have talked it over,' said Theodora. 'As to "our income
being equal to yours, that is nonsense. We have no expensive
habits; but Percy says 450?. a year is too little, so we shall wait
for the appointment, or till he has made it up to *jqoI. But I own
I did not expect such ready consent from papa.'
' Ha! You would have liked a little opposition? You would
sing a different song if he had set his face against it. It is very
knowing of my aunt to take the line she does.'
' I wish my aunt was twenty years younger!'
' That you might fight it out, eh!'
' One comfort is, she will never leave me her money now!
But I must go in, and send Miss Piper for a walk with Harrison.
My aunt must be repaying herself on her.'
' Then I shall take another cigar, to get the damp out of my
throat.'
'You wretch, you like to boast of it!'
' All! you don't know what Percy learnt in Turkey.'
' I know he always abominated smoking.'
' Perhaps he'll let you think so till you are married.'
' For shame, Arthur! That's the way you served your
wife.'
'Not I. She is duly grateful to me for only smoking at
fit times and places, wherein I don't resemble her precious
brother.'
Arthur thus reported this conversation to his wife. ' I met
Theodora in the park. She is as remarkable an article as ever
I saw.'
'What do you think?—is she really attached to him?'
' I know as little as she does.'
It was determined that the secret should be strictly kept; it
was the one point on which Lady Martindale was anxious,
being thereto prompted by her aunt. Theodora declared she
Iiadt'no one to tell, and Mr. Fotheringham only desired to
inform his uncle and aunt, Sir Antony and Lady Fotheringham.
He was now going to pay them a visit before settling in his
lodgings in I^ondo];x. Theodora's engagement certainly made
P
c
210 HEARTSEASE;
her afford to he kinder to "Viplet, or else it was Percy's influence
that in some degree softened her. She was pleased at haying
one of her favourite head girls taken as housemaid under
Sarah's direction, her only doubt being whether Violet was
a sufficiently good mistress; but she had much confidence in
Sarah, whose love of dominion made her glad of a young
assistant.
The party was now breaking up, Violet in high spirits at
returning home, and having Arthur all to herself, as well as
eager to put her schemes of good management into practice.
The sorrow was the parting with John, who was likely to be
absent for several years.
Before going he had one last conversation with his sister,
apropos to some mention of a book which she wished to send
to London to be returned to Miss Gardner.
' Does Violet visit her V he asked.
>
' There have been a few calls; Jane Gardner has been very
goodnatured to her.'
' Is that cousin of theirs, that Gardner, still abroad V
'Yes, I believe so.*
' I hope he will stay there. He used to have a most baneful
influence oyer Arthur. Theodora, if by any chance it should
be in your power, you ought to do your utmost to keep theni
from coming in contact. It may be a very superfluous fear, but
your intimacy with those ladies might be the means of bring¬
ing them together, and there is nothing I should so much
dread.'
' Surely Arthur may be trusted to choose his own friends.*
' You don't know what happened in their school days ! No,
you were too young. It was discovered that tliere was a prac¬
tice of gambling and drinking wine in the boys' rooms, and
Arthur was all but expelled; but it turned out that he had
been only weak, and entirely led by this fellow, and so he
was spared. Percy could tell you many histories of Gardner's
doings at Cambridge. Arthur's worst scrape since he has
been in the Guards was entirely owing to him, and it was evi¬
dent he still had the same power over him.*
' Arthur is no boy now.'
' I doubt,' said J ohn, half smiling.
' No one can make the least charge against him since his
marriage.*
' It has done much for him,* answered John, ' and she has
improved wonderfully. Theodora, now that I am going away,
let me once more tell you that you are throwing away a source
of much happiness by disregarding her.'
OR, THE EROTHER'S WIFE.
211'
' Her romantic friendship with Emma Brandon is a proof
tliat she cannot have much in common with me.*
' There is one thing you have not in common with either/
exclaimed John, ' and that is an unassuming temper.*
'Yes, I know you all think me prejudiced. I do not want
you to go away misunderstanding me,' answered Theodora. ' She
has good principles, she is amiable and affectionate; but there
are three points that prevent me from esteeming her as you do.
She has a weak fretful temper.*
' I am sure you have seen no sign of it.*
' It is just what is never shown; bub I am convinced pool
Arthur suffers from it. Next, she thinks a great deal of her
appearance; and, lastly, she is fond of power, and tries to go¬
vern, if not by coaxing, by weakness, tears, hysterics—all the
artillery of the feeble. Now, a woman such as that I can pity,
but cannot love, nor think a fit wife for my brother.*
'I can't tell, I don't know,* said John, hesitating in displea¬
sure and perplexity; ' but this once I must try whether it is of
any use to talk to you. Her spirits and nerves are not strong,
and they were cruelly tried last spring; but Arthur only saw
her cheerful, and never guessed at the tears she shed in secret,
till we found her papers blistered with them, when her never
complaining and letting him go his own way had almost cost her
her life ! and if you knew her, you would see that the tendency
to over-anxiety is the very failing with which she struggles. I
wish I could make you see her in her true light.*
' I cannot help it, John,* said Theodora, ' I must speak the
truth. I see how it is. Men are not clear-sighted in judging
of a pretty woman of engaging manners. They are under a fas¬
cination. I don't blame you—^it is exactly the same with papa
and Percy,*
' Indeed IT
And for the last time baffled, John parted with his sister in
much anxiety and disappointment, such as made it repose to
turn to that other gentle, open-hearted, confiding sister, whose
helplessness and sympathy had first roused him from despon¬
dency and inaction.
He begged her to write to him; an honour and a pleasure
indeed; and now there was no fear of her letters being such as
that she had sent him at Martindale. He declared the corre¬
spondence would be a great pleasure to hims—-he could not bear
to think of hearing of those in whom he took so much interest
only at second-hand; and besides, he had been accustomed to
pour out his mind so much in his letters to Helen, that he felt
thp "want of full and free confidence. His letters to his mother
212
HEAETSEASEJ
were not safe fiLom tlie eye of his aunt, and neither his father
nor Mr, Fotheringham could he what a lady correspondent would
be to a man of his character, reflective, fond of description, and
prone to dwell on'the details of what interested him.
So the time of his departure came, whereat Arthur lamented,
vowing it was a horrid bore that he could not live in Eng¬
land, and hoping that Barbuda would patch him up for good ;
while Yiolet made arrangements for his convenience and plea¬
sure on the voyage, such as no sister had ever supplied for h:' m
hefbre-
She so had prayed, and He who hears,
Through Seraph songs the sound of tears,
From that beloved babe had ta'en
The fever and the beating pain.
And more and more smiled Isobel
To see the baby sleep so well.
K a bright cold afternoon the next spring, Theodora was
setting oiit for a walk, when she saw a carriage driving up
the avenue, and Ajdihur emerging from it. Joyously she sprang
forward—' Arthur! Arthur! this is pleasant. How glad I am.
This is like old times.'
' Ay, I thought you would be ready for me. I have had a
cold, and I am come home to shake -off the end of it.'
* A cold—not a bad one, I hope V
*Hot very. I wanted Violet to come too, but the boy is
poorly.'
* Oh! I hope there is not much the matter V
* Only teeth, I believe. He is desperately fretful, and she can't
attend to anything else.'
* "Well, I hope you are come for a good long visit.'
' I can stay a week.'
* That's right, it will do you good. I was just going to write
to you. I have a great mind to go back with you, if I shall
not be in the way.'
* Hot at all. It will be famous having you; but what makes
you come 1 To gratify Fotheringham V
' I have many reasons. I've got Charlie Layton elected to tha
Deaf and Dumb Asylum, and I must take him there.'
* I'm not going to take him ! 'Tis enough to have to carry
about one's own babies, without other people's.'
<We'U settle tbat,* said Theodora. Will you walk with
CHAPTER XI
E. B. BaowNiNG {IsobeVs Child).
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. - 213
me 1 There is no one at home, and I am stnpified t^th reading
French novels to my aunt. Such horrid things I She has lost
lier taste for the natural, and likes only the extravagant. I
have been at it ever since luncheon, and at last, when the
wretches had all charcoaled themselves to death, I came out to
breathe fresh air and purity.'
* "Where's the Piper V
* Piper no longer. Have you not heard!'
' Not a word since Percy announced that my aunt and Har¬
rison had come to a split about the orchids.'
* You have great things to hear. Harrison got a magnificent
appointment, as he calls it—situation is not grand enough—to
some botanic gardens; splendid salary. Nothing hindered the
wedding but Miss Piper's dread of my aunt. It was not only
that she could not tell her, but she could not face her after it
was told, though I offered to undertake that. So the upshot
was, that for very cowardice she preferred stealing the match
and taking French leave. It was a silly piece of business; but
I could not help that, and they were accountable to no one.
I promised to announce it to my aunt when the deed was done,
and satisfied the poor little woman's conscience by undertaking
to be my aunt's white nigger till she bought another.'
'If that's not self-devotion, I don't know what is,' said
Arthur. ' I trust she has got one.'
' She comes to-morrow.'
' How was the wedding managed V
* Harrison came with his licence from Whitford, and I walked
forth with sal volatile in one hand and salts in the other, ad¬
ministering them by turns to the fainting bride. I dragged
her all the way by main strength, supported her through the
service, and was very near giving her away by mistake, for
there was no one else to do it but old Brand. He and I are
the witnesses in the register. I received her hysterical fare¬
wells, and Harrison's elegant acknoAvledgments; saw them into
their fly, and came home, trusting to Providence that I could
inform my aunt without bringing on a fit.'
'After surviving the news of your engagement she may besr
anything.'
' Ah ! there she takes refuge in i icredulity. Now this was
a fact. So there was nothing for it b it to take a high tone. I
gave the history, and told my own share ; then, in the style of
Richard II., when Wat Tyler was killed, declared I would be
her comjianion j and, after some bandying of words, we settled
down peaceably.'
' One thing amazes me. How did you get Wingfield to do
214
FEAETSEASE ;
it? I had plague enough, with the old parson at Wrangerton^
and I should have thought Wingfield harder to manage.'
' They had no consent to ask—no one could forbid the banns.
He soon saw the rights of it/ said Theodora, unable to prevent
herself from blushing.
' You talked him over, ehf
' Arthur, you are looking at me as if you wanted to put me
out of countenance. Well, you shall hear the truth; it is sate
with you, and no one else knows it. It is my chief reason for
wishing to go to London.'
'Ah ha!'
' Yes, you were right in warning me. He must needs think
I worked in the parish for his sake; and one fine day, as I was
walking home, he joined company, and before I knew where I
was he was making me an ofier.'
'And learnt what disdain means, if he did not know
before.*
'Ho,' said Theodora, gravely, and blushing deeply. 'I re¬
collected your warning, and saw that if there had not been
something like encouragement he would not have forgotten the
distance between us. This wedding had occasioned conferences;
besides, Percy was exacting at Christmas, and I had rather
tried to tease him. I thought, living close by, Mr. "Wingfield
must have known the state of the case, and that I need not be
on my guard; so that, having so far taken him in, I thought
it right to tell him I was afraid he had not been fairly used,
for I had trusted to his knowing I was engaged. So we parted
amicably; but it is a great bore, for he is much more cut up
than I expected, poor man. He went from home the next
Monday, and is but just come back, looking disconsolate enough
to set people wondering what is on his spirits, and avoids me,
so as to show them. It would be the best possible thing for
me to get out of the way till it is blown over, for I have no
comfort in parish work. It has been a relief to be always shut
up with my aunt, since that was a reason for not going into
the village.*
' Then you will stay till the family migration?'
' I don't think there will be any this year. Papa talks about
bad times, and says the season in London is too expensive; and
mamma was worried and tired last year, and did not enjoy it,
BO she will be glad to avoid it and stay with my aunt.'
' And, you being no longer a subject for speculation, there's
no object.*
'Yes; I am glad to have ended that hateful consciousness,*
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
215
* Well, Violet will do her best for you.' -
'I don't want her to trouble herself; I only want house-
room.*
* And a change after a month's white niggering.*
* That's another reason. My aunt has grown so dependent
on me, that this new lady will not have a fair chance if I a'u
at home; and if I don't break the habit, I shall never call my
time my own again.*
In fact, Theodora had been suffering under a fit of restless¬
ness and dissatisfaction, which made her anxious to change the
scene. The school, her great resource, was liable to be a place
of awkwai'd meetings. She was going to lose her dumb,
charge; and with Percy and Arthur both at a distance, there
was no excitement nor relief to the tedium of home. The
thorough sell-sacrificing attendance on her aunt had been the
sole means left her of maintaining the sense of fulfilling a
duty.
The unexpected arrival of her favourite brother was as a
reward. Her spirits rose, and she talked with gaiety and ani¬
mation, delighted to find him claiming her company for walks
and rides to be taken in his holiday week, and feeling as it
now the prediction had truly come to pass, that he would be
relieved to come to her from the annoyances of his home.
Every one seemed glad to see Arthur—even Mrs. Nesbit.
In the course of the evening something was said about a dinner
])arty for the ensuing Saturday, and Lady Martin dale asked if
he could stay for it.
' Saturday? Yes; I need not go back till Monday.*
* I wish Violet could have come,* said Lord Martindale. * I
am glad you can give us a week; but it is a long time for her
to be alone. I hope she has some friend to be with her.*
' Oh, she wants no one,' said Arthur. * She begged me to
go ; and I fancy she will be rather glad to have no distraction
from the child. I am only in the way of her perpetual walking
up and down the room with him whining in her arms.*
' Ah! it is an unlucky affair,* said Mrs. Nesbit, in her sar¬
castic tone of condolence; * she will never rear it.*
She seemed, in her triumph, to have forgotten that its father
was present, and his impatient speech had certainly not been
such 8*5 to bring it to mind; but this was too much, and,
starting, he hastily exclaimed, ' Children always do make a fuss
about their teeth 1*
* I do not speak without the authority of medical men,' said
Mrs,.Nesbit. ' I don't blame your wife, poor thing.'
218
HEAKTSEASE j
*Wliat do you meaur cried Arthur; colour and voice both
rising.
' I am surprised your brother kept it from you/ said she,
gratified at torturing him; * you ought to have been informed.*
' Tell me at once 1* said Arthur.
' Only this, Arthur,' said his father, interposing: ' when fii-st
the doctor at Yentnor saw him he thought him very delicate,
and told John that he would hardly get through the first yeai
without great care.'
' He has all but done that!' said Arthur, breathing more
freely; ' he will be a year old on the third.'
*Yes; afterwards the doctor thought much better of him,
and John saw no occasion to make you and Yiolet more
anxious.'
' Then it all goes for nothing!' said Arthur, looking full at
his aunt with defiance, and moving to the furthest end of the
room.
But it did not go for nothing. He cnuld not shake off tlie
impression. The child's illness had never been so alarming as
to stir up his feelings, though his comfort had been interfered
with; and there were recollections of impatience that came
painfully upon him. He knew that Yiolet thought him more
indifferent to his child than he really was; and, though she
had never uttered a complaint or reproach, he was sure that
he had hurt and distressed her by displeasure at the crying,
a,nd by making light of the anxieties, which he now learnt
were but too well founded.
Arthur's easiness and selfishness made him slow to take alarm,
but when once awakened there was no limit to his anxiety. He
knew now what it would be to lose his first-born. He thought
of the moment when the babe had been laid on his hand, and
of the sad hours when that feeble cry had been like a charm,
holding the mother to life; and his heart smote him as he
thought of never hearing again the voice of which he had com¬
plained. What might not be happening at that moment? As
grisly a train of chances rose before him as ever had haunted
Yiolet herself, and he thought of a worse return home than
even his last. Yet he had never desired her to let him know
whether all was well!
He could not sleep, and in the morning twilight he sought
out writing materials, and indited his first letter to his
wife:—
' Deak Yiolet,—I hope you and the boy are well. I have
not coughed since I left London. I come home on INIoiid^y, if
oil, Tilfc buother's wife.
£17
till goes well, and Theodora with me. She has made the place
too hot to hold her.
* Yours ever,
* A. N. Maetikdale.
' P.S. Write and say how the boy is.*
Having hunted up a servant,, and sent him with this missive
to the early post, Arthur's paternal conscience was satisfied j
and, going to bed again, he slept till breakfast was half over,
then good-humouredly listened to exclamations on his tardiness,
and loitered about the rest of the morning, to the great pleasure
of his sister.
The companion, jMrs. Garth, the highly recommended widow
of a marine ofhcer, arrived in the afternoon; and Arthur,
meeting her on the stairs, pronounced that she wtis a forbidding-
looking female, and there was no fear that she would not be
able to hold her own.
Rejoicing in newly-recovered freedom, Theodora had a long
ride with him; and having planned another to a village near
a trout-stream, where he wanted to inquire about lodgings for
his indefatigable fishing friend, Captain Fitzhugh, she was
working hard to dispose of her daily avocations before break¬
fast the next day, when Arthur knocked at her door. ' Good
morning,' he said, hastily. * I must go home. My little boy
is very ill.'
'Is he? What is it?'
' A bad fit of croup. He was better when the letter went.
My poor Violet! She has called in further advice; but it may
come back. Do you like to come with me V
' If you like to have me.'
' Only be quick. I must be gone by the ten o'clock train.
You must be ready to start by nine.'
' I'll be ready at once,' said Theodora, hastily ringing for
Pauline, and rushing upon her preparations. She could not
bear to part with him in his grief, and thought, in case of the
child's severe illness or death, that he would be in need of her
comfort when he had his wife on his hands. She would not
take Pauline—she would not be dependent, and trouble their
small household with another servant; but Charles Layton
she could not leave, and having given orders to pack up her
things, she flew off down the avenue to desire his aunt to
prepare him.
IJp and down, backwards and forwards, giving directions to
every one, she hurried about till her father summoned her to
breakfast. ' I am glad you are going with him, my dear,' he
218
HEARTSEASE;
said, as he went down the steps with her. 'We shall depend on
you for hearing of the little boy.'
That genuine cordial approbation was so pleasant that the
thought crossed her, * Was she going to be a blessing to her
family]'
' Good by, Arthur,' said Lord Martindale, warmly pressing lus
hand. 'I hope you will find him better, and Violet not doing
too much. Give my love to her.'
Arthur was moved by his father's unwonted warmth, and
leaned back in the carriage in silence. Theodora watched him
anxiously, and did not speak for some time. ' Had there been
any tendency to croup before]' she asked at last.
' Tender throat, I believe; Violet always was anxious. I wish
I had not come away; it is too much for her alone! Hal what
are we stopping for now]'
' To pick up Charles Layton.'
' You'll make us miss the train.*
- 'Ho, here he is. He shall be in nobody's way. I'll put him
into the housemaid's charge in Belgrave square.' And with
her eyes and fingers she encouraged the poor child as he was
lifted up to the box. ' There, I've not stopped you long.'
'What shall you do with him on the railroad]'
' Take him with us, of course.'
' I wont have him going in a first-class with me.*
' Then I shall go in a second-class with him.'
Here it occurred to her that this was a strange way of
fulfilling her mission of comfort, and she would fain have
recalled her words, but only sat silent till they came to the
station, where without any further question, they were all three
lodged in the same carriage, where presently a county neighboui'
entered, attracted by the sight of Arthur. Theodora was pro¬
voked, feeling for Arthur, and thinking it was the stranger's
presence that hindered her from resuming the task of cheering
him, but she was more annoyed when Arthur plunged into a
hunting discussion.
She sat working up the scene which awaited them, the child
just expiring, his mother in hysterical agonies, and she herself
displaying all her energy and resources, perhaps saving
Johnnie's life—at any rate, being her brother's stay and support
when his wife gave way.
His silence and anxious looks returned as they drove from the
station, and she could think of nothing to say but the old hope
that the baby was better. As they stopped, he threw open the
carriage-door, and springing out, impatiently rang. ' Child
better]' were his hurried words to James.
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
' Yes, sir.'
Before even ttis brief answer was spoken, Arthur was half¬
way up stairs. No one was in the drawing-room; he dashed
up to the bed-room; that, too, was empty; he climbed on
where he had never been before, and opened the nursery-
door.
There sat Violet on a low chair by the fire, with the little
boy on her lap. With a cry of joy she rose; and in another
moment was standing, almost unable to speak, as she saw
Johnnie, looking much surprised, but well-pleased, to find him¬
self in those strong arms, and his soft face scrubbed by the black
whiskers.
*He is pleased! He is smiling. You know papa, don't you,
my Johnnie 1' cried the happy Violet.
' And he is all right again?'
' So much better to-day! We trust the cold is gone. Does
he not breathe softly and freely? If only there's no return
to-night.*
* Was there last night?'
* Indeed there was. It was too dreadful!* said Violet,
leaning against him, and lowering her voice. * Once Sarah and
hlr. Harding both thought it was all over, and I never dared
to expect to see those eyes come back to their own dear look
at me! O, Arthur, when I thought if I could but once have
seen him in your arms! I never thought to be so happy as
this!* and she caressed the child to hide the tears of thankful¬
ness. ' I'm glad you weren't there.*
* My Violet, why?*
' You could not have borne to have seen and heard, and now
you wont have it to remember. At least, I trust not 1 Think
of their once wanting me to go away, saying it was not fit, and-
that I was of no use; but you knew better, Johnnie. You
held mamma's finger tight, and when you came to yourself,
your sweet look and smile were for her! And at last he
went to sleep over my shoulder, as he likes best; and I
felt each one of his breathings, but they grew soft and
smooth at last, and after two good hours he woke up quite
himself.*
'And you! Sitting up all night! You are not fit for such
things. How did you get through it?*
' I don't know; I hardly remember,* said Violet. ' Your letter
«'as such a pleasure! and oh! I had help.*
'What, Harding—*
T did not mean that, though he was very kind. No, I
meant thoughts—verses in the Bible,* said Violet, hanging her
220
SEAJlTSEASll j
head, and whispering, ' I don't mean at the worst. Then One
Conld only pray he might not suffer so much; hut things his
uncle had helped me to, did come so comfortably while he was
asleep. Don't you remember saying I had no troubles for
Helen's cross to comfort me in ?'
* And did it?' said Arthur, half smiling.
'Not itself, you know; but it helped to put me in mind to
be sure that all he was going through would somehow bo a
blessing. I could bear it then, and not be angry, as I was
last year. Dear little fellow, it is as if he would put me in
mind himself,- for the only thing like play he has done to-day
has been holding it up, and pulling its chain.'
'There! go to your mother, Johnnie,' said Arthur, giving
him back. ' She is a rare one, I tell you, and you understand
each other. He does not look much amiss either. He really is
a very pretty little fellow!' *
No wonder Arthur made the discovery, as he for the first
time remarked the large wistful dark eyes, the delicately fair
skin, which the heat of the fire had tinged with soft pink, on
the cheeks, the shapely little head, with its flaxen waves of
curl; and the tiny,' bare, rosy feet, outstretched to enjoy the
warmth. Very small, tender, and fragile he looked, and his
features had an almost mournful expression; but there was
something peculiarly engaging in this frail little being.
Violet was charmed with the tribute of admiration: indeed,
she had hardly known whether she might hope for Arthur s
return, though she had felt as if her heart would break if her
child should die without his coming. The winter, though
cheerful, had been spent in endeavours against her want of faith
and hope, and this hard trial in the spring had brought with it
a comfort and beginning of resignation that proved that her
efibrts had not been in vain.
Very happy she was as, Sarah oming up, she prepared to go
down with Arthur, who now reniembered to inform her of the
arrival of' Theodora and her dummy.'
These two personages were waiting in the drawing-room,
Theodora in an excited state of anticipation and energy, pre¬
pared for a summons to take the care of the baby, while Arthur
was supporting his wife in hysterics.
Long she waited and listened; at last there v/as an opening
of doors, then what she fancied the first shriek, and she started,
alarmed, in spite of being wound up; but it sounded nearer—
much too like a bond fide laugh, the very girlish sound she had
condemned—Arthur's voice—Violet's gaily answering 1 . Thej
came in, full of smiles, Violet with outstretched hands, ar4
OE, THE BEOTHER^S WIFE- 221
warm unconstrained welcome. ' How kind of you to come 1
I'm sorry you have been so long alone, but I did not know it,*
said she, kissing her sister-in-law, and giving a kind silent
greeting to the dumb boy.
Disconcerted at her waste of preparation, Theodora stood for
a moment, fancying Yiolet triumphant in having spoilt Arthur'a
holiday by what must have been an exaggerated trifle. She
was almost ready to make no inquiry for Johnnie, but 'con¬
ventional instinct' prevailed, and his parents were so full of
him, and of each other, that it set them off into an eager
conversation, such as made her, in her present mood, believe
^ herself neglected for the sake of Arthur's weak, tyrannical,
exacting idol. She resolved to take Charles at once to her
fathei's house. If it would not have been an insult to her
brother, she would have slept there herself. She surprised the
others by rising from her seat, and taking up the boy's caj).
' Oh!' exclaimed Violet, ' I had forgotten him, poor little
fellow. I will take him to Susan to have some tea.*
' Thank you, I am going to take him to the maid at our
hoilse.*
' O, pray do not,* said Yiolet, imploringly; 'there's plenty of
room here, and we can see about him so much better.*
' I had rather,* persisted Theodora.
'But see, it is getting dark. The lamps are lighted. You
can't go now.*
' I shall not lose my way,* said Theodora, taldng by the hand
the poor boy, who seemed unwilling to leave the fire and Mrs.
IMartindale's kind looks.
'How, Arthur! you wont let her go!' said Yiolet, dis¬
tressed.
'What's the row?' said Arthur. ' Setting out on your travels
again, Theodora?'
' Only to take Charlie to Belgrave-square.'
' I sha'n't come with you.*
' I can go by myself.'
'Nonsense. You have rattled the poor child about enough
for one day. Stay at home like a rational woman, and Yiolet
will see to him.*
The dumb child gazed as if he read their faces, and was
begging to remain; he gladly allowed Yiolet to take his hand,
and she led him away, inviting Theodora to come and give her
own directions about him to Susan, the girl from Brogden.
So sweet was the manner, so kind the welcome, and so pretty
the solicitude for her comfort, that pride and prejudice hail
mqch difliciilt^ in maintaining themselves. But Theodora
222
HEARTSEASE;
thouglit that she did not like blandishments, and she wAs
angry at the sensation of being in the inferior situation of
Violet's guest, at a moment of its being so signally shown that
she could not permit Arthur to enjoy himself without her.
To get home again as fast as possible was her resolution, as she
merely unpacked the articles for immediate use, and after s
hasty toilette, returned to the drawing-room.
Arthur and Violet were in earnest conversation. She fancied
herself an interruption, and did nob second their attempts to
make it general. Violet had received a letter from John, and
was offering it to Arthur, who only yawned.
*Eive sheets! He writes an abominably small hand! You
may tell me what it is about. Niggers and humming-birds and
such cattle, I suppose.'
' He has been to see the bishop. He wants a chaplain to live
in the house with him to teach the negroes, and have the
church when it is built.'
'No chance of his coming home, thenf
.' Np, he is so well and busy. Percy Fotheringham is to send
out some plans for the church—and only think? he has told
Percy to come and ask me about Mr. Panshawe—don't you
remember him V
' The curate at the chapel at Wrangerton V
' I once told John of his wish for missionary work, so Percy
is to see about it, and if it will do, send him to Lord Martin-
dale. Percy called yesterday, but I could not see him; indeed,
I had not time to read my letter; and oh, Theodora, I am so
glad you are come, for he wants all manner of infant school
pictures and books for the picaninnies, and it is just the com¬
mission you understand.'
The hearing of John's letter read, so far from mollifying
Theodora, renewed the other grievance. At home, it was only
by chance that she heard of her eldest brother's plans, even '
when matured and submitted to his father; and she now found
that they were discussed from the first with Violet, almost re¬
quiring her approval. The confidential ease and fiow made it
seem unlike John's composition, used as Theodora was to hear
only such letters of his as would bear unfriendly inspection,
entertaining, but like a book of travels. It was a fresh injury
to discover that he had a style from his heart.
Theodora was in a mood to search for subjects of disapproval,
bub the cheerful rooms, and even the extemporized ^nner,
afforded her none; the only cause of irritation she could find was
Arthur's anxiety when the lamplight revealed Violet's pale
exhausted looks. She had forgotten her fatigue as long as there
223
jras anytlimg to be done, and tbe delight of the arrival had
driven it away; bnt it now became evident that Arthur was
uneasy. Theodora was gloomy, and not responding to her
languid attempts at conversation, thinking there was affectation
in her worn-out plaintive voice.
As soon as the tedious dinner was over, Arthur insisted on
her going at once to bed, without listening to her entreaties
that, as it was Theodora's • first evening, she might lie on tlie
sofa and hear them talk. She turned back at the door to tell
Theodora that there was a new review on the table, with some¬
thing in it she would like to read, and then let Arthur take her
up stairs.
* Ah !* thought Theodora, ' tormenting him about the child
does not suffice—she must be ill herself! It is even beyond
what I expected. When she had brought him home she might
have let him have his evening in peace; but I suppose she is
displeased at my coming, and wont let him stay with me. She
will keep liim in attendance all the evening, so I may as well see
what books she has got. The West Indies ; The Crusaders—of
course ! Geoffroi de Villehardouin—Percy's name in it. Where's
this review? Some puff, I suppose. Yes; now if I was a silly
young lady, how much I should make of Percy because he has
made a good hit, and is a literary lion; but he shall see the
world makes no difference to me. I thought the book good in
manuscript; aod all the critics in the country wont make me
think a bit better of it or of its author. However, I'll just see
what nonsense they talk till she chooses to release Arthur.'
What would have been her displeasure if she had known
that Arthur was lingering upstairs giving his wife a ludicrous
version of her adventure with Mr. Wingfield?
After a time the drawing-room door opened, but she did not
heed it, meaning to be distant and indifferent; but a browner,
harder hand than Arthur's was put down on the book before
her, and an unexpected voice said, * Detected 1'
' Percy ! Oh, how are you ?' she exclaimed.
' I am very glad you are come; I came to inquire at the door,
and they told me that you were here. How is she, poor
thing?'
' She is gone to bed; Arthur thinks her knocked up.'
' It is well he is come ; I was much concerned at her being
alone yesterday. So little Johnnie is better?
' Like Mother Hubbard's dog.'
* The croup is no joke,' said Percy, gravely.
* Then you think there was really something in it V
' Why, what do you mean ? Do you think it vras humbug V
224
HEARTSEASE J
*Kot at all; but it was such a terrific account, and alarmed
poor Arthur so much, that it gave one rather a revulsion of
feeling to hear her laughing.*
' I am very glad she could laugh.*
'Well, but don't you think, Percy, that innocently, perhaps,
she magnified a little alarm V
' You would not speak of little alarms if you had seen Harding
this morning. I met him just coming away after a fearful
night. The child was in the utmost danger; but his mother's
calmness and presence of mind never failed. But I'll say no
more, for the sound wholesome atmosphere of this house must
cure you of your prejudices.*
Arthur came down dispirited; and Percy, v/ho had thouglit
him an indifferent father, was pleased with him, and set himself
to cheer his spirits, seconded by Theodora, who was really
penitent.
She could not be at peace with herself till she had made some
amends; and when she had wished her brother good night,'
found her way to the nursery, where her old friend Sarah sat,.
keeping solemn watch over the little cot by the fire. One of
her sepulchral whispers assured the aunt that he was doing
nicely; but the thin white little face, and spare hand and arm,
grieved Theodora's heart, and with no incredulity she listened
to Sarah's description of the poor little fellow's troubles and
sweet unconscious patience, and that perfect trust in his mother
that always soothed and quieted him. It appeared that many
nights had been spent in broken rest, and for the last two
neither mother nor nurse had undressed. Sarah was extremely
concerned for her mistress, who, she said, was far from strong,
and she feared would be made as ill as she was last year, and if
so, nothing could save her. This made Theodora feel as if she
had been positively cruel, and she was the more bent on repara¬
tion. She told Sarah she must be over-tired, and was told, as
if it was a satisfactory answer, that Mrs. Martindale had wished
her to go to bed at six this morning. However, her eyes
loqked extinguished, and Theodora, by the fascinating manuv, r
she often exercised with inferiors, at last persuaded her to lie
down in her clothes, and leave her to keep watch.
It was comfortable to hear the deep breathings of the weary
servant, and to sit by that little cot, sensible of being for once
of substantial use, and meaning that no one ever should know
it. But she was again disconcerted; for the stairs creaked, the
door was softly opened, and Arthur stood on the threshold.
The colour mantled into fier fago, as if she had been doing
wrong,
** Dear Theodora, I am afraid you don't like it, but you must let me this once
thank you.' "—Page 225.
OJR. THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
225
' The poor maid is worn out; I am come for the first part of
the night/ she said, in a would-be cold whisper. But his smile
and low-toned * Thank you,* were so different from all she had
ever known from him, that she could hardly maintain her
attempt at impassibility.
* I thought Violet would sleep better for the last news,* said
he, kneeling on one knee to look at the child, his face so softened
and thoughtful that it was hardly like the same; but recovering,
he gave a broad careless smile, together with a sigh : ^ Little
monkey,* he said, ' he gets hold of one somehow—I wish he may
have got through it. Theodora, I hope you will have no alarms.
Violet will take it very kind of you.'
'Oh, don't tell her.*
' Good night,* and he leaned over her and kissed her fore¬
head, in a grave grateful way that brought the tears into her
eyes as he silently departed.
Her vigil was full of thoughts, and not unprofitable ones.
Her best feelings were stirred up, and she could not see Arthur,
in this new light, without tenderness untainted by jealousy.
Percy had brought her to a sense of her injustice—^this was the
small end of the wedge, and the discovery of the real state of
things was another blow. While watching the placid sleep of
the child, it was not easy to harden herself against its mother;
and after that first relenting and acknowledgment, the flood of
honest warm strong feeling was in a way to burst the barrier
of haughtiness, and carry her on further than she by any means
anticipated. The baby slept quietly, and the clock had struck
two before his first turn on the pillow wakened Sarah, though
a thunder-clap would not have broken her slumber. She was
at his cradle before he had opened his eyes, and feeding and
fondling hushed his weak cry before it had disturbed his
mother. Theodora went to her room on good terms with
herself.
She had never allowed late hours to prevent her from going
to the early service, and as she left her room prepared for it,
she met Violet coming out of the nursery. Theodora for once
did not attempt to disguise her warmth of heart, and eagerly
asked for the little boy.
'Quite comfortable — almost merry,* answered Violet, and
taking the hand stretched out in a very different way from the
formal touch with which it usually paid its morning greeting,
and raising her eyes with her gentle earnest look, she said,
' Dear Theodora, I am afraid you don't like it, but you must
let mo this once thank you.*
Theodor^-'s face was such that Violet ventured to kks Ler,
9
226
HEARTSEASE ;
then found an arm ronnd her neck, and a warm kiss in return.
Theodora ran down stairs, thinking it a discovery that there
was more beauty in those eyes than merely soft brown colour
and long black lashes.
It was a long time since her heart had been so light. It was
as if a cold hard weight was removed. That one softening
had been an inexpressible relief, and when she had thrown aside
the black veil that had shrouded her view, everything looked so
bright and sweet that she could hardly understand it.
The whole scene was new. She had been seldom from home,
and only as a visitor in great houses, whither Lady Martindale
carried formality; and she had never known the charm of ease
in a small family. Here it would have been far more hard to
support her cold solitary dignity than in the ' high baronial
pride' of Martindale. She was pleased to see how well Arthur
looked as master of the house, and both he and his wife were
so much delighted to make her welcome now that she would
allow them, that it seemed extraordinary that a year and three
quarters had passed without her ever having entered their
house. Violet was, she owned, a caressing, amiable, loveable
creature, needing to be guarded and petted, and she laid herself
open to the pleasure of having something to make much of and
patronise.
After breakfast, Violet installed her in the back drawing-
room, promising that she should there be entirely free from in¬
terruption, but she had no desire to shut herself up; she was
eager to see little Johnnie, and did not scruple to confess it.
He was their chief bond of union, and if she was, charmed with
him now, when feeble and ailing, how much more as he re¬
covered. Even at his best, he was extremely delicate, very
small, thin, and fair, so that face and arms, as well as flaxen hair,
were all as white as his frock, and were only enlivened by his
dark eyes. He was backward in strength, but almost too for¬
ward in intelligence; grave and serious, seldom laughing, and
often inclined to be fretful, altogether requiring the most
anxious care, but exceedingly engaging and afiectionate, and
already showing patience and obedience to his mother that was
almost affecting. Their mutual fondness was beautiful, and
Theodora honoured it when she saw that the tenderness was
judicious, obviating whines, but enforcing obedience even when
it was pain and grief to cross the weakly child.
Moreover, Theodora was satisfied by finding that she had dili¬
gently kept up the Sunday-school teaching of the little Brogden
maid; and as to her household management, Theodora set her¬
self to learn it ; and soon began to theorize and devise grand
OE, THE BEOTHEE'S WIFE.
22?
plans of economy, wliicli slie wanted Violet to put in practice at
once, and when told they would not suit Arthur, complacently
answered, * That would not be her hindrance.'
Violet wrote to John that if he could see Theodora and Percy
now, he would be completely satisfied as to their attachment
and cliancea of happiness.
CHAPTER XII.
I Baw her hold Earl Percy at the point
With lustier maintenance than I did look for
Of such an ungrown warrior. King Henry IV.
AS soon as Violet could leave her little boy without anxiety,
the two sisters deposited Charles Layton at the Deaf and
Dumb Asylum, with hopes that a few years' training there
would enable him to become Miss Martindale's little page, the
grand object of his desires.
Their next and merriest excursion was "to Percy's lodgings,
where he had various Greek curiosities which he wished to show
tliem ; and Theodora consented to come with her brother and
sister in a simple straightforward way that Violet admired.
His rooms were over a toy-shop in Piccadilly, in such a roar
of sounds that the ladies exclaimed, and Arthur asked him how
much he paid for noise.
' It is worth having,' said Percy; ' it is cheerful.'
' Do you think so V exclaimed Violet. * I think carriages,
especially late at night, make a most dismal dreary sound.'
* They remind me of an essay of Miss Talbot's, where she
speaks cf her companions hastening home from the feast of
em})ty shells,* said Theodora.
' Ay 1 those are your West-end carriages,' said Percy;' I will
allow them a dreary dissatisfied sound. Now mine are honest,
business-like market-waggons, or hearty tradesfolk coming home
in cabs from treating their children to the play. There is sense
in those 1 I go to sleep thinking what drops of various natures
make up the roar of that great human cataract, and wake up
dreaming of the Rhine falls.
' Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide.
And a river flows down the vale of Cheapside,*
Eh, Mrs. Martindale ?'
Violet, who always received a quotation of Wordsworth as a
compliment to the north, smiled and answered, 'I am afraid
with me it would end in
' Tho stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise.*
Q 2
£28
HEAETSEASE ;
* Pish, Violet,* said her husband; 'how can you expect to feel
like poets and lovers? And halloo ! he is coming"it strong!
Poems hy A, The White Hind, and other Poems; Gwyneth: a
tale in verse; Farewell to FausUippo, hy the Earl of St. Erme.
Well done, Percy! Are you collecting original serenades for
Theodora ? Pll never betray where they came from.*
' It is all in the way of trade,* said Percy.
' Peviewing V said Theodora.
' Yes j there has been such an absurd amount of flattery
bestowed on them that it must provoke any reasonable being.
It really is time to put forth a little common sense, since
the magazines will have it that earls write better than other
people.*
' Some of the verses in Lord St. Erme's last volume seem to
me very pretty,* said Violet.
' There, she is taking up the cudgels for her countryman,'
said Arthur, always pleased when she put herself forward.
' Which do you mean V said Percy, turning on her incre¬
dulously.
' I like those about the Bay of Naples,* she answered.
' You do not mean these ?' and he read them in so good-
humoured a tone that no one could be vexed, but marking every '
inconsistent simile and word tortured out of its meaning, and
throwing in notes and comments on the unfaithfulness of> the
description.
' There ! it would do as well for the Bay of Naples as for the
farm-yard at Martindale—all water and smoke.*
Arthur and Theodora laughed, but Violet stood her ground,
blushingly but resolutely.
' Anything so read would sound ill,* she said. ' I dare say it
is all right about the faults, but some parts seem to me very
pretty. This stanza, about the fishermen's boats at night, like
sparks , upon the water, is one I like, because it is what John
once described to me.*
' You are right, Mrs. Martindale,* said Percy, reading a second
time the lines to which she alluded. ' They do recal the evening
scene; Mount Vesuvius and its brooding cloud, and the trails
of phosphoric light upon the sea. I mark these for apj^roval.
But have you anything to say for this Address to the Medi¬
terranean ?'
lie did not this time mar the poem in the reading, and it was
not needed, the compound words and twisted epithets were so
extravagant that no one gainsaid Arthur's sentence, ' Stilts and
bladders !'
• And all that abuse of the savage north is unpardonable,'
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
229
said Theodora. ' Sluggish torpid minds, indeed, frozen by skies
bound in mist belts ! If he would stay at home and mind his
own business, he would not have time to talk such nonsense.'
* How,* said the still undaunted Yiolet, when the torrent of
unsparing jest had expended itself, ' now it is my turn. Let
me show you one short piece. This—To X.'
' It was an address evidently to his orphan sister, very beau¬
tiful and simple; and speaking so touchingly of their loneliness
together and dependence on each other, that Mr. Fotheringham
was overcome, and fairly broke down in the reading—^to the
dismay of Yiolet, who had little thought his feelings so easily
excited.
* Think of the man going and publisliing it,' said Theodora.
' If I was Lady Lucy, I should not care a rush for it now.'
' That is what you get by belonging to a poet,' said Arthur.
* He wears his heart outside.'
* This came straight from the heart, at least,' said Percy. 'It
is good, very good. I am glad you showed it to me. It would
noA^er do not to be candid. I will turn him over again.'
'Well done, councillor,' cried Arthur. 'She has gained a
verdict for him.'
' Modified the sentence, and given me some re-writing to do,'
said Percy. * I cannot let him off j the more good there is in
liira, the more it is incumbent on some one to slash him.
Authors are like spaniels, et cetera.'
' Hear, hear, Theodora !' cried Arthur. See there, he has
the stick ready, I declare.'
For in truth Arthur would hardly have been so patient of
hearing so much poetry, if it had not been for the delight he
always took in seeing his wife's opinion sought by a clever man,
and he was glad to turn for amusement to Percy's curiosities.
Over the mantelpiece there was a sort of trophy in imitation of
the title-page to Robinson Crusoe, a thick hooked stick set up
saltire-wise with the green umbrella, and between them a yata¬
ghan, supporting a scarlet blue-tasselled Greek cap. Percy took
(lown the stick, and gave it into Theodora's hand, saying, ' It.
lias been my companion over half Europe and Asia; I cut it
at ^
' By the well of St. Keynel' suggested the malicious brother.
'No, at the source of the Scamander,' said Percy. ' It
served us in good stead when we got into the desert of
Engaddi.*
' Oh 1 Avas that when the robbers broke into John's tent ?'
exclaimed Yiolet. ' Surely you had some better weapon f
'Not I; the poor rogues were not worth Avasting good
230
HEARTSEASE ;
powder on, and a good Engliali drubbing was a much newer and
more efiective experiment. I was thenceforth known by the
name of Grandfather of Clubs, and Brown always manoeuvred
me into sleeping across the entrance of the tent. I do believe
we should have left him entombed in the desert sands, if Johns
dressing-case had been lost!'
* What a capital likeness of John,' said Theodora. ' Mam ma
would be quite jealous of it.'
' It belonged to my sister,' said Percy. ' He got it done by
an Italian, who has made him rather theatrically melancholy;
but it is a good picture, and like John when he looked more
young-mannish and sentimental than he does now.'
A hiss and cluck made Violet start. In a dark corner,
shrouded by the curtain, sat Pallas Athene, the owl of the Par¬
thenon, winking at the light, and testifying great disapproval ot
Arthur, though when her master took her on his finger, she
drew herself up and elevated her pretty little feathery horns
with satisfaction, and did not even object to his holding her to
a great tabby cat belonging to the landlady, but which was most
at home on the hearth-rug of the good-natured lodger.
* I always read my compositions to them,' said Percy. * Pallas
acts sapient judge to admiration, and Puss never commits her¬
self, applauding only her own music—like other critics. We
reserve our hisses for others.'
* How do you feed the owl, Percy V
* A small boy provides her with sparrows and mice for six¬
pence a dozen. I doubted whether it was cruelty to animals,
but decided that it was diverting the spirit of the chase to ob¬
jects more legitimate than pocket-handkerchiefs.'
* Ho ! so there you seek your proteges /'
' He sought me. I seized him fishing in my pocket. I found
he had no belongings, and that his most commodious lodging-
house was one of the huge worn-out boilers near Nine-Elms—
an illustration for Watts's Hymns, Theodora.'
' Poor little creature 1' said Violet, horrified. ' What will
become of him ]'
* He is doing justice to the patronage of the goddess of wisdom,'
said Percy. * He is as sharp as a needle, and gets on in the
world—has discarded 'conveying,' and promoted himself to
selling lucifers.'
' A happy family theirs will be,' said Arthur. ' Cat, owl,
and two rival pages !'
So, having duly admired all, curious books, potteries, red and
black, tiles and lachrymatories, coins, scraps of ancient armour,
a stuffed bee-eater, and the bottled remains of a green lizard
OR, THE BROTHERS WIFE.
231
that had been a pet ^t Constantinople—and having been in¬
structed in the difference between various Eastern modes of
writing—^the merry visit closed j and as the two sisters went
home they planned a suit of clothes for the owl's provider,
Theodora stipulating for all the hard and. imusual needle^
work.
CHAPTEE, XIII.
I am ashamed that women are so simple
To offer war when they should kneel for peace.
Or seek the rule, supremacy, and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.
Taming of the Shrew.
IT was -an early season, and Theodora had not been a fortnight
at her brother's before numerous arrivals necessitated a
round of visits, to which she submitted without more than
moderate grumbling. The first call was on the Eickworfh
ladies ; but it was not a propitious moment, for other visitors
were in the drawing-room, and among them Miss Marstone.
Emma came to sit by Violet, and was very anxious to hear
whether she had not become intimate with Theresa. Violet
could not give a good account of herself in this respect; their
hours did not suit, and they had only twice met.
' And is she not delightful V
* She is a very superior person,* said Violet, looking down*
' Do you know her sisters ? I liked one of them.*
* We shall have to call on them, but they are mere ordinary
girls—^no companions to Theresa. She laments it very much,
and has had to make a line for herself. I must come and tell
you about it some morning. It is nonsense to meet in this way
and think of conversation.'
Theodora had, in the mean time, had the exclusive attention
of Miss Marstone. ' So Emma is constant to the Prse-Raffaelite,*
said Theodora, as they drove from the door. * What is all this
about the Priory ?'
' Did Miss Marstone talk about that V said Violet, aghast.
* She said something about a restoration. What! is it a
secret V
' I suppose she thought you must know it, since I did. I
was much surprised by her beginning about it to me; for
when Emma first mentioned it to me, Lady Elizabeth seemed
vexed, and begged me never to hint at it.*
'So Emma wants to make restitution. Well done, little.
Emma I I did not think it was in her.*
HEARTSEASE ;
* It lias been Ler darling scbeme for years; but Lady Eliza¬
beth lias made her promise to -wait till she is five-and-twenty,
and not to consider herself pledged.'
' How like Lady Elizabeth ! One respects her like an insti¬
tution ! I hope Emma may hold out, but she has a firebrand
in her counsels. I am glad you are not infatuated.'
' I am sure I don't know what I think of Miss Marstone.
I cannot like her; yet I want to admire her—she is so good.'
' Let her be as good as she pleases j why should she be
silly V
' Oh! she is very clever.'
' "When good and clever people are silly, they are the biggest
simpletons of all.'
' Then I don't think I quite know what you mean by silli¬
ness.'
* Not turning one's sense to the best advantage, I suppose,'
said Theodora. * That Miss Marstone provokes me. If her
principles were not right I should not care ; but when she has
sound views, to see her go on talking, with no reserve, only
caring for what is out of the way, it makes one feel oneself
turned to ridicule. How can Lady Elizabeth endure it V
* I don't think she likes it, but Emma is so fond of her 1'
' Oh ! as to Emma, her poor little imagination is dazzled. It
is providential that she has four years to wait! Unless, indeed,
there is a re-action, and she marries either a broken-down fox-
hunter or a popular preacher.'
> Yiolet's horrified protests were cut short by the carriage
stopping. In returning, they called at Mrs. Finch's house, to
inquire when the family were expected to return from Paris.
They had arrived that morning, and Yiolet said she would make
a short visit, and then go home and send the carriage back, but
Theodora preferred walking home.
As they were announced, Mrs. Finch started up from a
gilded sofa on which she had been reclining, reading a French
brochure. Her dress was in the excess of the newest Parisian
fashion, such as even to London eyes looked outri, and, as well
as her hair, had the disordered look of being just off a journey.
Her face had a worn aspect, and the colour looked fixed. Theo¬
dora, always either rigidly simple or appropriately splendid, did
not like'Yiolet to see her friend in such a condition, and could
almost have shrunk from the eager greeting. * Theodora Mar-
tindale ! This is delightful! It is a real charity to look in on
us to-day 1 Mrs. Martindale, how are you? You look better
than last time I saw you. Let me introduce you to IMr.
Finch.'"
OR, THR BROTHER'S WIEE.
233
IMr. Fincli was a little dried-iip man, whose ceremonious bow
put Violet in mind of the Mayor of Wrangerton. Bending low,
he politely gave her a chair, and then subsided into oblivion j
while Miss Gardner came forward, as usual, the same trim,
quiet, easy-mannered person, and began to talk to Violet, while
Mrs. Finch was loudly conversing with Theodora.
The apartment was much in the same style as the lady's dress,
full of gilding and bright colour; expensive, but not producing
a good effect j especially as the sofa had been dragged forward
to the fire, and travelling gear and newspapers lay about un¬
tidily. Altogether there was something unsatisfactory to the
feelings, of both Theodora and Violet, though Mrs. Finch was
very affectionate in her impetuous way, and Miss Gardner
gently kind to Violet, asking many questions about her little
boy.
Violet soon took leave, and Mr. Finch went down with her
to the carriage.
* That is a fresh complexion, that does one good to see !' cried
Mrs. Finch, when she w^as gone. ' I am glad to see her in
better looks and spirits.'
' She understands the art of dress,' said Miss Gardner.
Theodora was on the point of making a sharp answer. Tt
was the consequence of having once allowed her brother's wife
to be freely canvassed, and she was glad that an opening door
checked the conversation.
There entered a tall fashionable-looking man, with a glossy
brown moustache, and a very hairy chin, but of prepossessing
and gentlemanlike appearance. He leant over the sofa, and
said a few words in a low voice to Mrs. Finch, who answered
with nods, and a display of her white teeth in smiles. Baising
himself, as if to go, he said, ' Ah ! by-the-bye, who is that
pretty friend of yours that I met Finch escorting down stairs 1
A most uncommon style of beauty—
' That was Mrs. Martindale,' said Miss Gardner, rather in
liaste.
'Arthur Martindale's village maid? Ha! Jane, there's
jealousy; I thought you told me—
' Georgina 1' exclaimed Jane, 'you should have introduced
Mark to Miss Martindale.'
As Theodora moved her stately neck she felt as if a thunder¬
bolt had fallen j but the gentleman's manner was particularly
pleasing.
' It is Jane's concern,* said Mrs. Finch, laughing. ' I leave
you to infer why she checks his communications.'
' There is nothing more awkward than ' You told me so,' said
£34
HEARTSEASE ;
Mr. Gardner, ' since the days of 'Who is your next neighbour,
sir V I may be allowed some interest in the matter, for your
brother is an old school-fellow of mine.*
' Come r exclaimed Georgina, ' if you stay dawdling here, my
letter wont be written, and my vases wont come. Fancy,
Theodora, such delicious Sevres vases, big enough to hold the
Forty Thieves, sky blue, with medallions of Mars and Venns,
and Cupids playing tricks—^the loveliest things imaginable—
came from Versailles—absolutely historical.'
' Lauzun is supposed to have been hidden in one,' said Mr.
Gardner.
' I vowed I would have them, and I never fail. Mark has
been through fire and water for them.'
' And I suppose they cost—said Theodora.
' The keep of half a dozen starving orphans,' said Mrs. Finch,
triumphantly. ' Ay, you may look, Theodora j but they are
ray trophies.*
' I wish you joy of them,' said Theodora.
' So you shall, when you see them; and that she may, off with
you, Mark, or the post will go.'
' My cousin is a despot,' said Mark, moving off, with a bow
' to Theodora; Mrs. Finch, following, spoke a few words, and
then shut him into the other room.
'Poor Mark !' said Jane, in the interval. 'We have brought
him home. He has had a little property left him, and means
to clear off his debts and make a fresh beginning. His poor
mother is so delighted !'
'The coast is clear,' said Mrs. Finch, returning. 'Now,
Theodora, is it true that you are going to be married f
Point blank questions did not excite Theodora's blushes ; and
she composedly answered 'Some time or other.'
' There ! I knew it could not be true,* cried Jane.
' What is not true V said Theodora.
' Not that you are going to have the curate I' said Mrs. Finch
'Jane, Jane, that has brought the rouge! Oh! I hope and
trust it is not the curate.*
' Certainly not,* said Theodora, in a grave deliberate voice.
' That's a mercy 1* said Mrs. Finch. ' I had not the slightest
confidence in you. I always reckoned on your making some
wild choice. Oh 1 by-the-bye, do tell me where Percy Fother-
ingham is to be found. I must have him at our first party.
What a charming book that is !*
' Even at Paris every one is full of it, already,* said Jane. ' I
feel quite jealous of you, Theodora, for knowing him so Well,
when we, his cousins, never saw him at all.'
Glly THE BKOTHER'S WIFE. 235
' Cousins in royal fashion/ said Theodora, - glad that the
blush had begun for Mr. Wingfield. * What is the exact
connexion V
* You explain, Jane ; it is past me. I am content to count
kindred with the royal beast.'
* Lady Fotheringham, his uncle's wife, is sister to Mark s
mother, my uncle's wife,' said Jane. * There 1 I trust that is
lucidly done.*
* That is all, is it ?' said Theodora.
* Enough for the sending of a card. Tell me where, if you
know.*
Theodora named the place.
' Does he show off well ? Mark says he has claws—*
*I have known him too long to tell how he appears to
strangers,' said Theodora, as the colour mounted again.
* Do you see much of him V
* lie comes to Arthur's house.*
* You have ventured there V said Jane. ' It was hard not
to be able to come for the season otherwise.'
** I came up to bring the dumb boy to the Asylum. I am
staying on because I like it.'
' Do you mean to go out with her ]'
* When she goes, I do so too, but I am not come for the
season. My brother's regiment is ordered to Windsor, and
perhaps I may stay to be with her.'
'She has more manner than last year,* said Jane: 'she is
greatly improved in looks. You will believe me, Theodora, all
I said to Mark only referred to her paleness.*
' It wont do, Jane,' said her sister; 'you only make it worse.
I see how it is ; Theodora has found out that her sister-in-law
is a pretty little pet of a thing that does her no harm, and you
have got into the wrong box by flattering her first dislike. Yes,
yes, Theodora, we know Jane of old; and never could get her
to see the only safe way is to tell one's mind straight out.*
' I don't see it established that I did not tell Theodora my
real mind,* said Jane, quietly ; ' I always thought Mrs. Martin-
dale pretty and elegant—*
' Self-evident,' said Georgina ; ' but if 1 had been among you,
would not I have told Theodora the poor child was cowed by
her dignities, and Mrs. Nesbit and all the rest ] Oh, I would
have made much of her, and brought her forward. She should
have been my queen of Violets : I would have done it last year
if that unlucky baby had not come in the way.*
' And now she does not need patronage,' said Jane.
'No; and now Theodora has found her out for herself—a
236
heahtsease ;
better tbing,* said Mrs. Fincli. ' You look all tlie better for it I 1
never saw you look so bright or so handsome, Theodora! You are
a happy girl!'—and there was a sigh. Some interruption here
occurring, Theodora took her leave, and walked home. She felt
ruffled by her visit, and as she came in-doors, ran upstairs and
knocked at her sister's door. The room looked cool and pleasant,
and Violet was lying down in her white, frilled dressing-gown,
so freshly, purely, delicately neat, and with so calm and sweet a '
smile, that the contrast marked itself strongly, and Theodora
thought no one ever looked more innocent and engaging. ' I
hope you are not tired V
' Oh, no ; I only thought it wiser to rest, thank you.*
' I came to tell you that Georgina Finch wants us to go to a
party next Tuesday week. There's nothing to prevent it, is
there V
' I know of nothing; but Arthur will say—'
' We are to bring Percy. I meant to have told them of our
affair ; but I did not think they deserved it just then. I am
glad he is no real relation to that Mr. Gardner.'
* Was it Mr. Gardner who met me going down stairs?' said
Violet, with an unpleasant recollection of having been stared
at. * Is he their brother V
'No; their cousin. I wonder what you think of them?'
said Theodora, hastily throwing aside her bonnet and gloves,
and seating herself.
' Miss Gardner is very good-natured and pleasing.'
' Those words are made for her. But what of Georgina ?'
'' I hardly know her,' said Violet, hesitating. ' This is only
the second time I have seen her; and last year I was so unwell
that her liveliness was too much for me.'
' Overpowering,' said Theodora. ' So people say. It is time
she should steady; but she will not tliink. I'm provoked with
her. I did not like her looks to-day, and yet she has a good
warm heart. She is worth a dozen Janes! Don't prefer
Jane to her, whatever you do, Violet 1' Then breaking off, she
began earnestly: ' You see, Violet, those are my oldest friends;
I never could care for any girl but Georgina, and we have done
such things together as I never can forget. They had great
disadvantages; a set of wretched governesses—one worse than
the other, and were left entirely to their mercy. My education
was no pattern; but it was a beauty to theirs, thanks to my
father. I do believe I was the only person with any serious
notions that Georgina ever came in contact with, in til her
growing up. Their father died just as she was coming out,
leaving very little provision for them; and they were shifted
OS. THE BROTHES'S WIFE.
237
about among fine relations, who only wanted to get rid of
them, and gave them to understand they must marry for a~
home.*
* Poor girls! What a miserable life !*
'Jane knew she was no beauty, and took to the obliging
line. She fawns, and is intimate and popular. I never liked
her silkiness, though it creeps into one at the time. Georgina
had more in her. I wish you could have seen her at eighteen.
She was such a fine, glowing, joyous-looking girl, with those
bright cheeks, and her eyes dancing and light hair waving, and
exuberant spirits that no neglect or unkindness could daunt—
all wild gaiety, setting humbug at defiance, and so good-
natured ! Oh ! dear, it make? one melancholy 1'
' And what made the change?'
' She had a long, low, nervous fever, as they called it; but
I have never known much about it, for it was when we were
all taken up with John's illness. She was very long in re¬
covering, and I suppose her spirit 'was broken, and that the
homelessness grew unbearable; for, whereas she had always
declared for honest independence and poverty, the next thing
I heard of her was, that she had accepted this miserable money-
making old wretch 1'
' Perhaps she liked him.'
' jSfo, indeed ! She despises him, and does not hide it! She
is true! that is the best of her. I cannot help caring for
Georgina. Poor thing, I hate to see it! Her spirits as high
as ever, and with as little ballast; and yet she looks so fagged.
She was brought up to dissipation—and does not know where
else to turn. She has not a creature to say a vrord the right
way 1'
* Not her sister?' said Violet. 'She seemed serious and
good.'
' No one can tell what is the truth in Jane,' said Theodora;
* and her sister, who knows her best, is the last person to be
influenced by her. Some one to whom she could look up is
the only chance. Oh, how I wish she had a child 1 Anything
to love would make her think. But there was something in
the appearance of that room I cannot get over.'
' The confusion of arriving—*
' No, nothing ever could have made it so with you ! I don't
know what it was, but . Well, I do think nothing else
prevented me from telling them about Percy. I meant it when
I said I would stay after you; and they talked about his book,
and asked if I saw much of him, and I faced it out, so that
they never suspected ;t, and now I think it was cowardly. I
238
HEARTSEASE;
know! I will go at once, and write Georgina a note, and tell
her the truth.'
She went, and after a little interval, Violet began to dress for
a party at the house of a literary friend of Lady Martindale's,
where they were to meet an Ikstem grandee then visiting
London. As she finished, she bethought herself, that Theodora
liad never before had to perform a grand toilette without a
lady's maid; and going to her room, found her, indeed, with
her magnificent black tresses still spread over her shoulders,
flushed, humiliated, almost angry at her own failures in dis¬
posing of them.
* Don't I look like an insane gipsy f said she, looking up,
and tossing back the locks that hung over her face.
' Can I do anything to help you V
* Thank you; sit down, and I'll put all this black stuflT out
of the way,' said Theodora, grasping her hair with the action of
the Tragic Muse. * I'll put it up in every-day fashion. I wish
you would tell me what you do to yours to get it into those
pretty plaits.'
* I could show you in a minute; but as it is rather late, per¬
haps you would not dislike my trying to put it up for you.'
* Thank you—no, pray don't; you will tire yourself.'
But it was spoken with none of the old disdain, and left an
opening for coaxing.
* I used to be thought a good hand with my sisters' hair. It
will be such a treat if you will only let me try,' said she,
emboldened to stroke the raven tresses, and then take the
comb, while Theodora yielded, well pleased. * On condition
you give me a lesson to-morrow. I am not to be maid-ridden
all my life,' and it ended with * Thank you ! That is comfort¬
able. You came in my utmost need. I am only ashamed of
having troubled you.'
* Don't say so. I am so much obliged to you for letting me
try. It is more like being at home with you,' murmured Violet,
turning away; but her voice as well as the glass betrayed her
tearful eyes, and Theodora's sensation was a reward for her
pride having slumbered and allowed her to accept a service.
Mr. Eotheringham came to dinner that he might go with
them to the party. As they were drinking cofiee before setting
out, Mrs. Finch's invitation was mentioned.
* You had better leave your card for her, Percy,* said Theodora.
He made no answer.
Will you dine with us first and goV said Violet.
Thank you ; I do not mean to visit them.'
No!' exclaimed Theodora. *They are connexions 1'
OR, THE EROTIIER'S WIFE.
239
•^The more cause for avoiding them.*
* I have promised to introduce you.'
' I am afraid you reckoned without your host.*
'Ha?* cried Arthur, 'the lion is grown coquettish with fine
feeding. He is not easy of leading.*
She is my greatest friend,* said Theodora, as if it was con¬
clusive ; but Percy only answered, ' I should be very sorry to
believe so,* set down his cup, and began to read the paper. She
was the more irritated. ' Percy,* she said, ' do you really not
intend to go to this party ?'
* Certainly not.*
'Not to visit a relation of your own, and my most intimate
friend, when it is my especial desire ?*
'You do not know what you are talking of,* he answered,
without raising his eyes.
' Percy 1* exclaimed Theodora, her pride and affection so
mortified that she forgot that Arthur was looking on with mis¬
chievous glee, ' have you any reason for this neglect?'
' Of course I have,' said he, reading on.
' Then let me hear it.*
'You force it from me, Theodora,' said Percy, laying down
the paper : ' it is because I will not enter into any intercourse
I can avoid with persons whose conduct I disapprove.*
Violet coloured and shrank closer to her husband. Theodora's
face and neck turned almost crimson, and her eyes sparkled,
but her voice only showed unmoved disdain. ' Remember, she
is my friend!
' You do not know her history, or you would not call her so.*
' I do. What is there to be ashamed of?'
' I see, you know nothing of the prior attachment,* said
Percy, not without anger at her pertinacity.
' A boy and girl liking that had been long past.*
' 0 it had, had it?' said Percy, ironically. ' So you approve
her marrying an old rogue and miser, who had heaped up his
hoards by extortion of wretched Indians and Spaniards, the
very scum of Mammon, coming to the top like everything
detestable ?'
' I never heard his money was ill-gotten.*
' Those who spend don't ask whence gold comes. And you
justify her keeping the old love, this cousin, dangling about her
house all the winter till she is the talk of Paris.*
' I don't believe gossip.*
' Can you deny that he is in London in her train?*
' He has come into some property, and means to tuin over a
new leaf.*
240
HEARTSEASE
' Ay, and a ■worse leaf than before.*
' How can you judge of his resolutions V
Arthur laughed, saying,' I'd not bet much on Mark Gardner's.'
. Much to Violet's relief, the carriage was announced; the
gentlemen walked, and Theodora talked of indifferent matters
fast and gaily. Percy handed Mrs. Martindale out. and cave
her his arm, leaving Theodora to her brother.
It was a small select party, almost every one known to
Theodora; and she was soon in eager conversation at some
distance from Violet, who was sorry for Percy, as he stood in
silence beside her own chair, vexation apparent on his honest
face.
* Who is that talking to Theodora !' he presently asked. ■
It was a small light-complexioned gentleman, whose head
and face, and the whole style of his dress and person, might
have made him appear a boy of seventeen, but for a pale mous¬
tache and tuft on the chin. Theodora looked very animated,
and his face was glowing with the pleasure of her notice.
' I cannot tell,' said Violet; ' there is Arthur, ask him.'
Percy was moving towards Arthur, when he was caught by
the master of the house, and set to talk to the Oriental in his
own language. Violet had never been so impressed by his
talents as while listening to his fluent conversation in the
foreign tongue, making the stranger look delighted and amused,
and giving the English audience lively interpretations, which
put them into ready communication with tha wonder at whom
they had hitherto looked in awkwardness. Theodora did not
come near the group, nor seem to perceive Violet's entreating
glances; and when the Eastern prince departed, Percy had also
disappeared. Violet was gratified by the ladies around her
descanting on his book and his Syriac, and wished Theodora
could hear them.
At that moment she found Theodora close to her, presenting
Lord St. Erme to Mrs. Arthur Martindale! After so much
dislike to that little insignificant fight man for being the means
of vexing Percy, to find him the poet hero, the feudal vision of
nobility, the Lord of Wrangerton 1 What an adventure for her
mother to hear of!
It was a pleasant and rather pretty face when seen near, with
very good blue eyes, and an air of great taste and refinement,
and the voice was very agreeable, as he asked some question
about the Eastern prince. Violet hardly knew what she
answered.
' I met him yesterday, but it was fiat,* he said. ' They had
a man there whose Syriac was only learnt from books, and who
OR, TUfe BROTHER'S WIFE.
241
Could understand him. The interpreter to-night was li\r
more au-faii—^very clever he seemed. Who ^yas he V
' Mr. Fotheringham/ said Theodora.
'The Crusader 1 Was it, indeed f said Lord St. Erme,
eagerly. 'Is he here! I wish particularly to make his ac¬
quaintance.'
' I believe he is gone,* said Yiolet, pitying the unconscious
victim, and at once amused, provoked, and embarrassed.
' You know him V
Yiolet marvelled at the composure of Theodora's reply. ' Yes,
my eldest brother was his travelling companion.'
' Is it possible 1 Your brother the ' M' of the book V ex¬
claimed the young Earl, with enthusiastic delight and interest.
' I never guessed it! I must read it again for the sake of
meeting him.'
'You often do meet him there,' said Theodora, 'as my sister
can testify. She was helping him to revise it last summer at
Yentnor.'
' I envy you 1' cried Lord St. Erme, ' to go through such a
book with such a companion was honour indeed !'
' It was delightful,' said Yiolet.
' Those are such delicious descriptions,' proceeded he. ' Do
you remember the scene where he describes the crusading camp
at Constantinople 1 It is the perfection of language—^places
the whole before you—carries you into the spirit of the time.
It is a Tasso unconscious of his powers, borne along by his
innate poetry;' then pausing, 'surely you admire it. Miss
l^Iartindale V
' 0, yes,' said Theodora, annoyed at feeling a blush arising.
The Earl seemed sensible of a check, and changed his tone to
a sober and rather timid one, as he inquired after Mr. Martin-
dale. The reply was left to Yiolet.
' He has never been so well in his life.. He is extremely
busy, and much enjoys the beauty of the place.'
' I suppose it is very pretty,' said Lord St. Erme.
' Nothing can be more lovely than the colour of the sea, and
the wonderful foliage, and the clearness. He says all lovers of
fine scenery ought to come there.'
' Scenery can hardly charm unless it has a past,* he replied.
' I can controvert that,' said Theodora.
With much diffidence he replied ; ' I speak only of my own
feeling. To mo, a fine landscape without associations has no
Boul. It is like an nnintellectual beauty.'
' There are associations in the West Indies,' said Theodora.
' Not the most agreeable,' said Lord St. Erme.
R
HEABTSEASE;
' There is the thought of Columbus/ said Violet; * his ivhol^
chaiacter, and his delight as each island surpassed the last.*
'Now, I have a fellow-feeling for the buccaneers/ said Theo¬
dora. 'Bertram Bisingham was always a hero of mine.' I
believe it is an ancestral respect, probably we are their de¬
scendants.*
Violet wondered if she said so to frighten him.
' RoJcehy has given a glory to buccaneering,* he replied. ' It
is the office of poetry to gild nature by breathing a soul into
her. It is what the Americans are trying to do for their new
world, still turning to England as their Greece.*
' I meant no past associations/ said Theodora, bluntly. 'John
carries his own with him.'
' Yes ; all may bear the colour of the imagination within.'
'And of the purpose,* said Theodora. ' It is work in earnest,
no matter where, that gives outward things their interest.
Dreaming will never do it. Working will.*
Their conversation here closed; but Theodora said as they
went home ; ' What did you think of him, Violet V
' He looks younger than I expected.*
' He would be good for something if he could be made to
work. I long to give him a pickaxe, and set him on upon the
roads. Then he would see the beauty of them ! I hate to hear
him maunder on about imagination, while he leaves his tenantry
to take their chance. He know what eyes Percy and John see
things with 1'
' I am glad to have seen him,* said Violet, re-assured. '
' He desired to be introduced to you.*
' I wonder—do you think—do you suppose he remembers—?*
' I don't suppose he thinks anything about it,* said Theodora,
shortly.
lOLET/ said Theodora, the next morning; ' I want to
know if Percy said more to Arthur than to us V
She spoke with deepening colour, and Violet's glowed still
more, as she answered : ' Arthur asked him, and he said he
would not begin an acquaintance, but that there was no occasion
to break off the ordinary civilities of society. He accused her
of no more than levitv. Yes those were Arthur's words.'
CHAPTER XIV.
I am not yet of Earl Percy's mind.
King Henry IV.
OR, THE brother'S WIFE,
- 243
* I am going to get to the bottom of it,' said Theodora ; ' and .
give Georgina a thorough lecture.*
She departed; and Violet sat down to her letters, with Httle
Johnnie crawling-at her feet; but in a few minutes, she was
interrupted by the entrance of Mr, Fotheiingham, asking for
Theodora.
' She is gone out. She could not rest without an explanation
from Mrs. Finch.*
' A proper farrago she will' hear,* said Percy. ' I found I
could settle to nothing, so I thought it best to come and have
it out.*
* I hope she will soon come in.*
'Don't let me interrupt you. Go on with your letters.—
Ha! little master !*
In his present temper, play with the baby was the most
congenial occupation, and he made the little fellow very happy
till he was carried off for his midday sleep. Then he tried to
read, but seemed so uneasy, that Violet wondered if it would
be intermeddling to hint at Theodora's real views. At last, as
if he could bear it no longer, he abruptly said, ' Mrs. Martin-
dale, do you know anything of these people V
* Very little,* she answered. ' Theodora was telling me about
them yesterday, before you came. I believe she only likes
them for old acquaintance sake.*
' Is it true that she used to go out with them last year V
' I believe that she did sometimes.*
' At least, I hope that will not happen again.*
' No, I should not think it would. I am sure Theodora does
not entirely approve of Mrs. 'Finch.*
' She defended her through thick and thin.*
' You shocked her with the suddenness of what you said.
She cannot forget the having been happy together as children ;
but she thinks as you do, and disliked the marriage very
much. Before you came, she had been lamenting over Mrs.
Finch.*
' Then, it was pure perverseness !*
' If I said so, I wonder what you would answer,* said Violet,
with a bright, arch look.
' I should hear reason,* said Percy, roughly, as if to repel the
sweetness; yet it had a mollifying effect, and he presently spoke
with less irritation and more regret.
'She suspects no evil, and cannot understand any impu¬
tation on her friend. She fancies I speak from report, but
I have known this fellow, Mark, all my life. His mother
is a sister of my aunt Fotheringham. They wanted me to
B 2
24
HEARTSEASE;
hunt up an appointment to get Mm out of the young lady's
way.'
* Before her marriage V
' Ay. When I was last in England, there was a great to-do
at the discoYery of an engagement between tMs youth and Miss
Georgina. I suppose, considering her hringing up, she was not
much to he blamed. I remember my aunt thought the poor
girl harshly dealt with.*
* O, that must have been the cause of the nervous fever Theo¬
dora mentioned. She said she knew no particulars.'
* She has not been openly dealt with,' said Percy. * They do
not dare to let her see their doings.
' So the poor thing was tormented into this marriage V
* No torment needed. The elder sister did try to warn her
that it could not turn out well. I should think the old rogue
had found his punishment for his extortions. Fine stories I
could tell you of him in South America. Now, am I not justi¬
fied in keeping clear of them? Let Theodora say what she
will, it does not make it right for me to put myself in the way
of those great extravagant dinners and parties of theirs, where
they want me for notMng but a show-ofi'.'
' I am sure Theodora will think with you, when she is cooler,
and not taken by surprise.'
The clock struck.
* There, I have an appointment!'
* I wish you could wait for luncheon. She must come
then.' '
' What are you going to do this evening 1'
' I am sorry to say that we dine out; but to-morrow is Sun¬
day, and you will be sure to find us at home.'
He went, and one o'clock came, but no Theodora. Violet
had waited ten minutes for luncheon before she returned.
* I did not know how late it was,' said she. ' I wish you had
begun without me.'
Then, throwing her bonnet into a chair, and cutting some
cake, she proceeded : ' Such hours as they keep ! No one but
Jane was up when I came, so I went to her room, and told her
I would hear the rights of it.'
* Were you satisfied V
' Georgina has been foolish and unguarded, and the world is
very ill-natured. I hate it altogether, from beginning to end,' said
Theodora, with an impatient gesture. *Most decidedly,' she
added, * Georgina never ought to have married. I forced it
from Jane that she had never cared for any one but this Mark.
The discovery of his extravagance and misconduct was the real
OU, THE BKOTfiEE'S WIFE.
245
overthrow of my poor Georgina. It was that which brought
on her illness; the family were very unkind j and at last weak¬
ness and persecution broke down her spirit, and she was ready
to do anything to escape.*
' Poor thing! poor thing !*
' She had nothing to fall back upon. . O, if I had but been
there! If I had but known it at the time !*
*"W"cll, and now?' said Yiolet, anxiously.
'The having Mr. Gardner there now? Peally, I don't think
she deserves all this abuse. The other matter is entirely passed
away. Mr. Pinch likes him, and they understand each other
fully. Coming to them detaches him from his former habits,
and gives him the best chance. His mother is so relieved to
know he is with them. If Jane saw anything in the least
amiss, she says she would be the first to take alarm; and I do
trust her for that, for the sake of appearances.'
' I suppose it is a question of appearances,' said Yiolet, with
the diffident blushes of her eighteen years.
' Is she to throw away the hope of rescuing her cousin, to
save herself from spiteful tongues?' cried Theodora. ' Hot that
I suppose Lady Potheringham means to. be spiteful, but Percy
hears it all from her, and we know very well that good ladies
m the country have a tendency to think every one good for
nothing that lives in London or Paris, especially their relations.
That is all nonsense. If Percy goes by gossip, I don't. I go by
my own observation, and I see there is nothing at which to
lake exception. I watched her and Mr. Gardner together, and
I do declare there was nothing but ease and frankness. I am
sure he was more inclined to pay that sort of attention to me.
He really is very entertaining. I must tell you some of his
stories.'
' Percy has been here,' said Yiolet.
' Has he?'
' He waited till twelve, and then was obliged to go.*
Theodora kept silence for some minutes, then said: ' If he
thinks to make me give my friends up, he is much mistaken!
You know I had written to Georgina last night. Well, she
thought I had come to be congratulated; and if you had but
seen the greeting—the whole manner—when she met me! Oh!
you would know how impossible it is not to feel for her, with
all one's heart!'
'Yes, yes. I suppose you could not say anything about this
to her. No, of course not.'
' Not of course at all, if I could have had her alone, but Jane
was there all the time. It was a pleasure to see the contrast
246
HEARTSEASE;
between ber manner and Jane's. There was soul in her, real
hopes I should be happy, while Jane seemed only to think it
tolerable, becaiise I might end in being an ambassadresis. 1
will see her again before the party, and draw my own con¬
clusions.'
* Does she know that Percy will not go T
* I know no such thing.'
She was too proud to ask what had passed in Violet's inter¬
view with him, and indeed was ready to take fire at the idea of
their affairs having been discussed with her.
She strove to believe herself the offended party, but her
conscience was not easily appeased, though she tried to set
it at rest by affectionate care of Violet, and was much gratified
by Arthur's stopping her after Violet had gone upstairs at
night, to beg her to stay, while he was at Windsor with his
regiment.
' Thank you, for making me of use,' she said.
'I shall come backwards and forwards continually,' said
Arthur, 'but she must not be alone; I shall be veiy glad if
you can stay, or I shall be driven to have one of the Mosses
here.'
»
' Oh, no, no! I shall be most happy to stay. I will take every
care of her.'
' Thank you, Theodora; good night. You have got to know
her better now,' he continued, lingering as on that first night to
gain some word of commendation of her.
'Much better,' said Theodora, cordially. ' One cannot help'
growing fond of her—so gentle and engaging.'
She was pleased with his satisfaction; and while she. owned
Violet's sincerity and sweetness, considered ber one of those soft
dependent beings formed to call forth tenderness from strong and
superior spirits, and gloried in being necessary to her; it almost
restored her balance of complacency."
On Sunday afternoon Violet stayed at home with little
Johnnie, and the vacant place in the seat at church was filled
by Mr. Fotheringham. Many thoughts floated through Theo¬
dora's mind; but whether the better or the worse would gain
the advantage seemed rather to depend on chance than on
herself. Perhaps she was not yet conscious what were her
besetting sins, and thus the conflict was merely a stiniggle
between her feelings for her friend and for her lover.
Arthur walked home with an acquaintance; but Theodora
turned from Percy, and threw herself into eager conversation
with Lady Elizabeth.
On entering the house, as Violet was not in the drawing-
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.-
247
room, Theodora was going up stairs, when Percy said, in a tone
of authority, ' How long do you intend to go on in this way t'
' In what way?'
*Do you wish to keep all our disputes as a spectacle for
Arthur's edification?'
Colouring with shame and displeasure, she sat down with a
sort of * I am ready* air, and took ofi* her walking things, lay:' ng
them down deliberately, and waiting in complete silence. Hid
she wish to embarrass him, or did she await his first word to
decide what line she should take?
'Theodora,' he said at length, ' when I spoke last night, I did
not know how early your acquaintance with this lady had
begun, or I should have shown more regard to the feeling that
arises between old companions. I am afraid I gave you some
unnecessary pain.*
This was unexpected; and she conld not at once harden her¬
self in displeasure, so that though she spoke not, her countenance
was relenting.
' Did Mrs. Martin dale mention what I told her yesterday?'
' No; she only said you had been here. I was gone to satisfy
my mind.*
* And did you?'
' I should never have defended Georgina's marriage if I had
known the whole; but the rest of what you have heard is
slander.*
* That is what I came to explain;* and Percy repeated the
history he had before given to Violet, adding a warning of the
same kind as John's against placing Arthur in Mr. Gardner's
way.
' The point is,* said Theodora, ' what construction is to be
placed on the present state of things? You and Lady Fothering-
ham, who have not seen them, take one view; I, who do see
them, and who know Georgina intimately, take another, in which
I agree with her husband and with the elder sister, who lives
with her.*
' Intimately! When you had no idea of this first afiair!'
' Such follies are not to be published.'
'You will defend them!' cried Percy, impatiently.
' Am I to sit quiet when I hear injustice done to my oldest
friend?'
' I wish that unhappy friendship had never begun 1'
A silence broken by her coolly saying, ' Well, what is to come
of all this?'
Percy walked about the room and said, 'What do you
moao ?'
248
HEAKTSEASE J
With a provoking air of meeTmess she said, ' I only want to
know what you expect of me?'
Excessively annoyed, he sharply answered, * To he a reasonahla
woman.'
'Well?' said Theodora, with the same submissive voice.
He had recovered himself, and with no further show of
temper, he sat down hy her, saying, * This is folly. W e had
better say what we mean. You feel strongly with regard to
your old playfellow; I cannot think well of her; but while
this is matter of opinion, it is childish to dispute. Time will'
show which is the correct view—I shall be glad if it is yours.
The elder sister is a steady amiable person, whom my aunt
likes, and that is in their favour. I do not wish you to
break with an old friend while we know of no positive charge
against her, though I should think there could be little to attract
you. For me it is another matter, and I will not.'
' You will not adopt my friends?'
' I will not be talked into it.'
'I do not understand your principle,' said Theodora, but
.without asperity. 'Why do you decline an acquaintance to
which you do not object for me?'
' The beginning has been made in your case, and I know it is
old affection, not present approval. You can't be hurt by one
like her. But for my part, knowing what I do of them, I will
enter on no acquaintance: it is a line of which I have resolved
to keep clear. She would think herself patronizing a literary
man.'
' Oh! you could not submit to that!' cried Theodora—' never.
Stay away, I beg of you.'
' It is for no such nonsense,' said Percy. ' But thinking of
them as I do, I cannot receive from them the favours which
rich folks consider invitations to poor ones. My connexion
with them makes it all the mora undesirable. I totally dis¬
approve their style of conduct, and will not seem to sanction it
by beginning an acquaintance, or appearing at their grand
dinners and parties. If I had known them before, the case
might be different.'
' I will say no more. You are quite right,' said Theodora,
well able to appreciate the manliness of his independence.
She thought over several times the way of communicating to
Mrs. Finch, Percy's rejection of her invitation, and made some
_ attempts at seeing her, but without success, until the night of
the party. Violet had an undefined dread of it, and was
especially glad that her husband was able to go with them.
It was cne of the occasions when ho was n^ost solicitous! about
OE, the Brother's wife. 249
her appearance; and he was well pleased, for she was in very
good looks, and prettily dressed with some Irish lace, that to
Theodora's amusement she had taken off Miss Marstones
hands; and with his beautiful wife and distinguished looking
sister, he had his wish of displaying woman as she should be.
The room was full, but Violet saw few acquaintance; as
Mrs. Mnch, with much display of streamer, flounce, jewellery,
and shoulders, came to meet them with vehement welcome, and
quite oppressed Violet with her attention in finding a seat for
her on the sofa.
With a nod and look of gay displeasure at Theodora, she
said, ' So, you have brought me no Crusader, you naughty girl!
Whore's your Bed Cross Knight?'
' He would not come,' said Theodora, gravely.
'You dare own it! Where's your power? Ah! you will say
it was idleness.'
' I will tell you another time,' said Theodora, blushing in¬
conveniently, and Violet, as she felt her cheeks responding,
fancied Mrs. Finch must know why.
'You wont confess! Ko, you never tried. If you had once
set your mind on it, you would have accomplished it. I
always cite Theodora Martindale as the person who cannot be
resisted,*
' You see your mistake,' returned Theodora.
A gentleman here greeted her, then claimed Mrs. Finch's
attention, and evidently by his desire, she turned to Violet, and
presented him as her cousin, Mr. Gardner, an old friend of
Captain Martindale.
Violet acknowledged the courtesy, but it v/as in confusion
and distress.
'I am delighted to make your acquaintance,' was his ad¬
dress. ' Is Captain Martindale here ? I have not seen him for
years.'
'He is in the room,' said Violet, looking round for him,;
hoping either that he would come, or tliat Mr. Gardner would
go in search of him; but the conversation continued, though
she answered without knowing what she said, till at last
he moved away to communicate to Mrs. Finch that Arthur
Martindale's pretty wife had nothing but fine eyes and com¬
plexion.
Theodora was satisfied to see a very slight recognition pass
between Mr. Gardner and her brother, who was intent on con¬
ducting to Violet an officer newly returned from the West
Indies, where he had met John. After a pleasant conversation,
tl;e two g;entlemen n^oved away, and presently the place next
£50
HEAllTSEASE ;
to her "vras taken by Miss Gardner, with civil inquiries for her
little boy.
' We are so vexed at not seeing Mr. Fotheringham!
Georgina is furious. We reckoned on him as the lion of the
night.'
Violet had no answer to make, and Jane continued. ' I have
taken Theodora to task. Fame makes men capricious, and he
is very odd ; but I tell her she ought to have more influence,
and I seriously think so. Do you not V
* I believe he convinced her,' said Violet, wishing the next
moment to recal her words.
* Indeed ! I am curious.'
' I believe he thinks it better—fashionable life—' faltered
Violet.
' He might have made an exception in favour of such near
connexions ! Why ! we shall be related ourselves, Mrs. Mar-
tindale. How charmed I shall be.'
Violet turned a bracelet on her arm, and could make no
response.
* It is strange enough that we have never met Percival
Fotheringham,' said Miss Gardner. *He is an eccentric being,
I hear, but our dear Theodora has a spice of eccentricity herself.
I hope it will be for the best.'
* He is an admirable person,' said Violet.
' I rejoice to hear it. I had some doubts. The dear girl is
so generous, of such peculiar decision, so likely to be dazzled
by talent, and so warmly attached to her eldest brother, that I
almost feared it might not have been well weighed. But you
are satisfled V
^ ' O, yes, entirely so.'
* I am relieved to hear it. In confidence I may tell you^ it is
said in our own family ^ that there is a rough overbearing temper
about him. I could not bear to think of dear Theodora's high
spirit being subjected to anything of that kind.'
* He is abrupt,' said Violet, eagerly; * but I assure you the
better he is known, the more he is liked My little boy is so
fond of him.'
' I am glad. No doubt you have every means of judging, but
I own I was surprised at such ready consent. You were be¬
hind the scenes, no doubt, and can tell how that determined
spirit carried the day.'
* Lord Martindale gave his consent most readily and gladly,'
said Violet; but Jane was only the more convinced tljat Mrs.
Martindale was as ignorant as ever of family secrets.
' It was best to do so with a good grace ; but I did think cm
OR, THE* BROTHER'S WIFE. - 251
>3enr Theodora might have looked higher ! Poor Lord St. Erme \
He would have been a more eligible choice. The family must
have been much disappointed, for she might have had him at
her feet, any day last summer.*
* I do not think he would have suited her.*
' Well! perhaps not, but an easy gentle temper might. How¬
ever, it cannot be helped ! Only the long engagement is un-
fortimate—very trying to both parties. I have seen so few
turn out well! Poor Pelham Eotheringham ! It is a pity he
should stand between them and the baronetcy.*
Ts he Sir Antony's son V
' Yes ; it is a sad affair. A fine tall youth, quite imbecile.
He is his poor mothers darling, but no more fit to take care of
himself than a child of five years old. A most melancholy
thing! Old Sir Antony ought to set him aside, and let
Percival enjoy the estate. Indeed, I should think it very pro¬
bable he would do so—it would be greatly for the happiness of
all parties.*
* I think it would,* said Violet.
* Percival can do anything with the old people, and they will
^e so delighted'with the Martindale connexion ! Perhaps it is
an understood thing. Do you know whether it is V
* I should not think so. I never heard anything of it.*
' Has Theodora ever been introduced to the uncle and aunt V
' Never.*
' Good old folks, exceedingly primitive. Very kind too, and
a fine old-fashioned place; but, oh, so dull! All their ideas
are of the seventeenth century. It will be a severe ordeal for
poor Theodora, but if Lady Eotheringham,- good old soul, is
pleased with her, I shall expect grand consequences.*
Violet was glad that Miss Gardner was asked to dance.
Presently Arthur returned to her side. * Tired, Violet V he
asked. * Slow work, is not it ? They have a queer lot here.
Scarcely a soul one ever saw before.'
* I was thinking so. Are there not a great many foreigners ?
I saw some immense moustaches.'
*Ay. Percy would think himself back in Blue Beard's
country. There is the King of the Clothes Brushes himself
polking with Mrs. Finch. Can't you see V
'No! I wish I could.*
' An economical fellow I Every man his own clothes brush
—two expenses saved at once, to say nothing of soap, an article
that mayhap he does not deal in.'
* Oh ! hush I you will make me laugh too much. Where's
Theodora V
252 HEARTSEASE;
«
' Dancing witli Gardner. He seems inclined to make up lo
her, unless it is a blind.'
* He said he used to know you at school.'
* Yes, scamp that he is. I had rather he had never turned up
again. He is not worth Theodora's quarrellmg about. I hear
she is chattering away like fun. Have you had any one to
speak to V
' Miss Gardner came to me. She seemed to think Sir Antony
might settle his property on Percy instead of on his son. Do you
think there is any chance of it V
* I wish he would. He could not do a wiser thing. But of
course it is entailed—there's always a provision of nature for
starving the younger branches. What does she say to Percy's
absence V
' I fancy she gnesses the reason, but I don't know.'
' He is a lucky fellow, I know !' said Arthur, ' to be safe in
his bed at home! This evening is a bore, and I wish the whole
set were further off, instead of deluding Theodora ! Pll get her
away when this dance is over.'
' Ha r cried Mrs. Pinch, suddenly stopping in front of them,
and disengaging herself from her partner, as she breathlessly
threw herself down beside Violet. 'So there's Captain Martin-
dale, after all! How exemplary 1 And my poor Mrs. Martin-
dale, that I told Jane and Mark to take such care of, left
deserted to her husband's mercy !'
' Suppose she wished for nothing better,' said Arthur, good-
humouredly.
' I can't allow such things. Such a monopoly of our Guards¬
men after two years' marriage is beyond bearing ! What would
they say to you in Prance
' We don't follow Prench fashions,' said Arthur, his gay tone
making his earnest like jest. ' I am going to take my ladies
home. I shall see for the carriage, Violet.'
'Mrs. Martindale will learn my maxim—Never bring a .
husband to an evening party. There is nothing so much in
the way.'
' Or that would be so glad to be let off,' said Arthur, going.
' You don't mean to take them away ? That is the climax ci
all your crimes. Quite unallowable.'
' Many things unallowable are done,' said Arthur; ' and 1
don't allow her to be over-tired.'
' Barhare! began Mrs. Pinch, but with a bow, as if it was a
compliment, he was gone in search of the carriage. She sat for
a moment silent, then said, ' Well, I must forgive him. I never
thought to see him so careful of anything. How happy Theo'
OR, THE brother'S VtlFE.
255
dora seems in your mhiage. Quite a different creature ; but
perhaps that is from another cause
Violet made a little attempt at a laugh.
' I am glad of it/ said Mrs. Finch, heartily. ' It is a horrid
stiff place for her at home, is it not ? And I am delighted she
should escape from it. How she got consent, I can't imagine ;
and Theodora has notions of her own, and would do nothing
without.*
' Lord Martindale has a very high opinion of Mr. Fother-
ingham.*
* I am not surprised. I read t.hat book—2b wonder for me,
* and was perfectly eprise. But I did not think a genius with
empty pockets would have gone down at Martindale ; and he is
a bit of a bear, too, they say, though perhaps Theodora likes
him the better for that.*
* Perhaps she does.*
* I hope he is worthy of her. He is the great pride of the
old folks at Worthbourne. One heard of Percy's perfections
there morning, noon, and night, till I could have hated the
sound of his name. Very generous of me to ask him here to¬
night, is it not ] but I wish he would have come. I want to
judge of him myself. I could not bear all not to be perfect
with Theodora.*
There was little occasion for Violet to speak, Mrs. Finch
always kept the whole conversation to herself; but she could
not but perceive that though the exaggeration and recklessness
of style were unpleasing, yet it really was frank and genuine,
and Theodora's declaration that Georgina was far preferable to
Jane was less incomprehensible.
The evening was over, much to her relief; bul; there remained
Theodora's bold undertaking to tell Mrs. Finch of Percy's
refusal to visit her. Any one else would have let the sub¬
ject drop, but Theodora thought this would be shabby and
cowardly, and was resolved not to shrink from warning her
friend.
She found Georgina looking over some cards of invitation,
with an air of great dissatisfaction, and almost the first words
that greeted her were, ^Have you a card for Lady Albury's
party V
* Yes ; I heard Violet ask Arthur if he should be at home
for it.*
'Very strange I We left our cards, I know, yet they never
asked us to their party this week, and now seem to have missed
us again. I wished particularly to go, for one is sure to meet
oU that is worth seeing, your knight among the rest. They are
254.
HEARTSEASE;
prim, strait-laced, exclusive, people themselves; but it is a house
worth going to.*
* I did not remember that you knew them.*
* Oh ! yes, we did ; we used to be there pretty often when
we lived with my uncle Edward; and it is not that they do
not think my poor old man good enough for them, for we
went to their parties last year. So, Mrs. Martindale has a card,
you say V
Theodora's colour rose as she said, ' Georgina, I am going to
say what no one else will tell you.. It is not your marriage, but
you must take care—*
The crimson of Mrs. Finch's cheeks, and the precipitation
with which she started to her feet, would have disconcerted
most persons; but Theodora, though she cast down her eyes,
spoke the more steadily. * You must be more guarded and
reserved in manner if you wish to avoid unkind remarks.*
* What—^what—^whatl' cried Georgina, passionately ; * what
can the most ill-natured, the most censorious, accuse me of?'
* It is not merely the ill-natured,' said Theodora. * I know
very well that you mean no harm ; but you certainly have an
air of trying to attract attention.*
* Well, and who does not ? Some do so more demurely and
hypocritically than others ; but what else does any one go into
company for ? Do you expect us all to act the happy couple,
like Captain and Mrs. Martindale the other night ? You should
have brought your own Percy to set us the example !* said she,
ending with a most unpleasant laugh.
* Georgina, you must not expect to see Percy. He has rigid
notions; he always avoids people who seek much after fashion
and amusement, and (I must say it), he will not begin an ac¬
quaintance while you go on in this wild way.'
* So !* exclaimed Georgina. * It is a new thing for the gentle¬
men to be particular and fastidious! I wonder what harm he
thinks I should do him ! But I see how it is : he means to take
you away, turn you against me, the only creature in this world
that ever cared for me. Are not you come to tell me he forbids
you ever to come near me ?*
' Ho, no ; he does not, and if he did, would I listen ?'
' No, don't, don't displease him on my account,' cried Mrs.
Finch. ' Go and be happy with him; I am not worth caring for,
or vexing yourself about 1'
The tears stood on her burning cheeks, and Theodora eagerly
replied, ' Have no fancies about me. Nothing shall ever make
me give up my oldest friend. You ought to know me better
than to think I would.'
"OPv, the bhother's wife. 255
* You aro so unlike those I live with,* said Georgina, sadljr,
as an ezcuse for the distrust. * Oh, you don't know what I
have gone through, or you would pity me. You are the only
thing that has not failed me. There is Jane, with her smooth
tongue and universal obligingness, she is the most selfish crea¬
ture in existence—her heart would go into a nutshell! One
grain of sympathy, and I would never have married. It was
all her doing—she wanted luxuries ! O Theodora, if I had but
been near you!'
* Hush, Georgina, this is no talk for a wife, said Theodora,
severely.
* I thought you pitied me !*
* I do, indeed I do; but I cannot let you talk in that way.*
' I never do so : no one else would care to hear me.*
*How listen to me, Georgina. You say you rely on me as
you do on no one else; will you hear me tell you the only way
to be happy yourself—^
* That is past,* she murmured.
* Or to stand well in the opinion of others 1 I am putting it
on low grounds.*
* I know what you are going to say—Go and live in the
country, and set up a charity-school.*
* I say no such thing. I only ask you to be cautious in your
manners, to make Mr. Finch of more importance, and not to let
yourself be followed by your cousin
Again Georgina burst into her' thorn crackling* laugh. ' Poor
Mark ! I thought that was coming. People will treat him as
if he was a dragon !*
* I know you mean no harm,* repeated Theodora; ' but it
cannot be right to allow any occasion for observations.*
*Now, Theodora, hear me. I dare say Jane-has been telling
you some of her plausible stories, which do more harm than
good, because no one knows which part to believe. There was
some nonsense between Mark and me when we were young and
happy—I confess that. Perhaps I thought he meant more than
he did, and dwelt upon it as silly girls do, especially when they
have nothing else to care for. Then came the discoveiy. of all
his debts and scrapes, poor fellow, and—I wont deny it—^it
half killed me, more especially when I found he had been
attached to some low girl, and avowed that he had never seriously
thought of me—^he believed I understood it as all sport. I was
very ill. I wish I had died. There was no more to be done
but to hate him. My uncle and aunt Edward were horridly
savage, chiefly because I hindered them from going to Italy;
and Mrs. George Gardner thought I had been deluding Mark ]
256
HEARTSEASE ;
Then Lady Fotheriugham asked us, and—^it was dull enough to
be sure, and poor Pelhain was always in the way—^but they
were kind comfortable folks. Lady Fotheringham is a dear old
dame, and I was in dull spirits just then, and rather liked to
poke about with her, and get her to tell me about your brother
and his Helen—^
' Why, Jane said you were dying of low spirits !'
' Well, so I was. I hated it excessively sometimes. Jane is
not entirely false in that. The evenings were horrid, and Sun¬
days beyond everything unbearable. I confess I was delighted
to get away to Bath; but there—^if Jane would but have helped
me—I would, indeed I would, have been thankful to have gone
back to Worthbourne, even if I had had to play at draughts with
Pelham for the rest of my days. But Jane was resolved, and
all my strength and spirit had been crushed out of me. She
v/ould not even let me write to you nor to Lady Fotheriugham
till it was too late.*
'Well, that is all past,' said Theodora, whose face had shown
more sympathy than she thought it right to express in words.
' The point is, what is right now V
' And you see it is folly to say there is any harm or danger in
my seeing Mark; he never had any attachment to me seven
years ago, nor any other time, and whatever I felt for him had
a thorough cure. I am not ashamed to say I am glad he should
be here to give him a chance of niarrying a fortune. That is
the whole story. Are you satisfied V
'Satisfied on what I never doubted, your own intentions,
but no further. You ought to abstain fi-om all appearance of
evil.'
' I am not going to give my cousin up to* please Lady Albury '
—no, nor all the Fotheringhams put together! You used to
say you did not care for gossip.'
' No more I do, but I care for a proper appearance.'
' Very well—^liush—here he comes !'
He was Mr. Gardner, and whether it was that Mrs. Finch was
more guarded, or that her pleading influenced Theodora's judg¬
ment, nothing passed that could excite a suspicion that anything
remained of the former feeling between the cousins. It was in
truth exactly as Mrs. Finch said; for whatever were her faults,
she was perfectly frank and sincere, clinging to truth, perhaps
out of opposition to her sister. Mark was not a man capable of
any genuine or strong affection; and as Theodora rightly perceived,
the harm of Georgina's ways was not so much what regarded
him, as in the love of dissipation, the unguarded forward manner
with all gentlemen alike, and the reckless pursuit of excitement.
OR, THE BllOTIIER'S WIFE. '
257
There was a heart beneath, and warmth that might in time be
worked upon by better thiog-s.
'It is a great pity that people will drop her,* she said to
Violet. 'The more she is left to that stamp of society, the
worse it is for her whole tone of mind.*
Violet agreed, pitied, and wished it could be helped; but
whenever they met Mrs. Finch in company saw it was not won¬
derful that people did not like her.
Mr. Gardner was, on the contrary, a general favourite. Every
one called him good for nothing; but then, he was so very
amusinsf! Violet could never find this out, shrank from his
O
notice, and withdrew as much as possible from his neighbour¬
hood ; Emma Brandon generally adhering closely to her, so as
to avoid one whom she viewed as a desperate designer on the
Priory.
It was in parties that Violet chiefly saw Emma this spring.
Theodora's presence in Cadogan-place frightened her away; and,
besides, her mornings were occupied by Miss Marstone's pur¬
suits. Lady Elizabeth made no objection to her sharing in these,
though sometimes not fully convinced of the prudence of all the
accessories to their charities, and still less pleased at the influ¬
ence exercised by Theresa over her daughter's judgment.
Emma's distaste to society was now far more openly avowed,
and was regarded by her not as a folly to be conquered, but a
mark of superiority. Her projects for Bickworth were also
far more prominent. Miss Marstone had swept away the veil
that used to shroud them in the deepest recess of Emma's
mind, and to Violet it seemed as if they were losing their gloss
by being produced ivhenever the friends wanted something to
talk about. Moreover, Emma, who was now within a few
months of twenty-one, was seized with a vehement desire to
extort her mother's consent to put them at once in execution,
and used to startle Violet by pouring out lamentations over her
promise, as if it was a cruel thraldom. Violet argued that the
scheme was likely to be much better weighed by taking time to
think.
' It has been the thought of my life 1 Besides, I have The¬
resa's judgment; and, oh ! Violet, mamma means it well, I
know ; but she does not know what she asks of me ! Think,
think if I should die in the guilt of sacrilege 1'
' Beally, Emma, you should not say such dreadful things. It
i is not your doing.'
' 'Ho ; but I reap the benefit of it. My grandfather bought
* it. Oh ! if it should bring a curse with it!'
' "Well, but, Emma. I should think, even if it be wrong to
E53
HEARTSEASE J
liold it, tliat cannot be your fault yet. You mean to restore it;
•and surely it must be better to keep it as yet, tban to act
• directly against your mother's wishes.'
'I don't mean to act against her wishes; but if she would
only wish otherwise !'
'Perhaps it is the best preparation to be obliged to wait
patiently.'
' If it was for any good reason; but I know it is only because
it would better suit mamma's old English notions to see me go
• and marry in an ordinary way, like any commonplace woman,
as Theresa says. Ah! you would like it too, Yiolet. It is of
no use talking to you ! As Theresa says, the English dom^ic
mind has but one type of goodness.'
Yiolet did not like to hear her dear Lady Elizabeth con-
_ temned; but she had no ready answer, and humbly resigned
herself to Emma's belief that she was less able to enter into her
feelings than that most superior woman, Theresa Marstone.
HEllI Arthur went with his regiment to Windsor, the
ladies intended to spend their evenings at home, a rule
which had many exceptions, although Yiolet was so liable to
suffer from late hours and crowded rooms, that Lady Elizabeth
begged her to abstain from parties, and offered more than once
to take charge of Theodora; but the reply always was that
they went out very little, and that this once it would not hurt
The truth was that Theodora had expressed a decided aver¬
sion to going out with the Brandons. 'Lady Elizabeth sits
down in the most stupid part of the room,' she said, 'and
Emma stands by her side with the air of a martyr. They look like
a pair of respectable country cousins set down all astray, wishing
for a safe corner to run into, and wondering at the great and
wicked world. And they go away inhumanly early, whereas if
I do have the trouble of dressing, it shall not be for nothing.
I ingeniously eluded all going out with them last year, and a
great mercy it was to them.' j
So going to a royal ball was all Theodora vouchsafed to do
under Lady Elizabeth's protection ; and as her objections could
not be disclosed, Yiolet was obliged to leave it to be supposed
that it was for her own gratification that she always accom
CHAPTEE XY.
Give unto me, made lowly wise.
The spirit of self-sacrifice.
her.
OK. THE BKOTHEK'S WIFE.
259
parued her ; althougli not only "vras tlie exertion and the subse¬
quent fatigue a severe tax on her strength, hut she was often
uneasy and distressed by Theodora's conduct. Her habits in
company had not been materially changed by her engagement;
she was still bent on being the first object, and Yiolet some¬
times felt that her manner was hardly fair upon those who were
ignorant of her circumstances. For Theodora's own sake, it
was unpleasant to see her in conversation with Mr. Gardner;
and not only on her account but oh that of Lord St. Erme,
was her uncertain treatment of him a vexation to Yiolet.
Violet, to whom Theodora's lovers were wont to turn when
suffering from her caprice, was on very friendly terms "with the
young Earl. He used to come and stand by her, and talk to
her about Wrangerton, and seemed quite amused and edified by
her quiet enthusiasm for it, and for Helvellyn, and her intimacy
with all the pictures which he had sent home and almost for¬
gotten. His sister was another favourite theme j she was many
years younger than himself, and not yet come out; but he was
very desirous of introducing her to Mrs. and Miss Martindale;
and Yiolet, who had heard of Lady Lucy all her life. Was much
pleased when a day was fixed for a quiet dinner at hlrs. Delaval's,
the aunt with whom she lived. How Mrs. Moss would enjoy
hearing of it!
Tlie day before was one of the first hot days of summer, and .
Yiolet was so languid that she looked forward with dread to
the evening, when they were to go to a soiree at Mrs. Bryan-
stone's, and she lay nursing herself, wishing for any pretence
for declining it. Theodora coming in, declared that her going
was out of the question; but added, * Georgina Finch is to be
there ; she will call for me.'
' I shall be better when the heat of the day is over.'
' So you may, but you shall not go for all that. You know-
Arthur is coming home ; and you must save yourself for your
Delavals to-morrow.'
' I thank you, but only'—she hesitated—^ if only you would
be so kind as to go with Lady Elizabeth.'
' I will manage for myself, thank you. I shall not think of
seeing you go out'to-night. Why, I went out continually with
Georgina last summer'—as she saw Violet's look of disappoint¬
ment.
' Yes, but all is not the same now.*
* The same in effect. I am not going to attend to nonsensical
gossip. Georgina is what she was then, and the same is right
for me now as was right last year. I am not going to turn
against her *
S 2
260
BEAETSEASE ;
Theodora,* said "Violet's weak voice, ^Percy said he
hoped you never would go out with her ; and I said you never
should, if I could help it.'
Never was Theodora more incensed than on hearing that
Percy and this young girl had been arranging a check on her
actions, and she was the more bent on defiance.
' Percy has nothing to do with it,* she began ; but she was
interrupted by a message to know whether Lady Elkabeth
Brandon might see Mrs. Martindale.
Her entrance strengthened Theodora's hands, and she made
an instant appeal to her, to enforce on "Violet the necessity of
resting that evening. Lady Elizabeth fully assented, and at
once asked Theodora to join her.
* I thank you, I have another arrangement,* she said, reckless
of those entreating eyes; ' I am to go with Mrs. Einch.'
' And I believe I shall be quite well enough by-and-by,* said
Violet.
* My dear, it is not to be thought of for you.*
* Yes, Lady Elizabeth, I trust her to you to make her hear
reason,' said Theodora. ' I shall leave her to you.'
Poor Yiolet, already in sufficient dread of the evening, was
obliged to endure a reiteration of all its possible consequences.
Lady Elizabeth was positively grieved and amazed to find her,
as she thought, resolutely set upon gaieties, at all risks, and
spared no argument that could alarm her into remaining
quietly at home, even assuring her that it was her duty not to
endanger herself for the sake of a little excitement or amuse¬
ment. Yiolet could only shut her eyes to restrain the burning
tears, and listen, without one word in vindication, until Lady
Elizabeth had exhausted her rhetoric, and, rising, with some
coolness told her she still hoped that she would think better of
it, but that she wished her husband was at home.
Yiolet would fain have hid her face in her good friend's
bosom, and poured out her griefs, but she could only feel that
she was forfeiting for ever the esteem of one she loved so much.
She held out, however. Not till the door had closed did she
relax her restraint on herself, and give way to the overwhelming
tears. Helpless, frightened, perplexed, forced into doing what
might be fatal to her ! and every one, even Arthur, likely to
blame her ! The burst of weeping was as terrified, as violent,
as despairing as those of last year.
But she was not, as then, inconsolable; and as the first agita¬
tion spent itself she resumed her self-command, checked her
sobs by broken sentences of prayer, growing fuller and clearer
then again soft and misty, tUI she fairly cried herself to sleep,
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. - 261
She slept only for a short interval, but it had brought back her
composure, and she was able to frame a prayer to be directed
to do right and be guarded from harm; and then to turn her
mind steadily to the decision. It was her duty, as long as it
was in her power, to be with her husband's sister, and guard her
from lowering herself by her associates. She was bound by her
promise to Percy, and she could only trust that no harm would
ensue.
' If it should,' thought poor "Violet, ' I may honestly hope it
is in the way of what I believe my duty; so it would be a
cross, and I should be helped under it. And if the Brandons
blame me—^that is a cross again. Suppose I was to be as ill
again as I was before—suppose I should not get through it—
Oh ! then I could not bear to have wilfully neglected a duty !
And the next party ? Oh! no need for thinking of that! I
must only take thought for the day.'
And soon again she slept.
Theodora had gone out so entirely convinced that Violet
would relinquish her intention, that, meeting Mrs. Pinch, she
arranged to be taken up at eleven o'clock.
On returning home she heard that Mrs. Martindale was asleep;'
and, as they had dined early, she drank coffee in her own room,
and read with the Brogden girl, as part of her system of com¬
pensation, intending to spare further discussion by seeing Violet
no more that night. She proceeded to dress her hair—not as
helplessly as at first, for the lessons had not been without fruit;
but to-night nothing had a good effect. Not being positively
handsome, her good looks depended on colour, dress, and light;
and the dislike to failure, and the desire to command attention,
made it irritating to find her hair obstinate and her ornaments
unbecoming; and she was in no placid state when Violet entered
the room, ready dressed.
' Violet! This is too foolish!'
' I am a great deal better now, thank you.'
' But I have settled it with Georgina; she is coming tc call
for me.*
* This is not out of her way; it will make no difference to
her.'
' But, Violet, I will not let you go; Arthur would not allow
it. You are not fit for it.'
' Yes, thank you; I believe I am.*
'You believe! It is very ridiculous of you to venture when
you only believe,* said Theodora, never imagining that those
mild weary tones could withstand her for a moment. ' Stay at
homo and rest. You know A.rthur may come at any time.'
262
HEARTSEASE ;
' I mean to go, if you please; T know I ought.'
' Then remember, if you are ill, it is your fault, not mine/
"Violet attempted a meek smile.
Theodora could only show her annoyance by impatience with
her toilette. Her sister tried to help her; but nothing suited,
nothing pleased her—all was untoward; and at last Violet said,
* Is Percy to be there?'
' Hot a chance of it. "What made you think so?'
* Because you care so much.'
Somehow, that saying stung her to the quick, and the more
because it was so innocently spoken.
' I do not care,' she said. ' You are so simple, Violet, you
fancy all courtships must be like your own. One can't spend
six years like six weeks.'
The colour rushed painfully into Violet's face, and she quitted
the room. It was a moment of dire shame and grief to Theodora,
who had not intended a taunt, but rather to excuse her own
doings j and as the words came back on her, and she perceived
the most unmerited reproach they must have conveyed, she was
about to hurry after her sister, explain, and entreat her pardon.
Almost immediately, however, Violet returned, with her hands
full of some beautiful geraniums, that morning sent to her by
Mrs. Harrison.
* See!' said she; ' I think a wreath of these might look well.'
Theodora trusted the blush had been the work of her own
guilty fancy, and, recollecting how often Mrs. Hesbit's inuendoes
had glanced aside, thought it best not to revive the subject.
She did not estimate even the sacrifice it was to part with the
glowing fragrant flowers, the arrangement of which had freshened
Violet's spirits that evening when not in tune for other occu¬
pation; and she did not know that there was one little sigh
of fellow-feeling at their destiny of drooping and fading in the
crowd and glare. Their brilliant hues had great success, 'and
set ofl* the deep black eyes and hair to unusual advantage when
woven by those dextrous flngers. The toilette was complete,
and Theodora as kind as she could be, between shame at her
own speech and dislike to being softened by little female arts.
* I only wish you looked better yourself,' she said. ' You
are too pale for that old white dress.'
' It is the coolest I have ready. It must do.'
Theodora could not accuse her of over-carefulness of her
renown as a beauty. Her dress was, of course, appropriate,
but aimed at no more; and her worn, languid appearance did
not cause her a moment's thought, since Arthur was not there
to see.
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
265"
They found the room very warm and crowded. Theodora
saw Violet lodged on an ottoman, and then strayed away to
her own friends. Mrs. Finch soon arrived, and attacked heF
for having let them go on a fool's errand.
* I could not help it,* said Theodora; ' she would come.'
' She looks very unwell,' said Mrs. Finch j ' but, poor thing;,
it would be too hard to miss everything this year.'
'Or does she come as your trusty knight's deputyf asked
Jane.
There was dancing; but v/hen Captain Fitzhiigh brought
Theodora back to her seat, Violet whispered, ' I am sorry, but*
would you dislike coming home now?'
' Oh! T am engaged to Lord St. Erme, and then to Mr.
Gardner, and but you go home; you have done your duty,
my dear. Go home, and to sleep. Georgina will bring ma-
Captain Fitzliugh will find you the carriage.'
She walked off with Lord St. Erme, and came no more that
way. Presently there was some confusion.
' A lady fainting,' said her partner, and she saw Emma look¬
ing dreadfully frightened. Conscience was enough, without the
name passing from mouth to mouth. Theodora sprang forwardy
and following the movement, found herself in a room where
Violet's insensible figure had just been placed on a bed. Lady
Elizabeth was there, and Emma, and Mrs. Bryanstone. Theo¬
dora felt as if no one but herself should touch Arthur's v^ife;
but she had never before witnessed a fainting fit, and, in her
consternation and guiltiness, knew not how to be serviceable, so
that all that was required was done by the other ladies. She
had never experienced such alarm and remorse as now, while
standing watching, until the eyes slowly opened, looked round
uneasily till they fell on her, then closed for a few moments,
but soon were again raised, while tM soft low words were
heard, ' Thank you, I beg your pardon!' then, with an im¬
ploring, deprecating gaze on her, ' I am sorry; indeed I coulcl.
not help it!'
Theodora was almost overcome; but Lady Elizabeth gave a
warning squeeze to her arm, whispering, ' Take care, don't agi¬
tato her;' and this, recalling the sense that others were present,
brought back her self-possession, and she only kissed Violet,,
tenderly bade her lie still, and hoped she was better.
She smiled, and declared herself refreshed, as the wind blew
on her from the open window, and she felt the cold water on
her face, and there was no silencing her thanks and apologies
for giving trouble. She said she was well enough to go home ;
and, as soon as tlie carriage was found, sat up, looking shivericg.
264 HEAirrsEAiSE;
*
and forlorn, but still summoning up smiles. ' Good night, dear
Lady Elizabeth,' she said j ' thank you very much. You see
you were right.'
Lady Elizabeth offered to go home with her; but she could
not bear to occasion further sensation, and, besides, understood
Theodora's face. She refused, and her friend kissed her, and
j)romised to come early to-morrow to see her; but, mingled
with all this care and kindness, there was something of * I told
you so.'
She trembled so much when she stood up, that Theodora put
her strong arm round her, and nearly carried her down stairs,
gratified to find her clinging to her, and refusing all other sup¬
port. Scarcely a word was spoken as they went home; but
Theodora held the hand, which was cold, limp, and shaldng, and
now and then she made inquiries, always answered by * Better,
thank you.'
Theodora had her directions from Lady Elizabeth, and in¬
tended to make up for her misdeeds by most attentive care;
but, on coming home, they found that Arthur had arrived, and
gone to bed, so that nothing was in her power but to express
more kind wishes and regrets than she could stay to hear or
to answer in her extinguished voice.
Theodora was a good deal shocked, but also provoked, at
having been put in the wrong. She felt as if she had sustained
a defeat, and as if Yiolet would have an advantage over her for
the future, managing her by her health, just as she ruled
Arthur.
' But I will not submit,' thought Theodora. ' I will not bear
with interference, if not from Percy, certainly not from his deputy
—a mere spoilt child, a very good child, but spoilt by her posi¬
tion, by John's over-estimate of her, and by the deference ex¬
acted by her weakness and her engagingness. She has very
sweet, winning ways, and I am very fond of her in reason, but
it will be very good for her to see I can be kind to her without
being her slave.'
In this mind Theodora went to sleep, but was wakened in
the early mornmg by Arthur's voice on the stairs, calling to
Sarah. She th±^w on her dressing-gown, and half-opening her
door, begged to know what was the matter.
' Only that you have done for her with your fieoks and youi
wilfulness,' answered Arthur, roughly.
'She is not iU V exclaimed the terrified sister.
' Of course she is. I can't think what possessed you.*
' I tried hard to keep her at home. But, oh 1 ArtJiur, where
aie you going V
os. the brother's wife.
' £85
* To fetch Harding.*
* Can I do anything ? Can I be of use 1 Let me go to her
Oh ! Arthur, pray let me.'
He went into the room, and brought back word that Violet
wanted no one but Sarah, and was a little more comfortable ;
only begging Theodora would be so kind as to go to the nursery,
lest little Johnnie should awake.
Thither she repaired, but without the satisfaction of useful¬
ness, for the child slept soundly till his nurse returned. Mr.
Harding had been there, and Mrs. Martindale was better, need¬
ing only complete quiet; but Sarah was extremely brief, scorn¬
ful, and indignant, and bestowed very few words on Miss
Martindale. ' Yes, ma'am—^no, ma'am,' was all that hard
pumping could extract, except funereal and mysterious sighs
and shakes of the head, and a bustling about, that could only
be understood to intimate that she wished to have her nursery
to herself.
It was still so early that Theodora had time to go to church ;
as usual, she met the Brandons; and Lady Elizabeth, much
concerned at her tidings, came home with her to see how the
patient was going on.
Lady Elizabeth forbore to reproach Violet, but she lectured
Arthur on allowing her to be imprudent. He took it in very
good part, not quite disagreeing when told they were all too
young together, and made a hearty protest that she should be
well looked after for the future.
He was certainly doing his part. AP the morning he was in
and out, up and down stairs, effectually preventing any rest, as
his sister thought.
Theodora's time passed in strange variations of contrition,
jealousy, and perverseness. She was hurt at his displeasure,—
she was injured by her exclusion from Violet's room,—she was
wounded even by her little nephew, who cried downstairs for
mamma, and upstairs for Sarah, and would not be content with
her best endeavours to make him happy. And yet, when, after
carefully looking to see that he could come to no harm, Sarah
was obliged to place him on the floor and leave him for the
first time alone with his father, he sat motionless, fixed in
earnest, intent contemplation, like a sort of distant worship of
him, keeping him likewise in a silent amused wonder, what
would come next; and when it ended in a gravely, distinctly
pronounced, * Papa 1' Arthur started as if it had been a jackdaw
speaking, then picked up the little fellow in his arms and
canned him off to show, as a natural curiosity, to his mother 1
At any other time, Theodora would have been charmed at the
266
HEAPwTSEA^Ej
rare siglit of Artliur fondling his little boy; now she only felt
that nobody wanted her, and that she was deprived of even the
dignity of a nnrsery-maid.
Her chief occupation was answering inquiries, and writing
notes to decline their evening engagements—^the dinner at Mrs.
Delaval's among the rest; for she and Arthur were equally
resolved to remain at home that evening, and she wished to per¬
suade herself that they were Violet's friends, not her own.
In the midst, Mrs. Finch and Miss Gardner called, and in her
state of irritation the smooth tongue of the latter was oil to the
flame.
'Poor thing, no doubt she thinks she has been making a
heroic exertion. Well, she has her reward! It must be de¬
lightful to have caused such a sensation. Your brother is a
most devoted husband.'
' And did she really go because she would not trust you with¬
out her V said Mrs. Pinch. ' Well, that is a good joke 1'
'I think you must be glad they do not live at Brogden,
quietly added Jane, in the midst of her sister's laughter.
'It has been put into her head,' said Theodora, 'that she
ought to look after me, and a great mistake it is.'
'Yes, you are not come here to be less free than last year,
when Lord and Lady Martindale had you in their own hands,'
said Georgina. ' If I were you I would do something strong all
at once, and settle that matter. That was the way you used to
dispose of the governesses.'
' I am not quite what I was then, Georgina.'
' But what is it that she objects to ? I see,' as Jane made a
sign, as if to advise her not to inquire. ' Is it to your coming
out with me? Well! I declare, that is pretty well, considering
who she was. I thought better things of her, with her soft
voice, as if she was thankful to be spoken to, after all the
notice I have taken of her.'
' Hush, hush ! I tell you, she would never have originated
the notion, but it has been put into her, and when she thinks a
thing right nothing will stop her.'
' We will see that 1' said Georgina. ' Come and dine with us
to-night, and then we are going to Der Freischutz. Come—^
' That is impossible, thank you. We have given up the dinner
at the Delavals', and I do not intend to go out in the evening
any more. I came here to take care of her, and I mean to do so
thoroughly,*
'Hot to go out any more !' cried Georgina, horrified.
' I honour Theodora,' said Jane. ' Such devotion is like her
and must win her brother's gratitude.'
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
m
* No devotion at all. I like a rational evening with lier imich
better tkan a cram like last night's.'
* With her alone ?' said Jane, slily.
Theodora crimsoned. Percy had instigated Violet's opposi¬
tion, and she was in no charity with him. Jane saw there was^
annoyance, and turned the subject before her sister could open
on it. With all her quiet ways, Jane had the mastery over the
impetuous Georgina, whom she apparently flattered and che¬
rished as a younger sister, but in reality made subservient to her
own purposes. Indeed, Jane was like the Geraldine of Christa-
belle j without actually speaking evil she had the power of
insinuating her own views, so that even the lofty and sincere
nature of Theodora was not proof against her. Poor Violet!:
while she perilled herself, and sacrificed her friend's good
opinion, her sister's mind was being hardened and poisoned,
against her.
' I am afraid,' said Jane, * that it is of no use then to talk to
you of what Georgina and I have been planning.'
' Oh! Theodora must come to that at any rate,* cried Geor¬
gina, ' or I will never forgive her nor Mrs. Martindale neither.
Do you remember our old birthday treat to Pichmond V
* To be sure I do 1' cried Theodora. * It was one of the most
delightful days I ever had in my life. I have loved cowslips^
doubly for the treat the sight of them was, in the midst of Lon¬
don and masters, seven years ago. Why, you will be twenty-
four next week, Georgina.'
' Growing to an unmentionable age,' said Georgina. * Well, I
have set my heart on a pic-nic to Pichmond again. Mark is to^
take a steamer for us, and I know of plenty of people who will-
'make a charming party !'
* I should like it better without the people,' said Theodora.
'Oh, nonsense j one can't babble of green fields and run after
cowslips, at our age, unless one is in love,' said Georgina. ' If
you were going to bring your Percy, perhaps we would not.
interfere with your sweet rural felicity, my dear.'
'We will bring some one else,' said Jane. ' After poor Mrs..
Martindale had carried you off, Theodora, I found the author of
Pausilippo looking extremely disconsolate, and hinting to him
that such a scheme was in agitation, and that you were included
in it, he Jlooked so eager, that he will be for ever beholden to
Georgina for an invitation.'
' Poor Lord St. Erme !' said Georgina. ' It really is a shame,.
Theodora. I rather take him under my protection. Shall he
come, or shall he not V
' It makes no difference to me,' said Theodora, coolly.
268
HEARTSEASE;
* Whatever it does to him, eh
' But, Georgina, you are not in the least secure of Theodora,'
said Jane, satirically. ' She is devoted to Mrs. Martindale.*
' If my sister-in-law is not well I shall not leave her; if she
is, you may depend upon me.*
* I shall do no such thing, whatever Georgina does,* said
Jane.
' I am sure Mrs. Martindale has ways and means.
' I shall not stay without real reason.*
' And bring the Captain,* entreated Mrs. Finch.
' Still more doubtful,* suggested Jane.
'Yes, I think you will not get him,* said Theodora; ' but
I will certainly join you, provided Violet is not really ill.*
' I am very good friends with that pretty sister of yours,'
said Jane. ' I will call some day, and try to get her permission
for him.*
' Once—^twice—^you have failed us,' said Mrs. Finch, rising to
take leave. ' This third time, and I shall believe it is some one
else in the shape of Theodora Martindale.'
' I will not fail,* repeated Theodora.
They departed, and presently Arthur came down. ' How
long those women have been here 1 Have they been hatching
treason 1 I want you to go up and sit with Violet; I am
going out for an hour.*
It was a tame conclusion to the morning's alarms when a
brisk voice answered, ' Come in,* at her knock, and Violet lay
very comfortably reading, her eyes bright and lively, and her
cheeks with almost their own colour. Her sweet smile and
grateful face chased away ill humour; and Theodora was so
afiectionate and agreeable as to surprise herself, and make her
believe herself subject to the fascination Violet exercised over
her brothers.
She told Arthur, on his return, that Violet was just ill enough
to make waiting on her pretty pastime; but was something be¬
tween alarmed and angry to find him still uneasy.
CHAPTEE XVI.
Lord Percy sees my fall I Chevy Chase,
TWO days after. Miss Gardner calling, found Mrs. Martindale
alone in the drawing-room, and pretty well again. The
project for the pai*ty was now fully developed, and it was ex¬
plained to Violet with regrets that she was unable to share it;
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
289
and hopes that Theodora and her brother would not fail to
join it.
' Thank you, T believe Captain Martindale will be at Windsor;
he will be on guard next week.*
' Ah ! that is provoking. He is so valuable at this kind of
thing, and I am sure would enjoy it. He would meet some old
schoolfellows. You must use your influence to prevent him
from being la2y. Guardsmen can always get leave when they
think it worth while.'
* Perhaps if Theodora wishes to go, he may manage it j but T
am afraid it is not likely that he will be able.'
* You will trust us for taking care of our dear Theodora,'
said Miss Gardner; * we know she is rather high-spirited, and
not very fond of control. I can quite enter into your feelings
of responsibility, but from my knowledge of her character, I
should say that any sense of restraint is most galling to her.
But even if we have not the pleasure of Captain Martindale's
company, you may fully reckon on our watching over her, my¬
self in especial, as a most dear younger sister.'
* Is your party arranged V asked Violet.
' Yes, I may say so. We hope for Mrs. Sedley and her daugh¬
ters. Do you know them % Charming people whom we met in
Paris.'
Violet was not acquainted with them, and tried to find out
who were the rest. They seemed to be all young ladies, or
giddy young wives, like Mrs. Pinch herself, and two or three
foreigners. Few were personally known to the Martindales;
Lord St. Erme was the only gentleman of their own set; and
Violet could not smile, as her visitor expected, on hearing how
he had been enticed by hopes of meeting Miss Martindale.
Jane Gardner perceived the disapprobation. 'Ah! well,—
yes. One cannot but own that our dear Theodora's spirits do
now and then make her a little bit of a flirt. It is the way with
all such girls, you know. I am sure it was with my sister, but,
as in her case, marriage is the only cure. You need not be in
the least uneasy, I assure you. All will right itself, though a
good deal may go on that startles sober-minded people like us.
I could condole with you on the charge, but you will find it
the only way not to seem to thwart her.'
Violet thought it best to laugh, and talk of something
else.
' Then I depend on you for the cream of our party,' said
Miss Gardner, taking leave.
' I cannot tell whether Captain Martindale can come,' said
Violet, some v^^hat bewildered by the conversation.
270
HEARTSEASE;
* Is that girl a nonentity, or is she a deep genins V said Jane
to herself as she walked home. ' I cannot make her out. Kow
for the trial of power I If Theodora Martindale yields to the
Fotheringhams now, and deserts Georgina, it will be a confirma¬
tion of all the absurd reports. As long as I have it to say
the Martindale family are as intimate as ever, I have an an¬
swer for Lady Fotheringham, and if Mark is smitten with her,
•so much the better. I hope Percy Potheringham may be pio-
perly rewarded for his presumption and ill-nature. The sooner
they quarrel the better. I will send Theodora a note to put
her on her mettle.*
The note arrived while Percy was spending the evening in
Gadogan-place, and Theodora talking so happily that she grudged
the interruption of opening and reading it.
' Dearest Theodora,—One line further to secure you,
though I told Mrs. Martindale of our plans. She would make
no promises, but we reckon on your independence of action, at
least. ' Should auld acquaintance be forgot V
* Yours affectionately,
'J. Gardner.'
* P.S.—Mrs. hlartindale looked very well. I hope she will
have no recurrence of faintings.'
'From Jane Gardner,' said Theodora; 'only to put me in
mind of the pic-nic. Will you go, Arthur V
' I never was more glad to be on her Majesty's service. What
an abominable bore it would be !'
' That is \7hat'gentlemen always say of pic-nics,' said Theo¬
dora.
'Hot at all,* said Percy. ' A real country party of merry
happy people, knowing each other well, and full of genuine
honest glee, is one of the most enjoyable things that can be.'
' That it is !' cried Violet. ' There was the day we went up
Skiddaw, with no one but our cousins and Mr. Fanshawe, and
dined on the mountain in sight of the valley of St. John; and
the rain came on, and Mr. Fanshawe sat all the time holding an
umbrella over Annette and the pigeon-pie.*
' That was worth doing,' said Percy; ' but for a parcel of fine
ladies and gentlemen to carry the airs and graces, follies and
competitions, born in ball-rooms and nursed in soirees, out into
pure country air and daylight, is an insult to the green fields
and woods.'
' That is a speech in character of author,' said Theodora.
' In character of rational being.'
OK. THE BKOTHEK'S WIFE. ^ 271
* Wliicli you would not have made if the party had not been
Oeorgina Finch's.'
' I had no notion whose it was, or anything about it.'
' It is for her birth-day, Tuesday,' said Violet. * They are
to have a steamer to Hichmond, walk about and dine there ;
but I should not think that it would be very pleasant. Mrs.
Bryanstone had one of these parties last year to Hampton Court,
and she told me that unless they were well managed they were
the most disagreeable things in the world; people always were
losing each other, and getting into scrapes. She declared she
never would have another.'
' Mrs. Bryanstone has no idea of management,' said Theo¬
dora.
* I know who has less,' said Arthur. ' Your Georgina will
let every one take their chance, and the worse predicaments
people get into the louder she will laugh.'
* There is nothing so intolerable as a woman who thinks
herself too fashionable for good manners,' said Percy.
^ Is any one waiting for an answer ?' asked Violet.
* There is none,' said Theodora. ' They know I mean to
go.'
' To go !' exclaimed all three, who had thought the question
settled by Arthur's refusal.
* Yes, of course; I go with Georgina.'
' With Mark Gardner, and the king of the clothesbrushes,
and all their train, in moustaches and parti-coloured parasols I'
cried Percy. * Theodora, I thought you were a sensible
woman.'
' I am sorry if I forfeit that claim to your regard.'
' Well, if I was your mother ! However, it is devoutly to be
hoped that it may rain.'
He then changed the conversation, and no more passed oii
this subject till, as he wished her good night, he said, in a low
voice, * Think better of it, Theodora.'
' My mind is made up,' was the proud reply.
In a few seconds he called Arthur to him on the stairs.
' Arthur,' he said, ' if your sister is set on this wrong-headed
scheme, at least don't let her go with no one to look after her.
Let her have some respectable person with her, merely for
propriety's sake. She fancies me prejudiced, and we have
agreed to dispute no more on the woman's goings on; but you
have the keeping of her now.'
' I wish Mrs. Finch was at Jericho, and Theodora after her !'
exclaimed Arthur, petulantly; ' they will worry my wife to
death between them.'
272 HEARTSEASE;
* TKen Theodora had better go home,* said Percy, soberly,
* No, no; we cant do without her. She takes good care of
Violet, and is very attentive and useful, and I can't have Violet
left alone. If we could but get her down off her high horse,
and drive that impudent woman out of her head !—^if you can't,
no one else can.
*It is very unfortunate,' said Percy. 'There is so much
generous feeling and strong affection to prompt her resistance,
that it -is hard to oppose her, especially as I do believe there is
no worse than folly and levity in this friend of hers. I wish
these occasions would not arise. Left to herself these people
would soon disgust her ; bub for her own sake we must inter¬
fere, and that keeps up her partisanship.'
' What is to be done V was Violet's disconsolate beginning, as
soon as she could see Arthur alone.
' Take it easy'—words which she had taught herself to
regard as a warning that she was doleful. 'Never mind; if
Theodora is so pig-headed as to rush into this scheme, it is no
concern of yours. All you have to do is to take care not to be
worried.'
Violet had regained a cheerful voice. ' If you were going
with her, it would not signify.'
' It would signify pretty much to me to be bored with all that
riff-raff. One would think Theodora bewitched.'
' There is hardly any one of our acquaintance.'
' No, the lady has dropped pretty much in the scale.'
' I wish I knew what your father and mother would think
of it.'
' They would hate it as much as we do, but they could not
prevent it. Nobody can stop Theodora when once she has
the bit between her teeth. As I told Percy, if he can't, 'tis past
all power. I wonder if he thinks by this time he has caught a
Tartar V
' Did he call you to speak about it V
'Yes; to say I must by no means let her go without a
respectable female to look after her.'
' I don't know these ladies; but if Mrs. Pinch would ask
Mrs. Bryanstone, she is so good-natured that I dare say she
would go.'
' That would be the most tolerable way of doing it; but I
would lay you anything you please that nothing but unmiti¬
gated Pinch will content her.'
' And that is worse than no one.*
' I wish some stop could be put to it. It is worse than Percy
knows. She can't speak to a man without flirting, and we shall
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
273
have her turning some poor fellow's head, like Wingfield's. I
don't think it is respectable !'
' It is very strange, so good and religious as she is.*
* Where is the use of her religion if it does not bring down
her pride or cure her obstinacy 1 If it would, I should see some
good in the rout she makes about going to church and teaching
dirty children.'
* Oh! Arthur, dear, don't say that.'
' It is the truth, though.'
' I think,' said Yiolet, diffidently, ' that some day the good
will conquer the rest. Some day she will feel these things to
be wrong and strive against them.'
' Do you mean that she does not know it is wrong to be as
wilful and proud as Lucifer ?'
, * I do not think she knows she has those tendencies.'
Arthur laughed and shook his head. 'One learns one's
faults as one grows older, you know,' continued Yiolet, ' and
she is so very kind. Think of her giving up all going out in
the evening to stay with me, and you don't know how she waits
on baby and me. She is so grand and noble, that kindness from
her is delightful, and her face when it softens is so like you !
Some book says that high natures have the most trouble with
their faults.'
' Then hers ought to be high indeed.'
Yiolet began the day by telling Arthur that his sister would
go to make arrangements with Mrs. Finch, and asked him to
tell her of their decision before he returned to Windsor that
morning.
' Our decision ! What do you mean f
' Don't you remember about Mrs. Bryanstone V
* Oh I if that is to be done, you must say it. Ladies must
manage their own visiting affairs. I don't understand chaperons
and stuff.'
' Arthur, you don't mean me to speak V
'If it is to be done at all, it is woman's work, and I see no
use in it. She will toss her head, and only be more resolved on
her own way.'
' Oh, Arthur, one moment! Did you not say it ought to be
done?'
' Of course it ought; but it is of no use, and if you are wise,
you will not tease yourself.'
' But you said Percy insisted on it.*
' So he did, but if he cannot tackle her himself, I am sure
wo can't. I'll haye nothing to do with it—it is no affair of
mine.'
T
274
HE.UITSEASE;
' Then, am I to let her alone V
* As you choose. I wish she would hear reason, but it is not
worth bothering yourself for, when it is of no use.'
' What do you wish me to do ? I wish I knew—^
He shut the door behind him, and Yiolet tried to recover
from her dismay. Thankful would she have been for com¬
mands not to interfere; but to be left to her own judgment was
terrible when she knew that his true opinion coincided with
hers. How could she hope to prevail, or not to forfeit the
much-prized affection that seemed almost reluctantly to be at
last bestowed ?
But, cost what it might, Yiolet never sweiwed from a duty,
and her mind was clear that to permit Theodora to join the
party alone without remonstrance, and without the knowledge
of her parents, would be improper. She resolved not to confuse
herself with fears and anxieties, and strove to dwell on what¬
ever could steady or calm her mind for the undertaking. How
wide a difference in moral courage there was between that tall
grenadier and his timid delicate wife.
Arthur and Theodora were both downstairs before her,
and the latter was preparing breakfast, when there was a
knock. ' Percy !' she thought. ' He shall see how useless ifc
is to interfere!'
* Mr. Albert Moss!'
Arthur threw aside his newspaper, and held out his hand
with a fair show of welcome. ' Ha ! Moss, how are you 1 Your
sister will be downstairs directly. Miss Martindale—*
Theodora was resolved against being supercilious, but Mr.
Moss's intention of shaking hands, obliged her to assert her
dignity by a princess-like inclination.
' Good morning,' said Albert, ' I came to town yesterday—
slept at my uncle's—^have this day in London—^much occupied
—'thought myself sure of you at breakfast.'
* I will tell Mrs. Martindale,' said Theodora, glad to escape
that she might freely uplift her eyes at his self-sufficiency, and
let her pity for Arthur exhale safely on the stairs.
She met Yiolet, and was vexed at her start of joy, only con¬
soling herself by thinking that she did not look as if she was
his sister. Indeed, after the momentary instinct of gladness,
came fears lest Arthur might not be pleased, and Theodora bo
annoyed; but the familiar home-like voice drove away all
except pleasure as soon as she was certified that her husband's
brow was smooth. His presence was a restraint, keeping
Albert on his best behaviour, so that there was nothing to
OE, THE BEOTHEE'S WIFE.
275
disturb her present enjoyment of home tidings. That good-
humour and ease of his were indeed valuable ingredients of
comfort.
He asked Albert to dinner, and desired him to bring TJncle
Christopher, if they chose to be entertained by the ladies alone,
further offering him a seat in his cab as far as their roads lay
together. Highly gratified, Albert proceeded to ask his sister
■whether she was able to execute a commission for Matilda,
the matching of a piece of chenille. Violet readily under¬
took it, and he said, ' he would explain the occasion on his
return.*
When they were gone, the cares of the morning returned
upon her, and by the time her household affairs were finished,
all her pulses were throbbing at the prospect of the effort to
which she was nerving herself. She ordered herself to be quiet,
and lay do"wn on the sofa, leaving the door open that Theodora
might not^go out without her knowledge.
* It is my duty,* repeated she to herself. ' If I turn from it
because it is so dreadful to me, I shall not take up my cross I
If she will only listen and not be angry !'
Hearly an hour passed, the day seeming to grow warmer and
more oppressive, and a nervous headache coming on. Poor
Violet! she was still a frightened child, and when she sav^^
Theodora coming down with her bonnet on, the fiuttering of
her heart made her call so feeble that Theodora supposed
her ill, and came to her with kind solicitude that rendered
it still harder to say what she knew would be taken as an
affront.
With great difficulty she uttered the words, ' I only wanted
to speak to you about this expedition to Hichmond.'
' Well,' said Theodora, smiling with what was meant for good-
humour, but was only scorn, ' you need not distress yourself, my
dear, I am ready to hear.'
'Would you get Mrs. Finch to ask Mrs. Bryanstone, and go
with her ?' Violet could really speak at no more length.
' It would be folly. Mrs. Bryanstone would be out of her
element, and only a nuisance to herself and every one else.
That will do. You have discharged your conscience.*
' It is not myself alone,* said Violet, sitting up, and gather¬
ing force to speak firmly and collectedly, but with her hand on
her heart. ' Your brother and I both think it is not right, nor
what Lord and Lady Martindale would approve, that you should
join this party without some one they know and like.'
'You mistake, Violet. This is not like a ball. There
T 2
276
HEARTSEASE ;
is no absurd conventionality, tacking a spinster to a married
woman.*
*No, but since Arthur cannot be with you, it is needful to
take measures to prevent any awkwardness for you.*
* Thank you. I'll take care of that.'
' Dear Theodora, I did not mean to vex you; but will you
only put yourself in our place for one moment. Your father
and mother let you stay here on the understanding that you go
out with us, and when we cannot go, do you think we ought to
see you put yourself under the escort of a person to whom we
believe they would object V
'I have told you that I know what my own father and
mother permit.'
Yiolet was silent, and pressed her hand on her brow, feeling
as if all her prepared arguments and resolutions were chased
away by the cool disregard which seemed to annihilate them
even in her own eyes. By an effort, however, she cleared her
mind, conjured back her steadiness, and spoke, preserving her
voice with difficulty from being plaintive. 'You may know
^Sv^hat they permit you, but we owe them duties too. Theodora,
if you will not take some one with you whom we know they
would approve, we must write and ask what Lord Martindale
would wish.*
'Arthur will never write,* said Theodora, in defiance; but
the answer took her by surprise—' If he does not, I shall.'
' If there is to be such a rout, I will not go at all.'
' Indeed I think it would be the best plan,' said Violet, re¬
moving the hand that had been hiding the springing tears, to
look up beseechingly, and see whether the project were resigned,
and herself spared the letter which she well Imew would be left
to her lot.
But for those wistful eyes, Theodora would have felt caught
in her own trap; for such speeches had often brought governess,
mother, and even aunt, to humble entreaties that she would
take her own course. She had to recollect her words before
she perceived that she had yielded, and that she must abide by
them. Anything was better than the humiliation of Violet's
sending home complaints of her conduct. She was greatly
incensed; but a glance at the gentle, imploring face, and the
hands trying in vain not to tremble with nervousness, could
not but turn away her wrath. It was impossible to manifest
displeasure; but to speak a word of concession seemed still
more impossible. She impetuously threw off her bonnet, seized
a pen, dashed off a few lines, and tossed the note and its
envelope into Violet's lap, saying, in her low voice of proud
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
£77
snbinissioii, * There I youwiU send it/ and left the room. Violet
read
' ]\It dear Georgixa,—My brother is engaged at "Windsor,
and I cannot join your party to Kichmond.
' Yours sincerely,
' Th. a. Martindale.
' Mrs. Martindale is pretty well, thank you.*
Violet almost expected Theodora's next note would announce
her return home. She had been forced to give up all the affec¬
tion so slowly gained, and to wound her proud sister-in-law
where she was most sensitive. Should she hold Theodora to this
renunciation, and send the note she had extorted, or should she
once more ask whether this was in eainest, and beg her to re¬
consider the alternative.
But Violet was convinced that Theodora intended to hear
no more about the matter, and that nothing would be such an
offence as to be supposed to have acted hastily. She was afraid
of renewing the subject, lest her weakness should lose her what
she had gained. * Better.' thought she, ' that Theodora should
think me presumptuous and troublesome than that she should
mix herself up with these people, and, perhaps, displease Percy
for ever. But, oh ! if I could but have done it without vexing
her, and to-day, too, when she has to bear with Albert.'
Violet felt that she must give way to her headache, trusting
that when it had had its will it might allow her to be bright
enough to make a fair show before Albert. She lay with closed
eyes, her ear not missing one tick of the clock, nor one sound
in the street, but without any distinct impression conveyed to
her thoughts, which were wandering in the green spots in the
park at Wrangerton, or in John's descriptions of the coral reefs
of the "West Indies. The first interruption was Sarah's bringing
down the baby, whom she was forced to dismiss at once.
Again all was still; but .the half slumber was soon inter¬
rupted, something cold and fragrant was laid on her brow, and,
thinking Sarah would not be satisfied without attending to her,
she murmured thanks, without opening her eyes. But the hand
that changed the cool handkerchief was of softer texture j and
looking up, she saw Theodora bending over her, with the face"
so like Arthur's, and making every demonstration of kindness
and attention—drawing down blinds, administering sal volatile,
and doing everything in her service.
Not that Theodora was in the least subdued. She was burning
with resentment with every one—with Percy and his prejudice;
273
HEARTSEASE ;
vrith. the gossiping world; with her friends for making this a
trial of power; with Arthur for having put forward his poor
young wife when it cost her so much. * He knew I should not
liave given way to him! Feebleness is a tyrant to the strong.
It was like putting the women and children on the battlements
of a besieged city. It was cowardly; unkind to her, unfair on
me. She is a witch 1'
But candour was obliged to acknowledge that it had not been
feebleness that had been the conqueror. Yiolet had made no
demonstration of going into fits; it had been her resolution,
her strength, not her weakness, that had gained the victory.
Chafe as Theodora might, she could not rid herself of the com
sciousness that the sister of that underbred attorney — that
timid, delicate, soft, shrinking being, so much her junior—^had
dared to grapple with her fixed determination, and had gained
an absolute conquest. 'Tyrant!' thought Theodora, 'my own
brother would have left me alone, but she has made him let her
interfere. She means to govern us all, and the show of right
she had here has overthrovm me for once; but it shall not •
happen again.'
At this juncture Theodora discovered, from the sounds in the
other room, how much Violet had suflered from her efibrt, and
her compassion was instantly excited. ' I must go and nurse
her. She meant to do right, and I honour the real goodness,
I am no petted child, to be cross because I have lost a pleasure.'
So she took exemplary care of Violet, read aloiTd, warded off
noises, bribed the brass band at the other side of the square,
went up to see why Johnnie was crying, carried up her luncheon,
waited on her assiduously, and succeeded so well, that by the
time the carriage came round, the head was in a condition to be
mended by fresh air.
Mere driving out was one of Theodora's aversions. If she
did not ride, she had district visiting and schooling; but to-day
she went with Violet, because she thought her unfit to be tired
by Matilda's commission. It proved no sinecure. The west-end
workshops had not the right article; and, after trying them,
Theodora pronounced that Violet must drive about in the hot
streets no longer. One turn in the park, and she would set
lier down, and go herself into the city, if necessary, to match
the pattern.
And this from Theodora, who detested fancy work, despised .
what she called ' dabblers in silk and wool,' and hated the sight
of a Berlin shop !
Violet would not have allowed it; but Theodora threw her
determination into the scale, resolved to make herself feel gene-
OR,' THE brother'S WIFE. 279
rous and forgiving, and not above taking any trouble to save
Violet. So off sbe set, and was gone so long that Violet Lad a
long rest, and came downstairs, mucL revived, to welcome Ler
brother.
Albert arrived alone. TJncle Christopher was engaged, and
had charged him with his excuses, for which Violet was sorry,
as he was 'an unpretending, sensible man, to whom she had
trusted for keeping her brother in order j but Albert was of
a different opinion. 'ISTo harm,' he said. 'It was very good-
natured of Martindale; but he is a queer old chap, who might
not go down so well in high life,' and he surveyed his own ele¬
gant toilette.
/We get on very well, said Violet, quietly.
' Besides,' added Albert, attempting bashfulness, ' I have a
piece of intelligence, which being slightly personal, I should
prefer—^you understand.'
Violet was prepared by her sister's letters for the news that
Albert was engaged to Miss Louisa Davis, very pretty, ' highly
accomplished,' and an heiress, being the daughter of a consider¬
able county banker—a match superior to what Albert could
have expected. They had been engaged for the last fortnight,
but he had not allowed his sisters to mention it, because he
was coming to London, and wished to have the pleasure of
himself communicating the intelligence. Violet was much flat¬
tered ; she who used to be nobody to be thus selected! and she
threw herself into all the home feelings. The wedding was
fixed for the beginning of July, and this first made her re¬
member the gulf between her and her family.
Seven o'clock was long past when Theodora entered, arrayed
in rich blue silk and black lace, put on that Violet's brother
might see she meant to do him honour; and so Violet under¬
stood it, but saw that he was only contrasting it with her own
quiet-coloured muslin.
Here ended Violet's comfort. Albert was so much elated
that she was afraid every moment of his doing something
mal-b,-propos, Theodora was resolved to be gracious, and make
conversation, which so added to his self-satisfaction, that Violet's
work was to repress his familiarity. At dinner, she made
Theodora take Arthur's place, and called her Miss Martindale,
otherwise she believed it would be Theodora the next moment
with him, and thus she lost all appearance of ease. She was
shy for her brother, and when he said anything she did not
like, tried to colour it rightly; but she was weary and languid,
and wanted spirit to control the conversation.
' So, Violet, Fanshawe's appointment was a pretty little bit
180
HEARrSEASE;
)f patronage of yours; but the ladies of Wrangerton will never
forgive you. They were going to get up a subscription to give
him a piece of plate.*
* O, yes! and he desired them to send the money to the
' Society for the Propagation of the Gospel/ * said Violet.
* Annette mentioned it.*
' I suppose it depends on Mr. Martindale, whether he makes
a good thing of it in Barbuda/ said Albert; ' but the gov—^
at a dismayed look from her, he turned it into * My father is
much obliged to you for getting him out of the way. The girls
vrere so taken up with him one hardly knew whether some¬
thing might not come of it; and really a poor curate—after
the manner in which some of the family have connected them¬
selves.'
The ladies were sorry for each other—one ashamed and one
amused, neither venturing to look up; and Albert had no oppor¬
tunity for the bow he intended for Miss Martindale.
' By-the-bye,* continued he, ' who is this Fotheringham that
was to settle with Panshawe ? I thought he was Lord Martin-
dale's solicitor; but my uncle knows nothing about him.*
Violet coloured crimson, and wished herself under the table;
Theodora made violent efforts to keep from an explosion of
laughing.
' No,' said Violet, rather indignantly; *he is—^he is—^he is—*
she faltered, not knowing how to describe one so nearly a rela¬
tion, ' a great friend of—'
Theodora having strangled the laugh, came to her rescue, a nd
replied, with complete self-possession, ' His sister, who died, was
engaged to my eldest brother.*
' Oh! I beg your pardon. You look on him as a sort of
family connexion. I suppose, then, he is one of the Fother-
inghams of Worthbournel Matilda fancied he was the literary
man of that name; but that could not be.*
' Why not V said Theodora, extremely diverted.
* A poet, an author! I beg your pardon; but a lady alone
could suppose one of that description could be employed in a
practical matter. Is not it Shakespeare who speaks of the
poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling? Eh, Violet? I shall never
forget the gove—my father's indignation when he detected your
humble servant in the act of attempting a slight tribute to tlK.^
Muses. I believe the old gentleman looked on my fate as
sealed.*
' Albert !* said Violet, feeling as if she must stop his mouth,
'you are quite mistaken. Mr. Fotheringham does belong to
the family you mean, and he did write The Track of the GrVr-
OK THE BEOTHER'S WIFE.
2B1
eaders. He has been attached to the embassy in Turkey, and
IS waitiug for another appointment.* Then, looking at Theodora,
* You never told me how far you went to-day.*
Theodora detailed her long pursuit of the chenille, and hex
successful discovery of it at last. Albert's gratitude was ex¬
treme j his sister would be delighted and flattered, the work
would receive an additional value in the eyes of. all, and he
might well say so, he was a party concerned, the material was
for a waistcoat, to be worn on an occasion—^but his sister would
explain.
Violet thought he had exposed himself quite enough ; and as
dessert was on the table, she rose with as good a smile as she
•could, saying, * Very well, I'll explain ; you will find your way
to the drawing-room,* and retreated.
Theodora caressingly drew her arm into hers, much pleased
with her, and accepting-her as entirely Martindale, and not at
all Moss. 'What! is he going to be married in it V
' Yes, that is what he meant.*
' I hope you are satisfied.*
' O yes, I never saw her j but they are all very much
pleased.*
' Now tell me frankly, which do you like 1 Shall I leave you
at peace with him, or will he think it rude in me V
Violet decided in favour of Theodora's absence till tea-time.
Alone she had enjoyed Albert, but the toil of watching his
manners was too much.
' Then I'll come down and make the tea.*
' Thank you, dear Theodora. It is so kind. I hope it will
not be very disagreeable. And one thing—could you tell him
how well I really am, except for to-day's headache, or he will go
and take home another bad account of me.*
* Your head is worse again. There, I'll fetch some lavender,
and do you lie still and rest it till he comes.*
He soon came.
'Well, Miss Martindale is a fine young lady, upon my word.
Real high blood and no mistake. And not so high in her
manner after all, when one knows how to deal with her.'
' She is very kind to me.*
' And how long does she stay V
' O, for some time longer. Till August, most likely.*
' Why, she will get the command of your house altogether.*
' I am very glad to have her here.*
' Ah r said Albert, looking confidential, ' you do right to be
prudent, but you may trust me, and I should be glad to know
that it is more comfortable than last year.*
283
HEA'RTSEASE ;
' It never was otlierwise,' said Violet.
'I hope so,* said Albert, 'I honour your prudence, and,
after all, you have a handsome establishment,—capital diimers,
good turn out. I only wish I could see you look in better
spirits.*
Violet started forward and coloured. ' Albert, don't take up .
fancies. I am perfectly happy, and you must believe it. They
all pet and spoil me with kmdness. If you think me looking
poorly to-day it is only from a headache, which Miss Martindale
has been nursing so carefully and tenderly.*
' Well, you cannot be too cautious if you are to stand well
with the family. You do well to be on your guard. Martin-
dale only the second son, and the elder may marry any day.
That was one thing I thought I ought to speak to you about.
You really should try to get some settlement made on you.
You have nothing to depend upon, and, you see, you cannot
expect anything from home.'
* Do not talk about such things.*
'You must not be childish, Violet; I am come as your best
friend to give you advice. You ought to consider what would
become of you if you were left with a family of young children,
connected as you are. You depend entirely on one life, and you
must not reckon on us, as you 7nust see.'
' I see,' said Violet, only wanting him to cease.
' Then you perceive I have your real interest in view when I
tell you it is your duty to use what influence you have to get
some provision made.'
' Don't go on, Albert. As my marriage was brought about, '
it would be improper in me to do anything of the kind.'
' I only wished you to see what you have to trust to. Ah!
by-the-bye, there's the old aunt. Have not you expectations
from her V
' No; she was so much ofiended at our marriage that there la
no likelihood of her doing anything for us.*
' Dless me ! That's a bad case ! But you have been staying
there. Can't a pretty engaging thing like you manage to come
round the old lady and get into her good graces 1'
' Albert! don't talk so.*
'Beally, Violet, it is time to give up being a silly child. You
ought not to throw away your true interests, or the time will
come when you will be sorry, and remember what I said ; but
you are not to depend on me.'
' No,' said Violet, and scalding tears arose, ' I do not. You
need not be afraid. I have a brother who will take care of mo
and mine.'
OE, THE brother'S WIFE.
283
* Jolm Martindale V
'Yes.'
'Well, you knew your own ground. I tkougkt it my duty
to "wam you, and I hope you will take care to make tke most
of yourself—^it will never do to let yourself seem of no im¬
portance, and be overcrowed by tbis baugbty young lady.'
Yiolet nearly laughed, but the next speech was too much for
her patience. ' And you are satisfied at Martindale being so
much from home V
' He must be while his regiment is at Windsorand she
rang for tea, and sent a message to summon Miss Martindale,
feeling her presence her only protection.
Her head ached so much that she was obliged to He on the
sofa and let things take their chance, and Theodora's attempt to
represent her in good health only appeared like blindness and
indifference. Albert was much enchanted with Miss Martin¬
dale, and made himself more ridiculous, until it was a great
satisfaction to his sister to see him depart.
' He always comes on unlucky days 1' she said. ' I wish I
could have made it go off better. Thank you for taking all
the trouble.'
'Ho trouble at all,' said Theodora,, kindly. 'I am sorry
you had so "much to tire you in the morning. Now, come
up to your room. I wish I could carry you, as Arthur
does.'
She put her arm round her, helped her tenderly up the
stairs, and came in several times to her room to see that she
was comfortable. At the last good night, Yiolet whispered,
' Dear Theodora, don't think my sisters like this—'
' I'll judge them from you, my dear little sister.'
' And you forgive me V
' To be sure I do. You did as you thought right.'
Strange to say Theodora had more sympathy for Yiolet after
this awkward evening.
In the middle of the following day, Yiolet and little Johnnie
were together in the drawing-room, when Arthur came in.
Well, how are you 1 I am only here for two hours, but I
wanted to know how you are getting on.'
'Yery well, indeed, thank you.'
Theodora sticks to her flight of Finches, I suppose V
' She has been so kind ! she has given it up.'
' You don't mean it. I thought she was ready to go through
fii'e and water 1' cried Arthur, incredulously.
' She has written to refuse.'
' What, Percy brought her to reason f
284
HEARTSEASE;
'No, he has not been here, hut I suppose his opinion in¬
fluenced her.*
' What in the name of wonder prevailed ? I never saw her
turn when once she had taken up a notion.'
' I believe it was that I said you or I must write to her
father, and ask what he wished.*
'So that settled her? Ha! Well done! Theodora forced
to give up her will, and by you! Well, that is the best thing
T have heard a long time. My little Yiolet to have got the
upper hand of Miss Martindale!' and Arthur burst into such a
fit of triumphant laughter as to quite discomfort Yiolet, but
little Johnnie by her side on the sofa catching the infection of
merriment, gave, what was very unusual with him, a regular
shout of baby fun, and went on laughing in ecstasy that set
Arthur off on a fresh score. ' So! young man, you think it
very funny that mamma has been too much for aunt Theodora?!
Theodora could not have chosen a more unlucky moment for
walking into the room! However, it must remain uncertain
whether she had heard. The visible consequence of the late
affair was exemplary attention to Yiolet's comfort; and that
doubt, so often balanced in her sister's mind, whether she
loved Percy, now inclined to the affirmative, for there was a
concealed disquietude at his totally absenting himself from
Cadogan-place. They did not see him again till the very day
of the pic-nic, when, as they were driving in the park, the
exclamation—'There he is!' broke from her, and then she
leant back, vexed at having betrayed her joy.
He came to speak to them with such an open beaming look
of gratification as Yiolet trusted was a recompence, but Theo¬
dora chose to keep an unmoved countenance; and it was only
Yiolet's happy congratulating face that assured him that all was
right and the Richmond scheme resigned.
She asked him to dinner for that day, and he gladly accepted;
but Theodora, considering it a sugar-plum to console her for
staying at home, behaved as if it was a matter of indifference.
Yiolet took care to leave them alone, and she began the
subject herself. ' You find me here to-day, Percy, but it is no
proof that I am convinced.'
' It shows, as I hoped, that your good sense would prevail
when left to itself.'
'No, it was Yiolet.'
' I honour her and you more than I ever did before.*
' That's your way,' said Theodora, with the bright smile that
was an act of oblivion for all her waywardness. 'All you
value is a slave with no will of her own.'
OE, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. ^ SSST
* One who has a will, hut knows how to resign it.*
* That you may have the victory.'
*No, hut that you may he greater than he that taketh a
city.*
Theodora raised her eyes much softened. She never liked
Percy so well as when he made these direct attacks on her
faults in general; when it came to a comhat over the individual
questions, it was a different matter.
* I am very glad you have given this up,* Percy proceeded.
* It is a positive relief to my mind to find that you can yield.
Do not he ashamed of it, it is the hest thing you have done a
long time.*
'But Percy, I did not do it on principle; I did it because
Yiolet would have written to papa.*
' There's the true sort of spirit! Brave enough to confront
even you for the right, yet yielding her own will and wish at
the first moment. I think more highly of Mrs. Martindale the
more I hear of her.*
'And you wish me to he like her?' said Theodora, watching
for the hlunt negative.
' No, hut to see you what you might and ought to he. It is
repeating what I told you when this first hegan. You have a
nohle nature, hut you will not check yourself, will not control
your pride; you cannot hear any attempt to curh you. You
are proud of it; hut I tell you, Theodora, it is not high
spirit, it is absolute sinful temper. If no one else will tell you
so, I must.*
Theodora bent her head and cast down her eyes, not in
sullenness, hut in sorrow. ' It is true,* she murmured; * I see
it sometimes, and it frightens me.*
' I know,* he said, much moved, ' the ser.se of right must
conquer; hut, indeed, Theodora, it is time to begin, that it may
not he some evil consequence that subdues you.* He opened
' the Baptistery* as it lay on the table, and pointed to the
sentence—' If thou refusest the cross sent thee by an angel, the
devil will impose on thee a heavier weight.'
Theodora looked up in his face; the words were applied in
a sense new to her. 'Are humility and submission my cross?'
said she.
' If you would only so regard them, you would find the secret
of peace. If you would only tame yourself before trouble is sent
to tame you I But there, I have said what I felt it my duty to
say; let us dwell on it no longer.*
The large tears, however, fell so fast, that he coul l not hear
to have caused them, and presently she said, ' You are right.
286
HEAETSEASE ;
Percy, I am proud and violent. I liave grown up fearfully un¬
tamed. No one ever checked me but you, and that is the reason
I look up to you beyond all others.*
The lioness was subdued, and the rest of the evening there
was a gentleness and sober tone about her that made her truly
charming: and a softer sense of happiness was around her when
she awoke the next morning, making her feel convinced that
this was indeed the only real peace and gladness.
CHAPTEE XYII.
Call me false, or call me free,
Vow, whatever light may shine,
Ho man on your face shall see
Any grief for change of mine.
E. B. Browning {The Lady's Yes).
IT appeared as if Mrs. Einch and Miss Gardner were offended
at Theodora's defection, for nothing was heard of them for
several days, and the household in Cadogan-place continued in
a state of peacefulness. Arthur was again at home for a week,
and Theodora was riding with him when she next met the two
sisters, who at once attacked them for their absence from the
pic-nic, giving an eager description of its delights and of the
silence and melancholy of poor Lord St. Erme.
' He and Mark were both in utter despair,' said Jane.
- 'Well, it is of no use to ask you; I have vowed I never will/
said Mrs. Finch; ' or I should try to make you come with us on
Wednesday.*
' What are you going to do?'
' You living in Captain Martindale's house, and forgetting
the Derby 1' And an entreaty ensued that both brother and
sister would join their party. Arthur gave a gay, unmeaning
answer, and they parted.
'What do you think of it?' asked Theodora.
'Too much trouble,* said he, lazily. 'There is no horse
running that I take interest in. My racing days are over. I
am an old domestic character.*
'Nonsense! You don't look two-and-twenty! Lady Eliza^
beth's sister would not believe you were my married brother.
You have not the look of it.'
Arthur laughed, and said, ' Absurd !' but was flattered.
When he told his wife of the invitation, he added, ' I wonder
if there is a fresh breeze blowing up !*
' I trust not.*
OK, THE brother'S WIFE.
287
' If slie really want^ to go, and slie has never seen the thing,
I had rather take her in a sober way by ourselves, and come
home at our o'wti time.'
' Why don't you? It would be very pleasant for you both,
and I should be so glad. Think how she shuts herseH up with
me!'
' We will see. Anything for a quiet life.'
Theodora, being fond of horses, and used to hear much about
them from her brother, had a real curiosity to go to Epsom,
and broached the subject the next morning at breakfast. Before
any answer had been given, Mr. Eotheringham made his ap¬
pearance.
' Well, Percy,' said Arthur, * you find this sister of mine bent
on dragging me to Epsom. Come with us ! You will have an
opportunity of getting up an article against fashionable life.'
'Theodora was ready to hide her desire for his consent, but
' thought better of it, and said, * It is of no use to ask him.'
* Indeed I would go,' said Percy; ^ I wish I could; but I
came here to tell you that my aunt Eotheringham is coming
to London early on Wednesday for advice for her son, and wiH
only be there two days, so that it is impossible to be away.'
*Is Sir Antony Eotheringham coming?' asked Yiolet, as
Theodora did not speak.
' Ko; he is a fixture. He has never even seen a railroad.
My aunt could hardly persuade him to let her come up without
the old chariot and posters.'
* You will bring them here to dinner,' said Arthur.
' Thank you, I must not promise; I cannot tell what Pelham
may be fit for. I must take him to the Zoological Gardens.
How he will enjoy them, poor fellow ! The only thing to guard
against will be his growing too much excited.'
Percy was engaged that morning, and soon departed, with
hardly a word from Theodora, whose amiability had been en¬
tirely overthrown by finding her service postponed to that of
his aunt.
* There's the Derby happily disposed of 1' said Arthur, rising
from the breakfast-table.
* I don't see why,' said Theodora.
* What I Is not this Percy's well-beloved aunt, who nursed
Helen, and is such a friend of John's?'
' I am not going to dance attendance on any one.'
* It is your concern,' said Arthur; * but, if you don't take
care, Percy wont stand much more of this.'
Vouchsafing no answer, she quitted the room. Arthur made
"a gesture of annoyance. *She treats Percy like a dog I' he
288
HEARTSEASE J
said. * I believe my aunt is rigbt, and tbat it never will come
to good r
* Shall you go with her, then V
* I must, I suppose. She will not let me off now.*
' If we do not vex her by refusing, I hope she will give it up
of herself, I am almost sure she will, if no one says anything
about it.'
* Very well: I am the last person to begin. I am sick of her
quarrels.*
Two wills were dividing Theodora: one calling on her to
renounce her pride and obstinacy, take up the yoke while yet
there was time, earn the precious sense of peace, and confer
gladness on the honest heart which she had so often pained.
Violet was as the genius of this better mind, and her very pre¬
sence infused such thoughts as these, disposing her not indeed
openly to yield, but to allow it to drop in silence.
But there was another will, which reminded her that she
had thrice been baffled, and that she had heard the soft tyrant
rejoicing with her brother over her defeat! She thought of
Violet so subjugating Arthur, that he had not even dared to
wish for his favourite amusement, as if he could not be trusted!
Such recollections provoked her to show that there was one
whose determination would yield to no one's caprice, and im¬
pelled her to maintain the unconquerable spirit in which she
had hitherto gloried. Violet's unexpressed opinion was tricked
out as an object of defiance; and if she represented the genius
of meekness, wilfulness was not without outward prompters.
Mrs. 5 Finch and Miss Gardner called, and found her alone.
' There! said the former, * am I not very forgiving? Actually
to come and seek you out again, after the way you served us.
Now, on your honour, what was the meaning of it ?'
' The meaning was, that this poor child had been told it was
etiquette for me to have a chaperon at my heels, and made such
a disturbance that I was obliged to give up the point. I am
not ashamed. She is a good girl, though a troublesome one at
times.'
*Who would have thought that pretty face could be so
prudish V
' I suppose she is against your coming to Epsom?' said Jane,
interrupting her sister.
* No; my brother and I have been proposing to go, inde¬
pendently; so as to be able to come home at our own time.'
* You had better bo satisfied with that, Georgina,' said Jane.
' We shall find ourselves together at the stand, and it will spare
a few dangerous hysterics.'
OR. THE BROTHER^S WIFE.
289
* I shall do nothing underhand/ said Theodora. ' I shall pro¬
claim my intention of joining you; but I doubt, because Lady
Fotheringham is coming to London.'
* Her ladyship herself?' cried Georgina. ' What, in the name
of wonder, brings her from her antediluvian hall V
* She brings her son for advice.'
'We can say no more,' said Jane. 'Percy's expectations
would be ruined if the good lady found his intended concerned
In such naughty doings. She must stay at home.'
' To entertain Pelham!' cried Mrs. Finch, in a paroxysm of
Wghing, of her most unreal kind.
'Let me give you one piece of advice,* said Jane. 'Don't
nake yourself too great a favourite, as I unwittingly did, or
fou will have no cessation of ' I have a pony; it can trot; it
can canter."
' I have not decided.'
'No,' said Jane, 'you cannot do it. We know Lady Fother¬
ingham too well to ask you to lose your place in her regard for
our sake. Probably this is a most important visit, and all may
depend on her first impressions.'
' I don't depend on her.'
' Ah ! you don't understand. She is the managing partner,
and I have little doubt this is only an excuse for coming to in¬
spect you. It is quite in their power, you know, to do the
only rational thing under the circumstances—^make an eldest
son of Percy, and set poor Pelham aside, with enough to make
him happy.'
' I do believe that must be it!' cried Georgina. ' She would
be a dear old woman if she would only do it!'
'And you see it would be fatal for Theodora to appear
as a fashionable young lady, given to races, and the like
vanities.'
' I shall seem nothing but what I am.*
' She would find Mrs. Martindale sighing at her inability to
keep you out of bad company. So sorry to trust you with us.
She did her utmost. No, no, Theodora; you must stay at home,
and the good lady will be charmed.'
' I do not intend to be turned from my course.'
' No ! Now, Jane, you should not have spoken in that way,*
said her sister. ' You will only make Theodora more resolved
to come with us; and, indeed, I had rather she did not, if it is
to do her any harm.'
' I shall leave you to settle it between you,' said Jane, with
apparent carelessness. ' I shall go home to appease for a little
vhile the unfortunate dressmaker, whom we are keeping so
u
290
HEARTSEASE;
s
iong waiting. Make tlie most of Theodora, while you can have
her.'
She would not have gone, had she not believed her-work
■done.
have made up my mind,* said Theodora, as the door
closed.
' Theodora ! I do beg you will not,' cried Georgina, in an agi¬
tated voice, fully meaning all she said. * You will vex and dis¬
please them all. I know you will, and I could not bear that!
Your happiness is not wasted yet! Go, and be happy with
your I^ercy 1'
' I have told Percy of my intentions. Do you think I would
•alter them for this notion of Jane's V
' That is my own dear Theodora I But it is not only that.
Yhey are such good people—so kind 1 You must not risk their
good opinion, for they would be so fond of you !'
* If their good opinion depends on naiTow-minded prejudice,
I do not wish for it.'
' If she would but come a day later,' said Georgina ; ' for I
do want you to be with me very much, Theodora 1 I know I
shall meet with nothing but mortification, if you are not.
People will only make that little starched bow ! And Mr.
Pinch has noticed your not being so much with me. But no,
no, you shall not come. You shall stay and see dear, good
old Lady Fotheringham I Oh ! how I wish I could 1' and her
breast heaved with a suppressed sob.
' Why do you not, then, dear Georgina ? Let me tell her
your feeling, and—*
* No, no, no, no 1 I can never see her again ! Don't talk
to me about her ! She belongs to another state of existence,'
' This will not do, Georgina. It is vain to turn aside now
from what will and must come on you some day.'
^ Don't! don't, Theodora 1' said she, petulantly. ' Everything
goes against me! There's Jane taken to lecturing, and even
Mr. Pinch is growing crabbed, and declares he shall take me to
vegetate in this horrid place he has bought in the country.*
' Oh, I am so glad 1' exclaimed Theodora. ' Now then, there
is a chance for you. If you will throw yourself into the duties
and pursuits—
' What! be squiress and Lady Bountiful; doctor old women,
and lecture school children 1 No, no, that may do for you, but
I am at least no hypocrite 1'
' I should be a great hypocrite, if I did not believe the old
women and the children far better than myself,' said Theodora,
gravely. 'But, indeed, trying to make them comfortable would
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
291
occupy your mind, and interest you till—oL.! if it "would hvt
help you on the only way to happiness—*
* Don't talk of that word any more with me.*
* If not happiness, it would be peace.'
' Peace! I don't know what you mean.*
' If you watched my sister, you would.'
' She is happy !' said Mrs. Pinch, in a tone of keen regret,
laying her hand on a toy of Johnnie's j but instantly changing
her note, 'A cold, inanimate piece of wax ! That is what you
call peace ! I would not" have it.'
'You don't understand her—
'I know one thing !' cried the fitful lady, vehemently; 'that
it is she who governs you all, and wants to divide you from me.
'Tis she and your Percy who have robbed me of you, with their
illnatured stories.*
' There is no illnature in them, and no one governs me,* said
Theodora.
' Then you hold fast by me, and come with me V
' I do.*
' My thorough-going old Theodora! I knew they could not
spoil you, say what they would !' for she was by no means in¬
sensible of the triumph.
' But, Georgina,' continued her friend, earnestly, 'you must
be prudent. Let me speak to you for once.'
' Only don't talk of prudence. I am sick of that from
Jane.*
' Yes ! it is speaking on this world's grounds; I will speak of
higher motives. Think what is to come by-and-bye : there are
things that cannot be kept off by being forgotten. You are weary
and dissatisfied as it is; try whether boldly facing the thoughts
you dread might not lead to better things. There will be pain
at first; but content will come, and—-*
' If you will come and stay with me in the country, you
shall teach me all your ways. But no ; it would put all the
Potheringhams in commotion! If I had a happy home I
might be good. You must not quite forsake me, Theodora.
But here's Mrs. Martindale !'
Violet entering, Mrs. Pinch greeted her in a subdued manner,
and, indeed, looked so dejected that when she was gone, Violet
asked if she was well.
' Yes, poor thing ; it is only the taste of the ashes she eats
instead of bread. But I have had her alone, and have got her
to hear some grave talk T
' Oh, how glad I am.'
' But I cannot give up meeting her at Epsom. She would
u2
292
HEARTSEASE ;
feel it a desertion, and my influence is tlie best bope for her.
Besides, I will not sacrifice her to curry favour with the Worth-
l>ourne people.*
' Surely it would not be doing so.*
' I have made up my mind.'
Her better and worse feelings were alike enlisted in behalf of
the expedition. Sincerity, constancy, and generosity were all
drawn in to espouse the cause of pride and self-will; and she
never once recollected that the way to rescue her friend from
the vortex of dissipation was not to follow her into it.
Little was needed to rouse in Arthur the dormant taste so
long the prevalent one. So eager was he when once stirred up,
that his sister almost doubted whether she might not be leading
him into temptation; as she remembered the warning against
Mr. Gardner; but she repelled the notion of his being now
liable to be led away, and satisfied herself by recollecting that
whenever he had met his former school-fellow, he had shown no
disposition to renew the acquaintance.
All the notice of Percy that she chose to take, was, that on
the Tuesday evening, she said, as she wished Violet good night,
* If Percy should call with his aunt to-morrow, which I don't
expect, you will explain, and say I hope to call early next
day.*
* Well! I hope you wUl get into no scrape,' said Arthur;
' but mind, whatever comes of it, 'tis your doing, not mine.*
Words which she answered with a haughty smile, but which
she was never to forget.
Violet saw the brother and sister depart, and could only hope
that nothing might be heard of the Potheringham party; but
before half the morning had passed, the knock, for the first time
unwelcome, sounded at the door, and there entered not only -
Percy, but an elderly lady who might have been supposed the
grandmother, rather than the mother, of the taU comely youth
who bashfully followed her.
Violet strove, by the warmth of her reception, to make up
for what was wanting; but her sentences were broken and
confused ; she was glad and she was sorry, and they would be
very sorry, and something about not expecting and calling early,
was all mixed together, while she watched with deprecating
looks the effect upon Percy.
' Is she gone V he asked, in a low stem voice.
'Yes; but she told me to say, in case—we hardly thought
it likely—but in case Lady Potheringham should be kind
enough to call, she told me to say she will certainly call early
to-morrow.*
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
E98
Violet knew slie had made a most tangled speech, and that
there was great danger that her trembling sorrowful voice
should convey to Lady Fotheringham an impression that there
was something amiss j but she could only try to make the in¬
telligence as little mortifying as possible.
The fact was enough. Percy stood in the window in silence, _
while his aunt, on learning where Miss Martindale was, good-
naturedly supposed it had long been settled, and said it must be
such a pleasure to the brother and sister to go together, that
she should have been grieved if it had been prevented.
Violet spoke of the call to be made to-morrow; but Lady
Fotheringham seemed to have so little time free that it was not
probable she would be at home. Uneasy at Percy's silence,
Violet did not prosper in her attempts at keeping up the
conversation, until Percy, suddenly coming forward, begged
that *the boy' might be sent for; his aunt must see John's
godson. It was chiefly for his own solace, for he carried the
little fellow back to his window, and played with him there till
luncheon time, while the ladies talked of Mr. Martindale.
Violet won her visitor's heart by her kind manner to the
poor son, who was very well trained, and behaved like an
automaton, but grew restless with the hopes of wild beasts and
London shops. His mother was about to take leave, when
Percy proposed to take charge of him, and leave her to rest for
the afternoon with Mrs. Martindale, a plan very acceptable to
all parties.
Lady Fotheringham was a woman of many sorrows- Her
husband was very feeble and infirm, and of a large family, the
youngest, this half-witted son, was the only survivor. Grief
and anxiety had left deep traces on her worn face, and had
turned her hair to a snowy whiteness; her frame was fragile,
and the melancholy kindness of her voice deeply touched
Violet. There was much talk of John, for whom Lady
Fotheringham had a sort of compassionate reverence, derived
from his patient resignation during Helen's illness, of which
Violet now gathered many more particulars, such as added to
her affection and enthusiasm for both.
Of her nephew, Percival, Lady Fotheringham spoke in the
highest terms, and dwelt with pleasure on the engagement still
connecting him with the Martindale family. Violet was glad
to be able to speak from her heart of Theodora's excellence and
kindness.
By-and-by, her visitor, in a sad voice, began to inquires
whether she ever saw * a young connexion of theirs, Mrs. Finch;'
and as Violet replied, said she was anxious to hear something
294
HEAKTSEASE ;
of her, though she feared it was a painful suhject. 'I cannot
help being interested for her,' she said. ' She was a very fine
girl, and had many good dispositions; but I fear she was very
ill managed. We grew very fond of her, when she was at
Worthbourne, poor thing, and if we and that excellent elder
sister could have kept her to ourselves, we might have hoped—
But it was very natural that she should grow tired of us, and
there was much excuse for her ^
' Indeed there was, from all Theodora has told me.*
' I am glad to hear hiiss Martindale keeps up her friendship.
While that is the case, I am sure there is nothing positively
wrong, though imprudent I fear she must be.'
Violet eagerly explained how every one was fully satisfied
that, though Mrs. Finch was too free and dashing in manner,
and too fond of attracting notice, there was principle and
rectitude at the bottom, and that her life of dissipation was
chiefly caused by the tedium of her home. All attachment
between her and Mark Gardner had evidently died away j and
though it might have been wiser to keep him at a distance,
she had some good motives for allowing him to be often at her
house.
Lady Fotheringham was relieved to hear this, and added
that she might have trusted to Jane. Violet was surprised to
find that Miss Gardner held a very high place in Lady
Fotheringham's esteem, and was supposed by her to take most
watchful, motherly care of her headstrong younger sister.
She had made herself extremely agreeable at Worthbourne,
and had corresponded with Lady Fotheringham ever since j and
now Violet heard that Jane had thought the marriage with
Mr. Finch a great risk, and would willingly have dissuaded her
sister from it; but that Georgina had been bent upon it!
'thinking, no doubt, poor girl, that riches and gaiety would
make her happy I I wish we could have made it pleasanter to
her at Worthbourne!'
' She has spoken very affectionately of you.*
'Ah, poor child! she had met with little kindness before.
She used to pour out her griefs to me. It was that wretched
Mark who broke her heart, and after that she seemed not to
care what became of her. But I am a little comforted by your
account. I will try to see her to-morrow, poor dear. Percy
was hoping I should be able, though I think that he is quite
right not to visit them himself.'
Violet agreed to all, and was. pleased at the notion of the
good old lady's influence being tried on one evidently amenable
to right impressions. As far as she herself was concerned, the
OR, THE brother'S WIPE.
295
visit was very gratifying, and wlien tlie leave-taking came, it
seemed as if tliey had been intimate for years.
Violet sat pondering whether the dnlness of Worthbonme,,
and the disappointment of her first love had been the appointed
cross of Georgina Gardner, cast aside in impatience of its
weight. And then she tried to reconcile the conflicting accounts
of Jane's influence in the matter, till she thought she was
growing uncharitable; and after having tried in vain to«
measure the extent of Percy's annoyance, she looked from the
window to see if carriages seemed to be returning from Epsom,
and then with a sigh betook herself to the book Theodora had
provided for her solitude.
She had long to wait. Arthur and his sister came home later
than she had expected, and did not bring the regale of amusing
description that they had promised her.
Arthur was silent and discontented, and went to his smoking
room. Theodora only said it had been very hot, and for the-
first time really looked tired, and owned that she was so. It-
had been hard work, first to draw Arthur into Mrs. Finch's-
party, against which he exerted all his lazy good-humoured vis
inerticB—undertaking to show her everything, and explain all
to her, be at her service all the day, if only she would keep
away from them and their nonsense. But when their carriage
was found, and Arthur was dragged into the midst of them, a
still harder task arose. She was frightened to see Mark Gardner
conversing with him, while he looked eager and excited, and
she hastened to interrupt, put forth every power of attraction,
in the resolve entirely to monopolize Mr. Gardner; and for a
long time, at the expense of severe exertion in talking nonsense,
she succeeded. But some interruption occurred; she missed -
Mr. Gardner, she missed Arthur; they were waited for; she
wondered and fretted herself in vain, and at length beheld them
returning in company—^heard Mrs. Finch gaily scolding them,
and understood that there had been bets passing!
She called it fatigue, but it was rather blank dread, and the
sense that she had put herself and others in the way of evil.
It was possible that Arthur might have been only a spec¬
tator ; or, if not, that he might have known where to stop. He
had bought his experience long ago, at high cost; but Theodora
was but too well aware of his unsteadiness of purpose and facile-
temper ; and in spite of his resolutions, it was a fearful thing to,
have seen him in such a place, in such company, and to know
that almost against his own desire she had conducted him thither
for the gratification of her self-will.
Vainly did she strive to banish the thought, and to reassure
296
HEAETSEASE;
herself by his maimer. She kaew too "well what it was wont
to be when he had been doing anything of which he was
ashamed.
One bet, however, was no great mischief in itself.
That book which Percy" had given to her spoke of threads
turning to cords, and cords to cables strong.' Had she put the
first thread once more into the hand of the ' Old Evil Habit' ?
If she would confess the sin to herself and to her God, with
earnest prayer that the ill might be averted, perhaps, even yet,
it might be spared to them all.
But the proud spirit declared there was no sin. She had
merely been resolute and truthful. So she strengthened herself
in her belief in her own blamelessness, and drove down the mis¬
giving to prey on the depths of her soul, and sharpen her temper
by secret suffering.
In the morning she accompanied "Violet to call on Lady
Eotheringham, sullen, proud, and bashful at the sense of under¬
going inspection, and resolved against showing her best side,
lest she should feel as if she was winning Worthbourne for
Percy.
That majestic ill-humour was wasted—Lady Fotheringham
was not at home ; but Violet left a note begging her to come
to luncheon the next day. It passed, and she appeared not:
but at twelve on Saturday, Percy's tread hurried up stairs and
entered the back drawing-room, where Theodora was sitting.
Sounds of voices followed—the buzz of expostulation ; tones
louder and louder—words so distinct that to prevent her anxious
ears from listening, Violet began to practise Johnnie in all his
cries of birds and beasts.
All at once the other room door was opened, and Theodora's
stately march was heard, while one of the folding leaves was
thrown back, and there stood Percy.
Before a word could be spoken, he snatched up the child, and
held him up in the air to the full reach of his arms. Doubtful
whether this was to be regarded as play, Johnnie uttered
' Mamma,,' in a grave imploring voice, which, together with
her terrified face, recalled Mr. Fotheringham to his senses.
With an agitated laugh he placed the boy safely beside her,
saying, ' I beg your pardon. What a good little fellow it is !'
Violet asked him to ring for the nurse; and by the time
Johnnie had been carried away, he had collected himself suffi¬
ciently to try to speak calmly.
' Do her parents know what is go'jig on V he said. ' I do not
fipeak for my own sake. That is at an end.'
* Oh r exclaimed Violet.
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
297
' I told her I could not be made a fool of any longer, and
>*hen she answered * Very well,*^ what could that mean V
' I am very much grieved that it has come to this,* sighe»J
Violet.
* How could it come to anything else V he said, his face full
of sorrow and severity. * I was mad to suppose there was any
hope for such a temper of pride and stubbornness. * Yet,* he
added, softening, and his quick, stern eyes filling with tears, ' it
is a noble nature,—^high-minded, uncompromising, deeply tender,
capable of anything. It has been a cruel wicked thing to ruin
all by education. What could come of it ? A life of struggle
with women who had no notion of an appeal to principle and
afiection—growing up with nothing worthy of her love and
respect—her very generosity becoming a stumbling-block, till
her pride and waywardness have come to such an indomitable
pitch that they are devouring all that was excellent.*
He paused; Violet, confused and sorrowful, knew not how
to answer; and he proceeded, ' I have known her, watched
her, loved her from infkncy ! I never saw one approaching her
in fine qualities. I thought, and still think, she needs but one
conquest to rise above all other women. I believed guidance
and afiection would teach her all she needed; and so they would,
but it was presumption and folly to think it was I who could
inspire them.*
*0 Mr. Fotheringham, indeed *
' It was absurd to suppose that she who trifles with every one
would not do so with me. Yet, even now, I cannot believe her
capable of cariying trifling to the extent she has done.*
* She was in earnest,—Oh! she was !'
' I would fain think so,* said he, sadly. ' I held to that
trust, in spite of the evidence of my senses. I persuaded myself
that her manners were the efiect' of habit—^the triumph of one
pre-eminent in attraction.'
' That they are 1 I don't even think she knows what she
does.*
* So I believed ; I allowed for her pleasure in teasing me. I
knew all that would come right. I ascribed her determination
to run after that woman to a generous reluctance to desert a
friend.*
* Indeed, indeed it is so 1'
* But how am I to understand her neglect of my aunt—the
one relation whom I have tried to teach her to value—my aunt,
who was the comfort of my sister and of her brother—who had
Buffered enough to give her a claim to every one's veneration !
To run away from her to the races, and the society of Mark
298
HEARTSEASE ;
Gardner and Mrs. Fincli! Ay, and what do yon think we heard
yesterday of her doings there, from Gardner's own mother?
I'hat she is giving him decided encouragement! That was
the general remark; and on this, poor Mrs. George Gardner
is founding hopes of her son settling down and becoming
respectable.'
* Oh ! how terrible for you to hear ! But it cannot be true.
It must be mere report. Arthur would have observed if there
had been more than her usual manner.'
' A pretty manner to be usual! . Besides, Jane Gardner did
not deny it.'
' Jane Gardner V
^ Yes. My aunt called at Mrs. Finch's, but saw neither of
them j but this morning, before she went, Miss Gardner called.
I did not see her. I was out with Pelham, and my aunt spoke
to her about all this matter. She answered very sensibly,
regretted her sister's giddy ways, but consoled my aunt a good
deal on that score j but—^but as to the other, she could not say,
but that Mark was a great admirer of—of Miss Martindale,
and much had passed which might be taken for encouragement
on "Wednesday by any one who did not know how often it was¬
her way !'
* It is a pity that Miss Gardner has had to do with it,' said
Violet. ' When I have been talking to her, I always am left
with a worse impression of people than they deserve.'
' You never have a bad impression of any one.'
' I think I have of Miss Gardner. I used to like her very
much, but lately I am afraid I cannot believe her sincere.'
' You have been taught to see her with Theodora's eyes. Of
course, Mrs. Finch despises and contemns prudence and re¬
straint, and the elder sister's advice is thrown aside.'
* You never saw Jane Gardner V
'JSTever;—but that is not the point here. I am not acting,
on Jane Gardner's report. I should never trouble myself to be
jealous of such a scoundrel as Mark. I am not imagining that
there is any fear of her accepting him. Though, if such a notion
once possessed her, nothing would hinder her from rushing on
inevitable misery.'
* Oh, there is no danger of that.*
* I trust not. It would be too frightful! However, I can
look on her henceforth only as John's sister, as my little play¬
mate, as one in whom hopes of untold happiness were bound up.'
He struggled with strong emotion, but recovering, said, * It is
over! The reason we part is independent of any Gardner. She-
would not bear with what I thought it my duty to say. It is
or; the brother's wife.
2m
plain I was completelj mistaken in tliinking we conld go
through life together. Even if there was reason to suppose
her attached to me, it would be wrong to put myself in collision
^vith such a temper. I told her so, and there is an end of the
matter.*
' It is very, very sad,* said Violet, mournfully.
* You don*t think I have used her ill.'
' Oh, no! You have borne a great deal. You could do no
otherwise; but Arthur and John will be very much vexed.'
* It is well that it is known to so few. Let it be understood,
by such as are aware of what has been, that I bear the onus ol
the rupture. Ho more need be known than that the break wa&
on my side. We both were mistaken. She will not be blamed,
and some day'—^but he could not speak calmly—'she will meet
one who will feel for her as I do, and will work a cure of all
these foibles. You will see the glorious creature she can be.'
' The good will conquer at last,' said Violet, through her
tears.
' I am convinced of it, but I fear it must be through much
trial and sorrow. May it only not come through that man.'
' Ho, no r
' Then good bye.*
' They shook hands with lingering regret, as if unwilling to
resign their relationship. ' You will explain this to Arthur,
and give him my thanks for his friendliness; and you—accept
my very best thanks for your great kindness and sympathy. If
she had known you earlier— But good bye. Only, if I might
venture to say one thing more—you and Arthur will not give
me up as a friend, will you T
' Oh!' exclaimed Violet, as well as her tears would permit.
' I am sure we are but too glad—
He pressed her hand gratefully, and was gone ; while over¬
whelmed with the agitation she sank weeping on the sofa, only
conscious that they all were in some sort guilty of a great injury
to Mr. Fotheringham. In this state of distress she was found by
Theodora, who came down so lofty and composed, that no one
could have divined who was the party chiefly concerned in
what had taken place.
Without comment, she treated Violet as for a nervous attack,
taking great care of her till the sobs subsided, and there only
remained a headache which kept her on the sofa for the rest of
the day. Theodora read aloud, but which of them marked the
words 1 Late in the afternoon she put down the book, and
wrote a note, while Violet silently marvelled at the unconcern
of her countenance.
800
HEARTSEASE;
' There, I shall take it to the post. You may read it if you
like, while I put on my bonnet.*
Violet read.
' My dear hiamma,—Our engagement is at an end. Mr.
Fotheringham tried to exercise a control over my actions to
which I could not submit; and in especial was affronted by my
going to Epsom with Arthur, instead of staying at home for the
chance of seeing Lady Fotheringham. We came to high words,
perceived the error of thinking our tempers accorded, and
agreed to part. .1 have n© cause of complaint, though I am at
this moment much displeased with him ; for when he had done
with me he went and stormed to poor Violet till he brought on
one of her hvsterical affections. No one can have acted with
«
kinder or more conscientious intentions than she has done
throughout the affair. I do not mean to come away till after
her confinement. London is wide enough for him and for me,
and I would not leave her on any account.
* Your affectionate daughter,
'Theodora A. Marth^dale.*
Violet glowed with indignation at such mention of Percy.
She never loved him ! It is as John thought!
Theodora, returning, took the note, and began to put it into
its envelope without a word.
' Thank you,' said Violet; ' it is very kind in you to stay
with me. It is a great comfort to Arthur.'
' Is it no comfort to you V said Theodora. ' If I am in your
way, I will go.'
' Oh ! what should I do without you ? It makes such a dif¬
ference to me. I rely upon you to take care of Arthur, anoi
Johnnie, and everything. Only don't do what is not pleasant
to you.'
' I wish to live to be useful. I had rather be useful to yoir
and Arthur than to any one. If you will keep me, I stay.'
All the rest of the day Violet could only feel that she could
not be displeased with one so devoted to her. She wondered
what Arthur would say. His comment was—
'Well, I always expected it. It is a pity ! She has throwi.
away her only chance of being a reasonable woman.'
' You saw no cause for that horrid report V
'Not a bit. She is not so frantic as that comes to. She went
on in her old way, only a little stronger than usual; but Percy
was quite right not to stand it, and so I shall tell her.'
However, Theodora kept him from the subject by the force of
OR. THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
301
hei imperturbability, and be could only declaim against ber to
bis wife.
' I don't believe sbe cared a fartbing for bim.*
' 1 almost fear not. Yet bow could sbe accept bim T
' He was tbe biggest fisb tbat bad ever come to ber bait. Sbe
could not bave played ber pranks on bim without booking bim;
but be bas broken tbe line, and it serves ber rigbt. I only wisb
sbe took it to beart! It is a lucky escape for bim. What will
bis lordsbip tbink of it V
Lord Martindale wrote, evidently in mucb annoyance, to
desire Arthur to send bim a full history of tbe transaction, and,
after mucb grumbling, be was obeyed. What be said to bis
daughter did not transpire; but Violet gathered tbat tbe
opinion at Martindale was, tbat sbe bad not age or authority
sufficient for tbe care of tbe young lady. In this sbe fully
acquiesced, and, indeed, bad some trouble in silencing repining
speculations on what might bave happened if sbe bad been older,
or in stronger health, or more judicious.
It was a universal failure, and she felt as if they were all to
blame, while it terrified ber to recollect John's predictions as to
tbe effect on Theodora's disposition.
Another question was, bow Mrs. Eincb would feel on tbe
matter. Theodora bad written to ber, and received one of ber
warm impulsive answers, as inconsistent as ber whole nature;
in one place in despair tbat ber friend's happiness bad been
sacrificed—^in another, rejoicing in ber freedom from such into¬
lerable tyranny, and declaring tbat sbe was tbe noblest creature
and tbe naughtiest, and tbat sbe must see ber at once.
But sbe never came, and when Theodora called was not at
home. Violet bad Jane to herself for an unpleasing hour of
condolence and congratulation, regrets and insinuations, ending
with tbe by-no-means unwelcome news tbat Mr. Eincb was
tired of London, and tbat they were going into tbe country-r¬
and not Mark—going to set off in a week's time. Two more
calls failed, and Theodora only received a note, in which Mrs.
Finch declared herself ahimee, desolee tbat ber husband would
drag ber off into tbe country at such short notice, tbat ber
world of engagements bad hindered ber from meeting ber best
of friends. Then, with a sudden transition to slang, sbe pro¬
mised excellent fun in riding, boating, <kc., if Theodora would
come to see ber, and plenty of admirers ready to bave their
beads turned, ending rather piteously with * Who knows but I
might take a, turn for good 1 I know I wisb I could, if it was
not so horridly tiresome. You wont forget your poor G. F.'
302
HEARTSEASE;
CHAPTER XYIII.
Oh ! woman is a tender tree.
The hand must gentle be that rears.
Through storm and sunshine, patien^y.
That plant of grace, of smiles and tears.
A. Cleveland Cox
The heiglit of tlie season was over, and London was beginning
to thin. Lady Elizabeth Brandon had accepted invitations
for a round of visits to her friends and relations, and Violet
thought with regi-et how little she had seen of her and Emma.
In fact, that unfortunate party at Mrs. Bryanstone's had
been a sacrifice of the high esteem in which she had once been
held. Emma, with the harshness of youthful judgments, could
not overlook the folly that had hazarded so much for the sake
of gaiety ; and was the more pained because of the enthusiasm
she had once felt for her, when she had believed her superior to
all the world. She recollected her love-at-first-sight for the
pretty bride, and well nigh regarded the friendship as a romance
of her girlhood. She. did not blame poor Violet, for no more
could have been expected than that so simple a girl would be
spoiled by admiration, and by such a husband. She should
always be interested in her, but there could be no sympathy for
deeper visions and higher subjects in one devoted to the ordi¬
nary frivolities of life. Violet owned she could not understand
her; what could be more true ?
So Emma betook herself more and more to her other friend,
lamented over present evils, made visionary amendments and
erected dreamy worlds of perfection, till she condemned and
scorned all that did not accord with them.
Lady Elizabeth would rather have seen her daughter intimate
with Violet. Mistaken though that party was, it was hard
measure, she thought, utterly to condemn a girl hardly eighteen.
She could understand Violet—she could not understand Miss
Marstone ; and the ruling domineering nature that laid down
the law frightened her. She found herself set aside for old-
fashioned notions whenever she hinted at any want of judgment
or of charity in the views of the friends ; she could no longer
feel the perfect consciousness of oneness of mind and sufiiciency
for each other's comfort that had been such happiness between
her and her daughter; and yet everything in Theresa Marstone
was so excellent, her labours among the poor so devoted, and
her religion so evidently heartfelt, that it was impossible to
consider the friendship as otherwise than an honour to Emma.
OR; THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
303
Lady Elizabeth could only feel that she should be more at
ease when she was not always in dread of interrupting a iHe-a-
tetCj and when there was no longer any need to force Emma
into society, and see her put on that resigned countenance
which expressed that it was all filial duty to a mother who
knew no better. Moreover, Lady Elizabeth hoped for a cessa¬
tion of the schemes for the Priory, which were so extravagant
as to make her dread Emma's five-and-twentieth year.
Desirous as she was of leaving London, she would not con¬
sent to go to her brother in the end of June, until she had
certified herself that Violet did not wish for her attendance.
Violet did think that it would have been a great comfort,
but perceived that it would be at some inconvenience; and
further divined that to be extremely useful and important was
Theodora's ruling desire. She was afraid of heart-burnings,
and, as usual, yielded her own wishes, begged Lady Elizabeth
not to disturb her plans, made many declarations of Theodora's
kindness and attention; and in return, poor thing! was judged
by Emma to be in dread of lectures !
So the Brandons left London, and Violet sighed over the
disappointment their stay had been, knew she had given up the
chance of a renewal of intimacy, and thought Emma's estrange¬
ment all her own fault.
Arthur, likewise, had a fit of restlessness. Some of his friends
were intending to go grouse shooting to Scotland, and it-was
evident that ho was desirous of joining them if Violet could
only recover in time to spare him. Theodora also wished that
he should go, for she had a strong suspicion that he was gliding
fast into frequent intercourse with Mr. Gardner, and hoped
that absence would put a stop to it.
Not a word, not a look, ever referred to Mr. Eotheringham.
Violet thought it inexplicable, and could only suppose that
Theodora had been under some delusion, and had never known
the meaning of love, for there was nothing like sorrow or dis¬
appointment j she almost seemed to be glad of her release.
It was a trial when the Beview was published, containing
the critique upon modern poetry. For a whole day it was left
unopened, because neither sister liked to touch it in the presence
of the other; but when, in the morning, Violet took it to read,
she found the leaves cut. Lord St. Erme had been treated with
some censure, but with a fair amount of praise, and her own
favourite pieces were selected for commendation; but there was
sufficient satire and severity to cause the universal remark that
it was hard on poor Lord St. Erme.
Often was the observation made, for the article excited much
HEARTSEASE;
attention—was so striking and able, keenly and drolly at¬
tacking absurdity and affectation, good-humoured and lively,
and its praise so cordial and enthusiastic. Eveiy visitor was
sure to begin, 'Have you read the paper on modem poetry?'
• Do you know who wrote it ?' or, ' Is it tme it is by Mr.
Fotherin gham ?'
Violet, though much confused, could not help having a sort
of satisfaction in seeing that neither could Theodora defend
herself from blushes, nor so preserve her equanimity as always
to know what she was saying, though she made heroic efforts,
and those ignorant of the state of affairs might not, perhaps,
detect her embarrassment. If there had been affection, surely
this calmness must have given way!
One day Theodora was in a shop, and Violet waiting for
her, when Mr. Fotheringham passed, and instantly coming to
the carriage-door, shook hands warmly, seemed rejoiced at the
meeting, spoke of his last letter from John in high approval
of Mr. Fanshawe, and told her that in two days' time he
was going to take a walking tour in Ireland. At that
instant; the signal w*as made for taking up Miss Martindale,
and with a hasty farewell he disappeared, as Violet thought,
unseen.
On coming home, Theodora went at once upstairs; Violet
some little time after chanced to go to her room to ask her
a question on her way to dress, found her knock unanswered,
but heard sounds which caused her gently to open the door.
Theodora was kneeling by the bed, her face buried in her
hands, her neck crimson, sobbing and weeping in such violent
grief as Violet had never witnessed. She stood terrified, un¬
noticed, hardly able to bear not to offer comfort; but she
understood that nature too well not to be convinced that no
offence would be so great as to break into her grief and to in¬
trude upon what she chose to hide.
Violet, therefore, retreated, hoping that now there might be
an opening for sympathy, some depression that would allow
her to show her fellow-feeling; but no : when they met again,
Theodora was as cheerful and disengaged as ever, and she could
almost have persuaded herself that these tears had been a
dream.
Perhaps they so appeared to Theodora. She had been sur¬
prised into them, and was angry at having been overcome—she ,
who cared so little; but she had woman's feelings, though she
had proved to be unfit for the dominion of man, and was hence¬
forth ready to stand alone, and use her strength for the benefit
of the weak. She would be the maiden aunt, the treasure of
OK, THE brother'S WIFE.
805
tlie family, and Arthur's house should be the centre of her
usefnlness and attachments.
Therefore, so far from struggling against Violet, she delighted
in the care of one so tender and caressing; looked on her as
the charm and interest of her life, and rejoiced in being valu¬
able at present, and likely to render most important services,
attaining in fact the solid practical usefulness she had always
coveted.
Everything that could please or amuse Violet she did, even
to the length of drawing her out about Wrangerton, and sup¬
pressing a certain jealousy of Annette that was ready to spring
up on discovering how strong was the affection bestovred on
that sister. Violet was especially happy in being able to talk
of home just now, when she was continually hearing of Albert's
marriage, and the arrangements consequent thereon, and would
liave felt it blank, indeed, to have no one but Sarah to share
Iier interest.
Uncle Christopher went to the wedding, and was invited to
dinner in Cadogan-place the Sunday after his return. Theodora
condescended to be frankly entertained with his dry humorous
account of the magnificent doings that had diverted him ex¬
tremely, and caused Arthur and Violet to congratulate them¬
selves that, in their case, Matilda had not been allowed her
own wav.
V
' What a sensible agreeable person your uncle is,' said Theo¬
dora, as Violet lay down to rest on the sofa, after dinner, and
to turn over and fondle one by one the little presents sent to
her from Wrangerton.
Violet smiled thanks and pleasure in the praise, and Theodora
let to work to gratify her, by admiring each gift as much as
her conscience would let her; and was well pleased to find that
she was not at all wanted to commend a wonderful embroidered
sachet from the bride, nor a pair of gorgeous screens from
Matilda; but that what was dwelt upon were some sketches in
Wrangerton Park, and the most prized of all was a little pair
of socks, in delicate fancy knitting, for Johnnie.
* Dear, dear mamma! her own pretty rose-leaf pattern. Think
of her knitting for my Johnnie! He will soon know grand¬
mamma's socks !' and she put her fingers into one to judge of
the size, and admire the stitch. Theodora could see her do
such things now, and not think her foolish.
' Theodora, dear,' said she, after a long pause, ' there is some
thing I have been wanting to say to you for a long time. If I
should be as ill as I was before, if 1 should not live, I should
like one thing—^
X
S06
HEARTSEASE;
Theodora took her hand between both hers, for she could not
answer.
' I should like to know that liis grandmamma would see my
Johnnie, if it was only for once. I know poor Arthur could
not bear to hear mo talk of this, and he is anxious enough
already, but you would tell him. You will manage for mamma
to see my boy, v/ont you
' I would take him to her at Wrangerton myself.'
' I am quite content that you should chiefly take care of him,
you know. I am glad you have been here so long that he has
grown fond of you. It makes it much better to think of leaving
him and his dear papa, to know they have you.'
* But, Yiolet, you must not talk so!' cried Theodora, in a
half-choked voice.
* N'o j I must not make myself cry,' said Violet, quietly. ' I
will not go on, when I have asked you one thing more, and
that is, to write to John, and tell him that I thank him for all
he has done for me, and that this has been a very happy year.
You and John will comfort—
Violet checked herself, for the tears could only be restrained
by silence, and she had made many resolutions against agitation.
' All you wish!' exclaimed Theodora; ' but, indeed, you must
not think there is any fear—^
'I will not talk about it,' said Violet, in her submissive
voice.
* No j nor think about it.'
* I try not to do so more than I ought. I am glad you are
here!'
It was dark enough for Theodora to allow her eyes to fill
with soft tears, without a struggle to keep them back. The
pleasure of being valued was very great, and the entire trust
Violet reposed on her gave her as deep delight as she had ever
experienced. "What would it not be after having nursed her
and been everything to Arthur? With Violet and Arthur
depending on her, she could feel herself good for something,
and filling a place in the world.
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
CHAPTER XIX.
The loveliest flowers the closest cling to earth,
And they first feel the sun; so violets blue.
So the soft star-like primrose drenched in dew.
The happiest of spring's happy fragrant birth.
To gentlest touches, sweetest tones reply;
So humbleness, with her low-breathed voice ;
Can steal o'er man's proud heart, and win his choice.
' Q HE is ready to see you,' said Arthur, meeting Theodora, as
O she came down at nine the next morning after church.
Violet's face, white as a lily, was on the pillow, and a little
dark downy head was beside her.
A sense of being too late, of neglect and disappointment,
rushed over Theodora, and made her looks not what the mother
expected, as with smiling eyes and feeble voice she said, ^ Your
niece, dear Theodora.'
' I did not know—were Theodora's first words, and their
dissatisfied sound made Arthur regret his abrupt introduction ;
though she recovered herself, enough to say something of glad¬
ness, and of hopes that Violet was comfortable.
* Yes, thank you, quite. I am so thankful 1 I am so glad
of everything. Now I hope Arthur will not lose the 12th of
August.'
' Only don't talk now, my sweet one. Come, Theodora,' as if -
he only wanted to get her out of the room.
* I have not looked at the baby. What a fine one !' and she
was going to take her.
'Oh, please, don't!' said Violet; 'she will begin screaming
again 1' Then, seeing the cloud return, ' Presently, dear aunt,
when she wakes. Is not she a beauty f
Arthur, his hand on the door, hurried Theodora again.
' I will come,' she said, impatiently, ' I will come and sit with
you after breakfast, Violet; I only wish I had been called.'
' Indeed, I know how kind you would have been,' said Violet,
holding her hand, and watching to see whether the displeasure
was removed: ' but it seemed a pity to disturb you. Please
don't be vexed; I'll give you plenty of trouble yet.'
She had roused herself enough to alarm Arthur and tba
nurse.
' This will never do,' he said, laying his hand on his sister's
arm, and drawing her away almost by force : 'You must keep
quiet, Violet.'
' I will, indeed; but please, Theodora—'
' She pleases all you wish. Never mind,' said Arthur, fairly
X 2
808
HEARTSEASE ;
putting her out, then, stepping back, ' Lie still, and mind your
big baby; that is all you have to do.'
* Only don't let her be vexed.*
' No such thing.'
But when out of Violet's hearing he could not refrain from
telling Theodora his displeasure. * I thought you had more
sense, or I would never have let you in.'
* I knew nothing of it.'
* Your own fault for marching off at that time in the morn¬
ing ! I had been up to tell you, and could not think where
you were.*
* Why was I not allowed to be of use V
* A pretty specimen of your usefulness, vexing her with your
black looks, till she was talking herself into a fever !'
' Surely she is doing well T
'She was, unless you have undone everything with your
humours.'
' I don't know what you mean.'
That was the last word. Theodora sat swelling under the
sense of injustice and neglect, where she had intended to be so
important; and Arthur was weary enough in mind and body
to be more than usually sensible of her ungraciousness, and to
miss the refreshment of cheerful sympathy. On going up after
breakfast he found Violet weaker and more ill than he had
previously thought her, and her solicitous inquiries about his
sister made him the more attribute this to distress at those
moody looks. He would not hear of again admitting Theodora,
and in bitterness of spirit she wrote the letters, and tried to
content Johnnie—all in vain; for strive to conceal it as she
would, he always seemed to perceive her bad moods, and never
would be happy with her when she was in one of them.
Every hour brought fresh mortification. She was jealous ot
Arthur's being needful to the patient, and jealous of being left
by him; angry at being treated, as useless, and angry at the
work she had to do; certain that her ill temper was Arthur's
fancy, yet certain he had caused it; anxious about Violet, yet
disdaining his anxiety. She was much annoyed at his keeping
aloof from her unpleasing looks, deserting the dinner table after
the first course, and when she had waited long for him, leaving
her to discover that he had had a cup of tea in Violet's room,
and was gone down to smoke. The kindly affections that had
always been the hope of her character were rejected and
thwarted, and thus thrown back on hersell^ the wayward wilful
spirit began to rise.
She paced the dull walk in the square gardens in the summer
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
309
twilight, and thonght of the life before her, nncherished at
home, an intruder in the family where she had expected to earn
fond gi'atitude, rejected by him who had loved her from child¬
hood 1
There was an alternative ! One look of encouragement, and
Lord St. Erme was at her disposal, ready to rejoice at accept¬
ance, even if she should tell him that she had no heart to be¬
stow. She would be no longer spurned and cast aside; she
should be able to befriend Violet, she would live uncontrolled,
adored; above all she would teach Percy Fotheringham that
she did not pine for him ! She would belie those foolish tears
that Violet had seen her shed !
As she opened the gate to leave the gardens. Lord St. Erme
rode by with a young lady.
Was he passing from her power? The spirit of rivalry
prompted a gracious bow and smile. He checked his horse,
looked delighted, and introduced * his sister.*
A fair, delicate, blushing girl of sixteen, a pretty likeness of
bimself, bent her head low, and Theodora felt that her blue eyes
were intently perusing her under their downcast lids, while the
brother's tones almost trembled with the pleasure of her un¬
wonted look of encouragement. He said that he was enjoying
having his sister alone with him, at his aunt's house in London,
for a short time, and added something about calling. She gave
one of her bewitching smiles, and they rode on.
There at least she was prized! How unlike this to the
treatment she met with from her own family ! If she could not
love the Earl, she could do very well without that nonsense;
and she should escape from her unloving home, begin a new
life, reign queen o'er herself and him, idolized, uncontradicted,
with ample opportunities of usefulness, triumphant over him
who had disdained her.
So she mused while taking off her bonnet, till Sarah brought
a message that Mrs. Martindale would be glad to see her. An
hour ago and she would have rejoiced; now, Arthur's house¬
hold was becoming a secondary object, since they had rejected
her, and driven her to seek fresh interests.
She was received with hands outstretched. ' Dear Theodora^
thank you. Will you stay and take care of baby and me while
nurse goes to supper ?'
' If I may.*
* Thank you. Nurse, pray give baby to Miss Martindale.
You need not hurry; I shall be so comfortable.*
The sweet pale face and languid eyes were as a charm to expel
oli but kindly thoughts, as Theodora sat down with the living
SIO
HEARTSEASE;
weight warm on her lap, and the gentle mother at intervals
softly asking about her boy. ' Poor little man, they would not
let him come in : they kept away both the people I wanted.'
* Arthur guards you most jealously.'
'Yes; is not he a wonderful nurse 1 I had to exercise a
little self-will in getting you here. How good we must be to
make him forgive us!'
Hext. 'You cannot think what a ,difference it makes to
have you here. I never need think about Arthur's being made
comfortable.'
Theodora's sincerity longed for confession, and she refrained
with difficulty. Those unconscious words set her vile temper
before her in its true light. She had resented the being treated
-with consideration, and had been moody towards her brother,
because he was under anxiety!
Self-convicted, she gave a deep sigh; but fearing again to
distress Yiolet, began to admire the baby, who was in truth a
remarkably large and handsome child, very dark and like the
Martindales, and, both in size and serenity, such a contrast to
her brother, that, proud as she was of her, her mamma only
half-liked praise of her that might be depreciation of him, and
began to defend him from the charge of crying before he had
,had strength for it.
Her name, of course, was to be Helen, and to this Violet
softly added, Theodora.
'Ho, no; that will bring her no good. It is Aunt Hesbit's
name.'
' It is one I love the sound of.'
' You wont another time.'
Violet vaguely perceived something amiss; but too weak to
think about it, closed her eyes and fell into a doze.
Those few gentle sayings had brought back Theodora's affec¬
tion and sense of right. She longed to recal her glance. If it
had taken effect she must persevere. She could not endure the
humiliation of having a third time trifled with a lover; she
would not feel herself sunk into a mere coquette. Put what
would Violet think ?
Violet suddenly awoke with a terrified gaze. ' Arthur !
Arthur ! O, where is he Y
' Down stairs, dearest; he will come.' But to her extreme
alarm, the words had no effect.
' Arthur ! 0, when will he come ? Why did he go away Y
Dismayed out of all presence of mind, Theodora rang with a
violent peal, and flew down stairs, the baby in her arms, rousing
Arthur from a slumber in his chair by breathless tidings that
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. -811
Violet was worse—^was delirious; 3»Ir. Harding must be sent
for
Wben Artbnr bad hurried upstairs, it proved to be only a
frightened wakening, such as had often happened last year.
She was perfectly conscious, but so much fluttered and agitated
by Theodora's own proceedings, that it was with great difQ.culty
that Arthur could soothe aod tranquillize her on her baby's
account. The nurse was very angry, and Theodora perceived
her delinquency might have serious consequences, especially
when she beheld Violet, still tremulous from the alarm, endea¬
vouring to reassure them, to shield her from displeasure, and to
take all the blame to herself for her foolish terror.
There was an end of Theodora's grand designs of nursing!
She could only enter the room at all by favour of the patient
and by sufferance of the nurse; and she could attempt no re¬
monstrance when ordered off by her brother, and even felt
unworthy of Violet's kiss.
• That little scene of trivialities had been her flrst true humi¬
liation. It had shown her the vanity of her boast of strength
of mind; for when she thought of the morning's unreasonable
ill-humour, and unkindness to her brother and his wife at such
a moment, and of the coquetry with Lord St. Erme, she was
indeed lowered in her own eyes; and it was sorrow, not bit¬
terness.
Her heart was very heavy, but less hard. Slowly had the
power of Violet's meekness and lowliness been stealing into hei
affections and undermining her pride. Perhaps the direct
attacks of Percy, though strongly resisted, had in reality given
a shock which prepared the way for the silent effect of sweetness
and forbearance. At any rate, she was now sincerely sorry for
the sin as well as the folly of the past day, and felt that it might
bring a penalty in perplexities about Lord St. Erme, if he had
really taken her smile for encouragement.
Many were her resolutions of amiability for to-morrow; but
she was disappointed. Violet had passed a restless night, and
could not be visited j and Arthur, after his experience of yes¬
terday, was in no haste to subject himself to his sister's humours.
Her two years of caprice and neglect had told even on his easy
temper.
It had long been a scheme of hers to surprise Violet on her
recovery with a likeness of Johnnie, taken by a small, humble
niece of Mrs. Harrison's, lately started in life as an artist in
crayons j and in the midst of yesterday's sullenness she had
taken measures which this morning brought the lady to Cadogan-
place, at the hour when he was most likely to be in his best looks.
312
HEARTSEASE;
Sarah, highly approving of anything that exalted Master John,
sedulously traced the one-sided masculine division in his flaxen
locks, and tied his best white frock with scarlet ribbons, in
honour, as she said, of his being *a little granny-dear;' and
Theodora carried him down, and heard him pronounced 'a
lovely interesting darling.'
Sitting well was not, however, one of his perfections; he
could not be induced to show his face to a stranger, and turned
from toys and pictures, with arms stretched out to his aunt, and
piteous calls for mamma: to Theodora's further despair Arthur
came in, and stood amazed, so that she had to unfold her plans,
and beg him to keep the secret. He smiled, saying she might
as well take a picture of a washed-out doll; but that Violet
would be sure to like it.
Meantime the child was presenting a golden opportunity;
fixed in rapt contemplation of his father, and gazing motionless,
with one little foot doubled under him, and one tiny white arm
drooping over the crimson sofa cushion. Miss Piper sketched
as if for her life. Theodora directed Arthur's attention to his
little son. He spoke to him, and was surprised and pleased at
the plainness of the reply, and the animated spring of gladness.
In another minute he was sitting on the floor, most successfully
entertaining the child, while Miss Piper could hardly help
drawing that handsome black head in contrast with the small,
white creature, whose morsels of hands were coaxing his brown
red cheeks; and Theodora looked on, amused to see how papa
succeeded in drawing out those pretty, hesitating smiles, so
embellishing to the little face, that had generally more than the
usual amount of baby gravity.
They were in full debate whether he should be represented
smiling or grave; the aunt wishing the latter as the habitual
expression, the father declaring that * the fellow was only fit to
be seen smiling like his mother;' when suddenly there was an
announcement—
* Lady Lucy Delaval and Lord St. Erme.*
Arthur hardly had time to start up from the ground, his
colour deepening with discomfiture as he glanced at the disarray
of the room, littered with playthings, displaced cushions, news¬
papers, with which he had been playing bo-peep, drawing ma¬
terials, all in as much confusion as the hair, which, in an
unguarded moment, he had placed at the mercy of Johnnie's
fingers.
Theodora comprehended the sharp click with which he rang
the nursery bell, and the half frown with which he watched in
OR. THE brother'S WIFE.
- 313
dread of a cry, wliile Lady Lucy tried to make friends with
Johnnie.
The drawing was brought under discussion; but he held
aloof after one look, which Theodora perceived to be disap¬
proving, though she did not know that the reason was that the
smile, somewhat overdone by Miss Piper, had brought out one
of old Mr. Moss's blandest looks. Meantime Lord St. Erme
talked to the little artist, giving her some valuable hints, which
she seized with avidity, and then quietly retreated.
Arthur tried to talk to Lady Lucy; but she was very young,
not yet come out, timid, and, apparently, afraid of something
that she had to say, watching Miss Martindale as earnestly as
she dared; while Lord St. Erme spoke eagerly, yet as if he
hardly knew what he was saying, of art, music, books, striving
in vain to obtain one of the looks of yesterday.
It warmed Theodora's heart to feel herself the object of such
enthusiastic admiration, but she preserved her look of rigid
indifference. It was a long visit; but at last the brother made
the move, looking at his sister, as if to remind her of some¬
thing.
* Oh, Miss Martindale,' said she, with an effort, ' we thought
you must be staying in a great deal. Would you be so kind,
now and then, as to walk with me V
This was an alarming request, and not very easy to refuse.
Theodora said something of seeing about it, and hoping—
' It would be such a treat,' said Lady Lucy, growing bolder, as
the two gentlemen were speaking to each other. * My aunt is
gone to her brother's little parsonage, where there is no room
for me, and my governess had to go home, luckily, so that we
are quite alone together; and St. Erme said perhaps you would
be so kind sometimes as to walk with me—•'
Theodora smiled. ' I hope we may meet sometimes,' said she.
' If my sister was downstairs perhaps we might; but I am en-
.• gaged to her.'
Thus ended the visit, and Arthur, hastily throwing the
cushions back into their places, demanded' What on earth could
possess those folks to come here now
* It was an inconvenient time,' said Theodora.
' Dawdling and loitering here !—a man with nothing better
to do with his time 1'
' Nay,' said Theodora, touched by the injustice; * Lord St.
Erme is no man not to know how to dispose of his time.'
' Whew 1' whistled Arthur; * is the wind gone round to that
quarter ? Well, I thought better of you than that you would
S14
HEARTSEASE;
like a fellow tkat can do notMng but draw, never sboots over
Ms own moors, and looks like a German singer ! But do put
the room tidy; and if you must have the nursery down here,
put it into the back room, for mercy sake 1'
He went away, having thus stirred her feelings in the St.
Erme direction, and he left them to take their chance for the
rest of the day. She took a solitary walk; on her return saw
o, hat ill the hall, and asking whether Mr. Harding was there,
was told no, but that Mr. Gardner was with Captain Martin-
dale. And after long waiting till Arthur should come to dinner,
he only put in his head, saying, ^ Oh, Theodora, are you waiting^
I beg your pardon, I am going out to dinner. You can sit with
Violet; and if she should want me, which she wont, James
knows where to find me.'
Theodora scorned to inquire of the servant whither his master
was gone; but her appetite forsook her at the sight of the
empty chair, and the recollection of the warning against Mark
Gardner.
This was not her last solitary dinner. Arthur had engagements
almost every day, or else went to his club; and when at home,
if he was not with Violet, he sat in his own room, and would
never again assist at the sittings, which were completed under
less favourable auspices, soon enough to allow time for the
framing before the mamma should come down stairs. Her
recovery proceeded prosperously; and Theodora was quite suffi¬
ciently in request in her room to be satisfied, and to make it
difficult to find a spare afternoon to go and order one of her
favourite oak frames.
However, she was at length- able to make the expedition;
■and she was busy in giving directions as to the width of margin,
when from the interior of the shop there came forward no other
than the Earl of St. Erme.
They shook hands, and she sent her excuses to Lady Lucy
for having been too much occupied to call, asking whether she
was still in town.
' Only till Thursday,' he said, ' when I take her to join my
aunt, who is to show her the BMne.'
' Do not you go with them V
' I have not decided. It depends upon circumstances. Did
•not I hear something of your family visiting Germany T
' Perhaps they may,' said Theodora, drily.
He began to study the portrait, and saw some likeness,
but was distressed by something in the drawing of the
mouth.
'Yes,' said Theodora, 'I know it is wrong; but Miss Piper
0R> THE brother's \flEE.
315
could not see it as I did, and her alterations only made it worse,
tiU I longed to be able to draw.'
' I wonder if I might venture,' said Lord St. Erme, screwing
up his eye, and walking round the picture. ' I am sure, with
vour artist eye, you must know what it is not to be able to keep
your hands off.'
' Not I,' said Theodora, smiKng. ' Pencils are useless tools to
me. But it would be a great benefit to the picture, and Miss
Piper will fancy it all her own.'
* You trust me, then?' and he turned to ask for a piece of
chalk, adding, ' But is it not too bold a paeasure without the
subject ?'
* He is in the carriage, with his nurseand Theodora, unable
to resist so material an improvement to her gift, brought him
in, and set him up on the counter opposite to a flaming picture
of a gentleman in a red coat, which he was pleased to call papa,
and which caused his face to assume a look that was conveyed
to the portrait by Lord St. Erme, and rendered it the individual
Johnnie Martindale, instead of merely a pale boy in a red sash.
Theodora was too much gratified not to declare it frankly,
and to say how much charmed his mother would be j and she
was pleased by a remark of Lord St. Erme, that showed that
liis poet mind comprehended that wistful intelligence that gave
a peculiar beauty to Johnnie's thin white face.
She thought to pay off her obligations by an immediate visit
to his sister, while she knew him to be safe out of the way;
and, driving to Mrs. Delaval's, she sent her nephew home,
intending to walk back.
Lady Lucy was alone j and she found her a gentle, simple-
hearted girl, with one sole affection, namely, for the brother,
who was the whole world to her ; and taking Miss Martindale,
on his word, as an object of reverence and admiration. It was
impossible not to thaw towards her : and when Theodora spoke
of the embellishment of the portrait, she needed no more to
make her spring up, and fetch a portfolio to exhibit her brother's
drawings. Admirable they were ; sketches of foreign scenery,
many portraits, in different styles, of Lady Lucy herself, and
the especial treasure was a copy of Tennyson, interleaved with
illustrations in the German style, very fanciful and beautiful.
Theodora was, however, struck-by the numerous traces she saw
of the Lalla Ilookh portrait. It was there as the dark-eyed
Isabel; again as Judith, in the Vision of Fair Women; it slept
as the Beauty in the Wood; and even in sweet St. Agnes, she
met it refined and purified j so that at last she observed, * It is
strange how like this is to my mother.'
316
HEAKTSEASE;
* I think it must be/ said Lady Lucy; ' for I was quite struck
by your likeness to St. Erme's ideal sketches.'
Rather annoyed, Theodora laughed, and turning from the
portfolio, asked if she did not also draw ?
' A little j but mine are too bad to be looked at.*
Theodora insisted, and the drawings were produced ; all the
best had been done under Lord St. Erme's instruction. The
affection between the brother and sister touched her, and think¬
ing herself neglectful of a good little girl, she offered to take the
desired walk at once. While Lady Lucy was preparing, how¬
ever, the brother came home, and oh! the inconvenient satis¬
faction of his blushing looks.
Yet Theodora pardoned these, when he thanked her for
being kind to his sister; speaking with a sort of parental
fondness and anxiety of his wish to have Lucy with him, and
of his desire that she should form friendships that would benefit
her. •
Never had he spoken with so much reality, nor appeared to
so much advantage; and it was in his favour, too, that Theo¬
dora contrasted this warm solicitude for his young sister with
the indifference of her own eldest brother. There was evi¬
dently none of the cold distance that was the grievance of her
home.
' Lady Lucy is almost out of the school-room,* she said. "
' You will soon be able to have her with you in the country.*
'' There are certainly some considerations that might make me
resolve on an English winter,* said Lord St. Erme.
' Every consideration, I should think.*
' Eogs and frosts, and clouds, that hang like a weight on the
whole frame,* said Lord St. Erme, shivering.
' Healthy, freshening mists, and honest vigorous frosts to
brace one for service,* said Theodora, smiling.
' O, Miss Martindale 1' cried Lady Lucy, entering; ' are you
persuading St. Erme to stay all the year in England ] I do so
wish he would.*
' Then you ought to make him,* said Theodora.
^ If Miss Martindale were Jo express a wish or opinion—*
She saw it was time to cut him short. ' Every one's opinion
must be the same,* she said.
' 0/ cried Lucy, ' of course Italy is pleasanter. It is selfish
to wish to keep him here; but if I had my will, we would live
together at Wrangerton, and have such nice poor people.*
' A chdteau en Espagne indeed, my little sister. Wrangerton
is a most forlorn place, an old den of the worst period of archi¬
tecture, set down just beyond the pretty country, but in the
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
817
programme of all tlie tourists as a show place; 'the third-
rate town touching on the park, and your nice poor people not
even the ordinary English peasantry, but an ill-disposed set of
colliers.*
Theodora looked, but did not speak.
'Miss Martindale thinks me a laggard, but she hears my
excuse.*
' If they are ill-disposed,* said Theodora, in her low, severe
voice (she could not help it), ' it is for want of influence from
the right quarter.*
' My agent tells me they are perfectly impracticable.*
'Tlnights of old liked something impracticable.' She was
almost ready to check herself; but there was something in¬
spiriting in the idea of awakening this youth, who seemed to
catch at her words as if she were a damsel sending forth a
champion. His reply was—
' Those were days worth living for. Then the knight's devoir
was poetry in real life.'
' Devoir is always poetry in real life,' said Theodora. ' What
is it but the work ready to hand? Shrinking from it is
shrinking from the battle. Come, Lady Lucy, I will not detain
you.*
Lord St. Erme seemed about to say something as he shook
hands, but it did not come. The walk was passed by the
simple-hearted Lucy discoursing of the events by which she
counted her eras, namely, his visits. • Her perfect brother was
her only theme.
CHAPTER XX.
Yet leam the gamut of Hortensio.
Taming of the Shrew.
Mrs. NESBIT was recommended to spend some months at
Baden Baden; and Theodora formed a design, which
highly pleased Arthur and Yiolet, of spending this time, while
the family were absent, and while Arthur was in Scotland, as
hostess at Martindale to Yiolet and the children.
After seeing Arthur off to Windsor for the next fortnight,
Theodora had begun writing to propose the scheme to her
father, when she was interrupted by the announcement of Lord
St. Erme.
To visit her alone was a strong measure, and she put on a
panoply of dignified formality. He began to say he had brouglit
318
HEAPwTSEASE ;
a German book, to sbow her a poem of wbich. tbeir convei*satioij
had reminded him.
understand very little German,' said she, coldly. ♦ I once
had a German governess whom I disliked so much that I took
a disgust to the language.'
* There is so much that is beautiful and untranslateable in its
literature, that I am sure it would recompense you.'
* I do not like the German tone of mind. It is vapoury and
unreal.'
' I should like to show you cause to alter your opinion, but—
' This is English,' said Theodora, as her eye fell on a paper of
verses that marked the place.
' Ah, Lucy made me put it in. A few lines that occurred to
me after watching Mrs. Martindale's little boy.'
Thankful that they were not inspired by "Venus's little boy,
she glanced over them, and saw they were in his best style,
simple and pretty thoughts on the child's content, wherever he
traced any symbol of his father.
'Poor little Johnnie is highly flattered,' she said. 'His
mamma will be delighted.'
He begged her attention to the German poem; she glanced
onward as he read, watching for shoals a-head, and spied some¬
thing about a liocJiheseeltes onddchen inspiring a Helden Sanger
geist, and grew hotter and hotter till she felt ready to box his
ears for intoning German instead of speaking plain English, and
having it over. A cotton umbrella arose before her eyes, she
heard the plashing gravel, and an honest voice telling her she
was a grand creature in great need of being broken in.
The critical stanza had commenced, the reader's voice trem¬
bled ; Theodora did not heed, her mind was in the avenue at
home. An opening door startled them.
' Mr. and Mrs. Albert Moss.'
Her brother's brother-in-law ! the son and partner of Lord
St. Erme's steward! Was it thus his suit was to be checked.'
There was no recognition ; he went on reading his German
to himself, while Albert presented Mrs. Albert Moss, resplen¬
dent in bridal finery, and displaying her white teeth in a broad
smile, as with a nod, half-gracious, half-apologetic, she said, ' I
fear we interrupt a lesson; but we will not inconvenience you;
we will go at once to our dear convalescent.'
' Thank you, you do not interrupt me, and I do not think ray
sister is dressed yet. Indeed, I doubt whether I ought to allow
her to see any one.'
' O, you cannot be so cruel!' cried Mrs. Moss, holding up her
hands ; ' one little peep ! our only day in town.'
OR, THE IBROTHER'S WIFE
319
Yss/ said Albert. *I could not but gratify my Louisas
smxiety to be introduced to her new relatives.*
'I am afraid you must be disappointed, for my brother is
with his regiment at Windsor, and my sister is still so weak
that she ought to have no excitement.'
* And we have only a few hours in town. The inexorable
claims of business have recalled us to Wrangerton.'
The Earl looked up surprised, as if the word had recalled him
from the clouds.
* You have been in Wales, I think,' said Theodoia. ' Were
you pleased V
* Oh, I was enraptured !' exclaimed the bride; * the sublime
and romantic could be carried no higher! It makes me quite
discontented with our home scenery.'
*Your sister would not approve of that,' said Theodora to
Albert; ' she can bear no slight to Helvellyn.'
' I forget—^is there a view of Helvellyn from Wrangerton V
said Lord St. Erme, still somewhat dreamily.
Mrs. Moss started at hearing such good English from the
German master, and patronizingly said, 'Yes. Helvellyn is
monarch of our picturesque. Do you ever come northwards T
'Hot so often as, perhaps, I ought. I am afraid I know
more of the Alps than of Helvellyn.'
' I am sure,' continued the voluble lady, ' if ever you thought
of such a scheme when the season is over, it would be well worth
your while. I could reckon up many respectable families, who
with such introductions—let me see, there are the Joneses, and
the Dunlops, and the Evelyns, to say nothing of my new sisters,
the Miss Mosses.'
' I have no doubt it is a very good neighbourhood,' said Lord
St. Erme, rising. ' I must go, or we shall miss the train. Can
you tell me how soon you expect Lord Martindale f
' About the tenth or eleventh,' said Theodora.
' Thank you. Then I must wish you good-by—
' And I must thank you in my sister's name for the pleasure
she will take in what you have done for her little boy. Re
member me to Lady Lucy.'
That name was a revelation to Albert, and the door had
scarcely closed before he exclaimed—' Surely, Miss Martindale,
that could not be Lord St. Erme ?'
' Yes, it was.'
'Well!' cried Mrs. Moss, 'there was something decidedly the
aristocrat in his moustache 1'
Albert could not recover from his vexation at having missed
Buch a clianccj and was nearly setting off in pursuit of his lord-
820
HEARTSEASE;
ship. Theodora was glad to escape for a moment, on the plea
of seeing whether Violet could receive & visit.
In her absence the bride began—' I can't see that she is so
handsome, after all! And I should be ashamed to wear such a
dress as that !*
' Distinguished people have freaks, iry love. Bless me 1 if I
had but known the Earl!'
' I see how it is,* said the wife; 'a proud Countess we shall have.'
' If one of the girls had but been here ! Every one of them
is prettier than this Miss Martindale. Who knows V
* Ah! I shall take care in a friendly way to let your sister
know how her own family feel at her keeping aloof—
* I do not believe it is her fault, poor child,' said Albert.
* Martindale has set this haughty young lady to keep guard
over her—
* We shall see,' said the bride. 'I am not used to be refused,
and once with your sister, I will discover all her secrets.'
Fortunately for Violet, Theodora had found her so much
exhausted by the fatigue of dressing, that she thought it safest,
considering what a bride it was, not to divulge her presence in
the house; and she came down with this intelligence, trying to
compensate for it by civility, and by showing the children.
■ Mrs. Moss was not easily repulsed; she begged Miss Martin-
dale to reconsider her verdict.
' I must not relent j I am accountable to the doctor and to
my brother.'
' It shall not be your fault. You shall know nothing of it.
I will find my way. Ah ! I'm a giddy young thing. IsTothing
can stop me!' and she stepped forward, laughing afiectedly, and
trying to look arch.
* I cannot permit this. It might do serious harm,' said Theo¬
dora, obliged to stand in her path, and to put on such a look of
haughty command, that she was positively subdued and fright¬
ened,. and went back to her seat in a meek state of silence,
whence she only recovered to overwhelm poor Johnnie with her
attentions. He cried and was sent away, and Mrs. Moss was
obliged to be satisfied with the baby, though she looked as dig¬
nified and as little to be taken liberties with as any Martindale
of them all.
They lingered on, hoping to weary out Miss Martindale's
patience, or that some chance might reveal their presence to
Violet; but in vain ; Theodora's politeness was exemplary, and
she endured Mrs. Albert Moss's familiarity so well, that when
at length they departed, the last words were a parting whisper,
' Good morning. Miss Martindale. If we had known what we
01^ the brother's wire.
!
interrupted—^but ah! I have gone through those things so
lately, that I know how to feel for you, and can keep" your
secret.'
' There is no subject of secrecy that I know of,' said Theo¬
dora, more coldly than ever.
Hateful woman ! Poor Violet 1 There, now, it will be all
over the country that I am engaged to him! I must take him
now, or I hope he will give it up on discovering my connexions!
Then I can despise him. Foolish man ! why could he not say
what he wanted ? I should have gob rid of him then; I was in
the mood! However, he is out of the way for the present.
Now to make the best of it with Violet.
Violet was grieved, both for her own sake and the vexation
at home, but she so sweetly acquiesced in its having been right,
and was so sure that her sister meant nothing but kindness,
that Theodora, knowing that she herself could not have sub¬
mitted with anything like patience, admired and loved her more
than ever.
The gentleness and quietness of her demeanour were a re^
freshment to Theodora's tossed and undecided mind; and in
administering to her comfort and pleasure, the anxieties and
remorse subsided into a calm like her own. How delightful
was the day of her introduction to Johnnie's portrait; her ad¬
miration, and tearful gratitude to the kind deviser of the gift,
were the greatest pleasure Theodora had known for months;
the discussion of every feature, the comparison of Johnnie with
it, the history of the difficulties, and of his papa's assistance,
seemed a never ending treat to both giver and receiver. The
poem, too; it was very amusing to see how she could hardly
believe that original verses could possibly be written on her
boy, and then when set to guess whose they were, she began
with a hesitating ' Miss Marstone is the only person near who
makes verses, and these are too pretty to be hers.'
* Ah! if you would follow Emma's advice, and call the baby
Osyth, after the first Prioress, you might have a chance from
that quarter.'
It could not be Mr. Fotheringham, the only poet she could
think of, and she could only beg to be told.
* There is one whom aWrangerton woman should not forget.'
* Lord St. Erme 1 You are laughing at me, Theodora. He
never even saw Johnnie I'
Theodora explained the two meetings, anxious to see her way
of thinking. * It is a wonderful thing !' was her first remark.
* Who would have told me how it would bo three years ago ?
, They are very pretty.'
V
I
322
HEARTSEASE ;
* I do not tMnk you like tkem -the better for being his,' said
Theodora.
' I ought,* said Yiolet; ' no other great man ever seems to
me so grand as our own Earh'
* I want your real feeling.'
* You know,* said Yiolet, smiling 'I cannot think them done
only for Johnnie's sake—*
* And, therefore, they do not please you.*
'Not exactly that; but—^if you don't mind my saying so, I
feel as if I had rather—^it might be better—I don't want to
be ungrateful, but if you were getting into a scrape for the
sake of pleasing me, I should be sorry. Forgive me, Theodora,'
you made me say so,*
'You are consideration itself,' said Theodora, affectionately.
'Never mind, he is out of the way. We will let him go off
poetising to Germany; and under your wing at home, I will
get into no more mischief.'
That was a pleasant prospect, and Yiolet reposed on the
thought of the enjoyment of Martindale without its formidable
inhabitants j trying in it to forget the pain of parting with her
husband for a month, and her longings to spend it at her own
home, and see Johnnie strengthened by Helvellyn breezes;
while to Theodora it seemed like the opening into peace and
goodness.
One forenoon, Yiolet, on coming down stairs, found her
sister writing extremely fast, and seeing an envelope on the
table in Lord Martindale's writing, asked if it was his answer
to Theodora's plan.
' Yes.'
'Ahl' said Yiolet, perceiving something was amiss, 'they
have spared you to me a long time already.*
' Don't be uneasy,' said Theodora; ' I'll settle it.*
' But,' exclaimed Yiolet, ' I could not bear that you should
be with me if they want you.*
'That is not it; papa has something in his head; I will-
settle it.*
Yiolet knew what was indicated by the over-erectness of
Theodora's head. To be the cause of family discussion was
frightful, but she had a nervous dread of thwarting Theodora.
' I wish you would not look at me,* exclaimed Theodora.
' I beg your pardon,' sighed she.
' What's the use of that when I know you are not satisfied,
and do not trust me 1'
' Don't be angry with me,* implored Yiolet, with a quivering
voice, and tears of weakness in her eyes. ' I cannot help it." J
OR. THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
323
do not want to interfere, but as it is for me, I must beg you to
tell me you are not pressing to stay with me wben Lady Mar-
tindale wishes for you.*,
'No one ever wants me. No, but papa thinks that you and
I cannot be trusted together. He says he cannot leave me with
one who has so little authority.*
That indignant voice contrasted with the gentle answer, * I
do not wonder; I have always thought if I had been older ^nd
better able to manage—*
*No such thingr exclaimed Theodoraj 'you are the only
l^rson who ever exercised any control over me.*
'' 0, hush I you do not know what you are saying.*
'It is the truth, and you know it. When you choose, every
one yields to you, and so do I.*
' Indeed, I did not know it,* said Violet, much distressed. ' I
am very sorry if I am overbearing; I did not think I was.*
Theodora fairly laughed at such a word being applied to the
mild, yielding creature, who looked so pale and feeble. * Very
domineering, indeed!' she said. ' No, no, my dear, it is only
that you are always right. When you disapprove, I cannot bear
to hurt and grieve you, because you take it so quietly.*
' You are so very kind to me.'
' So, if papa wishes me to come to good, he had better leave
me to you.*
' I don't think that ought to be,* said Violet, feebly.
' What, not that you should be my only chance—^that you
should calm me and guide me when every one else has failed
' Theodora, dear, I do not think I ought to like to hear you
say so. It cannot be safe for you to submit to me rather than
to your father.*
' He never had any moral power over me. He never con¬
vinced me, nor led me to yield my will,' said Theodora, proud
perhaps of her voluntary submission to her gentle sister-in-law,
and magnifying its extent; but Violet was too right-minded,
in her simplicity, to be flattered by an allegiance she knew to be
misplaced.
f I should not like baby to say so by and by,* she whis¬
pered.
* ' There's an esprit de corps in parents,* cried Theodora, half
angrily; ' but Helen will never be like me. She will not be
left to grow up uncared-for and unloved till one-and-twenty,
and then, when old enough for independence, be for the first time
coerced and reproached. If people never concern themselves
about their children, they need not expect the same from fcbem
as if they had brought them up properly.*
324
HEAETSEASE;
' Tliat is a sad tliouglit/ pensively said tlie young mother.
' I declare you shall hear the letter, that you may own that it
is unreasonable—^unbearable !' And she read—
' * I have been considering your request to spend the time of
our absence at home with Mrs. Martindale, but I cannot thmk
fit to comply with it. Arthur's income is fully sufficient to
provide change of air for his family; and he ought not to expect
always to leave his wife on other people's hands, while he is pur-r
suing his own diversions.''
Theodora was glad to see that this did rouse Violet's in¬
dignation.
* Oh! ho does not know. Do tell him it was all your kind¬
ness ! Te] 1 him that Arthur is not going for long. He must
not think such things.'
* He thinks much more injustice,' said Theodora. * Listen:—
* After so long an absence, it is high time you should rejoin us;
and, considering what has occurred, you cannot be suprised that
I should be unwilling to leave you with one so young and of
so little authority over you. Though I acquit her of all blame
for your indiscretions—^
* (There, Violet, I hope you are much obliged to him !) * I
should not have consented to your remaining with her up to the
present time, if it had not been a case of urgent necessity, as I
wish to have you under my own eye.'
* (As if he had ever made any use of it ?) 'You might as well
be alone here as with her; and, after your late conduct, I cannot
put the confidence in your prudence that I should desire.
Violet has, I have no doubt, acted amiably; and her youth,
inexperience, and gentleness fully excuse her in my eyes for
having been unable to restrain you; but they are reasons suffi¬
cient to decide me on not leaving you with her at present. *We
shall be in London on Monday, the iith, and I wish you to be
in readiness to join us when we embark for Ostend on the fol¬
lowing evening. Give my kind love to Violet, and tell her I
am glad she is going on well, and that I am much pleased with
my grand-daughter's intended name.'
' There, Violet, what do you think of that V
* Pray make him understand that Arthur wanted a change
very much, and will not be long gone.'
' Arthur! You cannot feel for any one else !'
' I did not mean to be selfish,' said Violet, sorry for having
Ecemed to be wanting in sympathy.
'No, indeed ! You never think what would become of you
left alone, with two babies that cannot walk 1'
' Never mind me, I shal] manage very well; I dont like to
I
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIEE.
325
have a disturbance made on my account. I cannot think how
you can hesitate after such a letter as this.'
' That is the very thing. He would never have dared to say
these things to my face ! How let me tell you. I know I have
been much to- blame j you made me feel it. You are taming
me j and if he leaves me to you I may be more dutiful when he
comes back. But if he strains his new notion of authority too
far, and if you throw me off, I shall be driven to do what will
grieve and disappoint you.*
' But surely,' said Yiolet, ' it cannot be the right beginning
of being dutiful to resist the first thing that is asked of you.'
* You wish me to go to be fretted and angered! to be without
one employment to drown painful thoughts, galled by attempts
at controlling me; my mind poisoned by my aunt, chilled by
my mother—to be given up to my worse nature, without
perhaps even a church to go to I'
' It is very hard,' said Yiolet; * but if we are to submit, it
cannot be only when we see fit. Would it not be better to
make a beginning that costs you something V
* And lose my hope of peaceful guidance !'
' I do believe,' said Yiolet, * that if you go patiently, because
It is your duty, that you will be putting yourself under the true
guidance; but for you to extort permission to stay with me,
when your father disapproves, would be only following your own •
way. I should be afraid. I will not undertake it, for it would
not be right, and mischief would be sure to ensue.'
' Then you give me up V
' Give you up ! dear, dear sister j' and Yiolet rose and threw
her arms round Theodora. ' Ho, indeed ! When I am so glad
that I may love you as I always wished ! I shall think of you,
and write to you, and pray for you,' whispered she. * All I can
I will do for you, but you must not say any more of staying with
me now. I can help you better in my right place than out
of it.'
Theodora returned the caress and quitted the room, leaving
Yiolet to her regrets and fears. It was a great sacrifice of her¬
self, and still worse, of her poor little pale boy, and she dreaded
that it might be the ruin of the beneficial influence which, to
her amazement, she found ascribed to her, in the most unex¬
pected quarter. It had gone to her heart to refuse Theodora's
kindness, and all that was left for her was to try to still her
fluttering, agitated spirits by the consciousness that she had
striven to do right, and by the prayer that all might work for
good.
Indeed, it was very remarkable how, in this critical period of
326
HEARTSEASE;
Theodora's iife, when repentance was engaged in so severe a
conflict with her long-nourished pride and passion, in all the
tossings of her mind she had, as it were, anchored herself to
her docile, gentle sister-in-law, treating her like a sort of em¬
bodiment of her better mind. Violet's serenity and lowliness
seemed to breathe peace on a storm-tossed ocean; and her want
of self-assertion to make Theodora proud of submitting to her
slightest wish without a struggle. Those vehement affections
were winding themselves about her and her children ; and the
temper that had flown into flerce insubordination at the first
control from lawful authority, laid itself at the feet of one
whose power was in meekness. It was the lion curbed by the
maiden; but because the subjection was merely a caprice, it was
no conquest of self-will.
CHAPTEK XXI.
But when the self-ahhorring thrill
Is past, as pass it must,
When tasks of life thy spirit fill
Risen from thy tears and dust,
Then be the self-renouncing will
The seal of thy calm trust. Lyra Apostoliea.
Arthur quitted London the day after his little girl'a
christening, talking of being absent only a fortnight, before
taking his wife to Windsor ; and promising to return at once, '
if she should find herself in the least unwell or dispirited.' She
was delighted to be well enough not to spoil his sport, and
Theodora was too anxious to have him at a distance from Mr.
Gardner to venture on any remonstrance.
It was the day the family were to come to London, and he
left orders with the ladies to say * all that was properbut the
twelfth of August was to him an unanswerable reason for
immediate departure.
Theodora and Violet went to receive the party in the house
in Belgrave Square, both silent, yet conscious of each other's
feelings. Theodora paced the rOom, while Violet leant back in
a great blue damask chair, overcome by the beatings of her
heart; and yet, when the carriage arrived, it was she who
spoke the word of encouragement: 'Your father is so kind, I
know he forgives us !'
Theodora knew Violet thought her own weakness and ineffi¬
ciency needed pardon, and therefore could bear the saying, and
allow it to turn her defiant shame into humility.
OR THE brother'S WIFE. 327
JMrs. Nesbit came in, supported between Lord and Lady
I^Iartindale j and as Theodora hastened to wheel round the large
arm-chair, and settle the cushions for her, her eye glanced in
keen inquiry from one niece to the other, and they felt that she
was exulting in the fulfilment of her prediction.
Lord Martindale kissed his daughter with grave formality;
and, as if to mark the difference, threw much warm affection
into his greeting of Violet, and held her hand for some mo¬
ments, while he asked solicitously if she were well and strong,
and inquired for her little ones.
She made Arthur's excuses and explanations, but broke off,
blusliing and disconcerted, by that harsh, dry cough of Mrs.
Nesbit's, and still more, by seeing Lord Martindale look con¬
cerned. She began, with nervous eagerness and agitation, to
explain that it was an old engagement, he would not be away
long, and then would take her out of town—she was hardly yet
ready for a journey. From him she obtained kind smiles, and
almost fatherly tenderness; from Lady Martindale, the usual
ceremonious civility. They asked her to dinner, but she was
not equal to this j they then offered to send her home in the
carriage, and when she refused. Lord Martindale said he would
walk back with her, while Theodora remained with her mother.
He was much displeased with his son for leaving her,
especially when he saw how delicate and weak she still looked;
and he was much annoyed at being unable to prevent it, without
giving Arthur a premium for selfishness ; so that all he could
do was to treat her with a soi*t of compassionate affection,
increased at each of her unselfish sayings.
' My dear,' he said, ^ I wish to have a little conversation with
you, when it suits you. I am anxious to hear your account of
this unfortunate affair.'
'Very wellbut he felt her arm tremble.
'You must not alarm yourself. You are the,last person
deserving of blame. I am only sorry that you should have had
so much to harass you.'
' 0, Theodora has been so very kind to me.'
* I rejoice to hear it j but tell me, will this evening or to¬
morrow morning suit you best V
' Thank you, to-morrow, if you please,' said Violet, glad to
defer the evil day.
At that moment she was astonished by the sudden apparition
of Lord St. Erme, and still more by his shaking hands with her.
She thanked him for his touches to her little boy's portrait; he
smiled, rejoiced that she did not think he had spoilt it, and
remarked upon the likeness. Lord Martindale who knew him
328
HEAKTSEASE;
but slightly, listened in surprise ; and Laving now come to Lei
own door, sLe bade tLem farewell, and entered tLe Louse.
Theodora came back much later than Violet Lad expected,
with a flush on her cheek, and Lurry and uncertainty in her
manner. SLe Lad previously made a great point of their spend¬
ing this last evening alone together, but her mood was silent.
SLe declared herself bent on finishing the volume of Miss Strick¬
land's Queens^ which they were reading together, and went on
with it till bed-time without intermission, then wished Violet
good-night without another word.
But Violet was no sooner in bed than Theodora came in, in
her dressing-gown, and sat down at her feet, looking at her, but
hardly answering the few words she ventured to speak. It was
not till the clock struck twelve that she rose from her seat.
' Well, I must go; but I don't know how to tear myself from
the sight of you. I feel as if I was driven from the only place
where I ever might be good.'
' No,' whispered Violet; * wherever our duty lies, we can be
good.'
' I could, if you were with me, to calm me, and tell me such
things.'
'You do not want me to tell you them. You have the Bible
and Prayer Book.'
' I never saw the right way to follow them; till now, when
it was gleaming on me, I have to go away.'
' The same grace that has shown you your way so far, dearest,
will go on to show you further, if you follow it on, even though
the way be hard.'
' The grace may be with you—it is !' said Theodora, in a
heavy, hopeless manner; ' but oh ! Violet, think how long I
have been driving it away !'
Violet sat up, took her hand, pressed it between both hers,
and with tears exclaimed; 'You must not speak so. If you
had not that grace, should you be sorry now
' I don't know. I can hope and see my way to peace when
you look at me, or speak to me; but why should I be forced
into the desert of my own heart, to loneliness and temptation V
' If you are really resting on me, instead of on the only true
help, perhaps, it is better you should be left to it. Theodora,
dearest, may I tell you something about myself? When first
I saw my difficulties, and could not get at mamma, I felt as if
there was no one to help me, but somehow it grew up. I saw
how to find out guidance and comfort in the Bible and in such
things, and ever since I have been so much happier,'
' How did you find it out V
OR, THE BROTHER^ W1EE»
329
John helped me; but I think it comes "without teaching from
without, and there is my hope for you, Theodora.'
'Them that are meek shall He guide in judgment, and such
as are gentle, them shall He learn His way,* murmured Theo¬
dora, hanging over her, with tears fast dropping.
' He shows himself to those who will follow Him, and yield
their own will/ said Violet.
' Good night I Oh ! what shall I do when I have not you to
send me to bed comforted ? I had more to say to you, but you
have smoothed it all, and I cannot ruffle it up again.'
A night of broken sleep, and perplexed waking thoughts, was
a bad preparation for the morning's conference. Lord Mai'tin-
dale came to breakfast, and, as before, reserved all his kindness
for Violet and the children. Theodora disappeared when the
little ones were carried away, and he began the conversation by
saying to Violet, ' I am afraid you have had a great deal of
trouble and vexation.'
She replied by warm assurances of Theodora's kindness;
whence he led her to tell the history of the rupture, which she
did very mournfully, trying to excuse Theodora, but forbidden,
by justi-je to Percival; and finding some relief in taking blame
to herself for not having remonstrated against that unfortunate
expedition to the races.
'Ho, iny dear, it was no fault of yours. It was not from one
thing more than another. It was owing to unhappy, unbroken
temper. Take care of your children, my dear, and teach them
submission in time.' Then presently resuming: 'Is it your
idea that she had any attachment to poor Fotheringham V
' Much more than she knew at the time,' said Violet.
' Ha! Then you do not think she has given encouragement
to that absurd-looking person. Lord St. Erme?'
' Lord St. Erme !' cried Violet, startled.
' Yes ; when I parted with you yesterday, he walked back
with me, and proceeded to declare that he had been long
attached to her, and to ask my sanction to his following us to
Germany to pay his addresses.'
' Surely he has not spoken to her ?'
'Ho; he said something about not presuming, and of having
been interrupted. I could only tell him that it must rest witli -
herself. There is no objection to the young man, as far as I
know, though he is an idle, loitering sort of fellow, not what I
should have thought to her taste.'
'I do not believe she likes him,' said Violet.
'You do not 1 I cannot make out. I told her that she was
at liberty to do as she pleased; I only warned her neither to
330,
HEARTSEASE;
trifle witli Mm, nor to msli into an engagement without de¬
liberation, but I could get nothing like an answer. She was in
one of her perverse fits, and I have no notion whether she
means to accept Mm or not.'
' T do not tMnk she wiU.*
' I cannot say. No one knows, without a trial, what the
notion of a coronet will do with a girl. After all her preten¬
sions she may be the more liable to the temptation. I have
not told her aunt, that she may be the more unbiassed. Not
that I say anything against Mm; it is everything desirable in
the way of connexion, and probably he is an amiable good sort
of man. What do you know of him 1 Are you intimate with
him?'
Yiolet explained the extent of their acquaintance. 'I do
not see my way through it,' said Lord Martindale. * I wish 1
could be clear that it is not all coquetry. I wish John was at
home.'
' I do not think,' said Violet, gathering courage—' I do not
think you know how much Theodora wishes to be good.'
' I wish she was half as good as. you are, my dear 1' said
Lord Martindale, as if he had been speaking to a child. And
he talked to her warmly of her own concerns, and hopes of her
visiting Martindale on their return; trying to divest himself of
a sense of inhospitality and harshness, which grew on him when¬
ever he looked at her slender figure, and the varying carnation
of her thin cheek.
She felt herself obliged to set forth to call on Lady Martin¬
dale. Theodora was busy, packing up, and could not accompany
her; unfortunately for her, since Mrs. Nesbit took the oppor¬
tunity of examining her on the same subject, though far from
doing it in the same manner j commenting with short sarcastic
laughs, censuring Mr. Fotheringham for trying to domineer,
but finding much amusement in making out the grounds of hhi
objection to Mrs. Finch, and taking pleasure in bringing, by
her inquiries, a glow of confusion and distress on Violet's cheeks.
Next she began to blame her for having visited such an impru¬
dent person; and when Lady Martindale ventured to suggest
something about her not knowing, and Mrs. Finch having for¬
merly been a friend of the family, she put her down. 'Yes,
my dear, we are not blaming Mrs. Arthur Martindale. 'We
know it is not possible for every one to be fastidious. The mis¬
fortune was in Miss Martindale's being brought into society
which could not be expected to be select.*
Violet did not think herself called upon to stay to be in¬
sulted, and rose to take leave, but did not escape without
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
831
fiirtlier taiints. ' So you are to be in London alone for the
next month Y
' Perhaps only for a fortnight!'
* I can promise you that it will be a month. Young men are
not apt to spend more time at home than they can help. I am
sorry to interfere with your scheme of being installed at Mar-
tindale, but it is out of the question. Theodora's absence has
been much felt by the curate, and our past experience has pre-
" pared us for anything. I hope you will take care of yourself.'
hirs. hTesbit, as she lost her power of self-command and her
cleverness, without parting with her bitterness of spirit, had
pitiably grown worse and worse, so that where she would once
■ have been courteously sarcastic, she was now positively in¬
solent.
It was too much for Lady Martindale, who, as she saw Violet
colour deeply, and tremble as she left the room, followed her to
the head of the stairs, and spoke kindly. * You must not ima¬
gine, my dear, that either my aunt, or any of us, find fault with
you. We all know that you are inexperienced, and that it is
not easy to cope with Theodora's eccentricity of character.'
Violet, still very weak, could have been hysterical, but luckily
was able to command herself, though, ' thank you!' was all she
could say.
' Of course, though such things are unfortunate, we cannot
regret the match; Lord Martindale and I are quite convinced
that you acted amiably by all parties. Good-bye, my dear; I
am sorry I have not time to call and see the children.'
'Shall I send them to you when they wake?' said Violet,
pleased that they were at length mentioned.
'Thank you, my dear,' said Lady Martindale, as if much
tempted. ' I am afraid not; it might be too much for my aunt.
And yet, I should have liked to see the little girl.'
' She is such a beauty,' said Violet, much brightened. ' So
exactly like her papa.'
'I should like to see her! You have your carriage here, of
course!'
' No; I walked.'
'Walked, my dear 1' said Lady Martindale, dismayed.
Violet explained how short the distance was; but Lady
Martindale seemed not to know how to let her go, nor how to
relinquish the thought of seeing her grand-daughter. At last
she said, as if it was a great resolution, lowering her voice, ' I
wonder if I could walk back with you, just to see her.'
She took Violet into her room while she put on her bonnet)
much as if she feared being found out; and in passing the
332
HEAHTSEASEj
drawing-room door, gathered her dress together so as to repress
its rustling.
Wonder of wonders, to find Lady Martindale actually on foot
by her side! She went up at once to the nursery, where the' -
children were asleep. At Johnnie she looked little, but she
hung over the cot where lay the round plump baby face of
little Helen. Though dreadfully afraid of being missed, she
seemed unable to turn away from the contemplation.
'My dear,' said she, in an agitated voice, as they left the
nursery, 'you must not keep these children here in London.
You must not sacrifice their health. It is the first considera¬
tion. Don't let them stay in that hot nursery! Pray do not.'
'We shall be in the country soon,' said Violet.
' Why not at once ? Does expense prevent you ? Tell me,
my dear, what it would cost. I always have plenty to spare.
Would 100?. do it? and you need tell no one. I could give
you 200?,,' said Lady Martindale, who had as little idea of the
value of money as any lady in her Majesty's dominions. 'I
must have that dear little girl in the country. Pray take her
to Ventnor. How much shall I give you?'
Much surprised, and more touched, Violet, however, could
not accept the offer. She felt that it would be casting a slight
on Arthur; and she assured Lady Martindale that she hoped
soon to leave London, and how impossible it was for her to
move house without Arthur. It seemed to be a great dis¬
appointment, and opened to Violet a fresh insight into Lady
Martindale's nature; that there was a warm current beneath,
only stifled by Mrs. Hesbit's power over a docile character.
There seemed to be hopes that they might love each other at
last! In the midst there was a knock at the door, and Lord
Martindale entered, much surprised, as well as pleased, to find
his wife there, though put in some perplexity by her instantly
appealing to him to tell Violet that it was very bad for the
children to remain in town, and asking if it could not be
managed to send them to the sea-side. He made a grave but'
kind reply, that he was soriy for it himself, but that Violet
had assured him it would not be for long; and Lady Martin¬
dale (who did not seem able to understand why the lady of the
house could not make everything give way to her convenience)—
now becoming alive to the fear of her aunt's missing her, and
taking to heart her stolen expedition—hurried him off with her
at once. It was not till after their departure that Violet dis¬
covered that he had been trying to atone for deficiencies, by
costly gifts to herself and her children.
All this time Theodora had been in her own room, packing,
OS, THE BSOTHER'S VNHFE. S33
as she said, but proceeding slowly; for there was a severe
struggle of feelings, and she could not bear that it should bo
seen. In the pain of parting with "Violet, she shrank from her
presence, as if she could not endure to prolong the space for
last words.
They came at last. Theodora sat ready for her journey,
holding her god-daughter in her arms, and looking from her to
Violet, without a word; then gazing round the room, which
had been the scene of such changes of her whole mind.
At last she spoke, and it was very different from what Violet
expected.
* Violet, I will try to endure it; but if I cannob—^if you
hear of me as doing what you will disapprove, will you refrain
from giving me up, and at least be sorry for me V
After what Lord Martindale had said, Violet could guess at
her meaning. 'Certainly, dear Theodora. You would not do
it if it was wrong T
' You know what I mean 1'
' I think I do.'
' And you are not infinitely shocked V
' No ; for you would not do it unless you could rightly.*
' How do you mean T
'Not if there was—anything remaining—of the former *
' You are a good little thing, Violet,* said Theodora, trying
to laugh; ' nearly as simple as your daughter. You will save
her a great deal of trouble, if you tame her while she is young.'
Then came a pause, lasting till Theodora thought she heard
the carriage.
' You will forgive me if I accept him V
' I shall know it is all right. I trust you, dear sister.*
' Tell me something to help me !'
Violet drew out Helen's cross. 'Be patient, be patient,'
she said. ' The worse things are, the more of the cross to be
borne.*
Theodora held out her hand for it. ' I hope I am mending,*
'said she, as she gave it back with a melancholy smile. 'It
does not give me the bad jealous thoughts I had when first
I knew you possessed it. Tell me something to make me
patient.*
' May I tell you what came into my head after you were
talking last night of not seeing your way, and wanting to be
led. I thought of a verse in Isaiah.* Violet found the place
and showed it.
'Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the
voice of His servant, that walkoth in darkness, and hath nf»
834
HEARTSEASE 5
iiglitl Let hiiB. trust in tlie name of the^ Lord and stay upon
Lis God.' . ; ' .
' Thank you, Yiolet,' said Theodora, looking on to the next
verse. * I will try to be patient; I will try not to kindle a
fire for myscilf But if they tease jcne much, if I am very
weary
The summons cut her short—Lord MartindaJe ran up to
hasten her ; a fervent embrace—she was gone !
And Violet, with worn-out strength and spirits, remained
to find how desolate she was—^lefb behind in dreary summer
Loudon.
There was nothing for it but to be as foolish as in old times,
to lie down on the sofa and cry herself to sleep. She was a
poor creatui-e, after all, and awoke to weariness and headache,
but to no repining; for she had attained to a spirit of thank¬
fulness and content. She lay dreamily, figuring to herself
Arthur enjoying himself on the moors and mountains, till Hel-
vellyn's own purple cap came to brighten her dreams.
CHAPTEPv XXII.
Sigh no more, lady^ lady, sigh no more.
Men were deceivers ever.
One foot on shore and one on land.
To one thing constant never.
Percy's Reliqiics.
' Q Miss Martindale has left town V
O * Yes ; Yiolet writes me that the family passed through
London, and took her to the continent on Tuesday.'
*Then let Annette know she is to be ready to come with me
to town on Monday. We shall see if it is the young lady's
doing, or whether Mrs. Martindale intends to give herself airs
with her father and sister.'
' Poor dear,* sighed the good care-worn mother, * I do long to
hear of her; but may I not write first ? I should not like to
get the dear child into trouble.*
* On no account write, or we shall have some excuse about
pre-engagements. I shall take Annette at once, and see with
my own eyes. Martindale can never have the face to hinder
her from asking her own sister to stay in the house, when once
she is there.*
' I hope he is kind to her !' said Mrs. Moss. * I long to hear
whether she is quite recovered j and she says so little of her-
OE, THE BEOTHER'S WIFE.
385
self. She will be glad to see her sister, and yet, one does not
like to seem pushing.'
* Never you mind,* said the acute, sharp-faced attorney,
putting her aside as if she was presuming beyond her sphere j
* only you get Annette ready. Since we found such a match
for Violet, she is bound to help off her sisters; and as to
Annette, a jaunt is just what is wanting to drive that black
coat out of her head. I wish he had never come near the place. ^
The girl might have had the Irish captain, if she had not been
running after him and his school. Tell her to be ready on
Monday.*
Meek Mrs, Moss never dared to question her husband's
decision j and she had suffered too much anxiety on her
daughter's account, not to rejoice in the prospect of a trust¬
worthy report, for Violet's letters were chiefly descriptions of
her children.
There was much soreness in the Moss family respecting
Violet, and two opinions with regard to her; some inclining
to believe her a fine lady, Avilling to discard her kindred j others
thinking her not a free agent, but tyrannized over by Miss
Martindale, and neglected by her husband. So Annette, who
had pined and drooped under the loss of the twin-like com¬
panionship of her sister, was sent out as on an adventure, in
much trepidation and mysterious dread of Captain Martindale,
by no means consistent with the easy good nature of his days
of courtship. And thus her first letter was written and received
with such feelings as attend that of an explorer of a new
country.
* Cadogan- place, August 19 th.
* Well, dearest mamma, I am writing from Violet's House.
Yes, she is her own sweet self, our precious flower still—no¬
body must think anything else—she is not changed one bit,
except that she is terribly pale and thin ; but she calls , herself
quite well, and says that if I had seen her when Johnny was
five weeks old, I should give her credit now. But Matilda will
say I cannot write a comprehensible letter, so I will begin
regularly.
' We slept at uncle Christopher's, and after an early breakfast
walked here. The man did not think his mistress could see
any one, but when he heard who we were, showed us to the
drawing-room, and there was Violet, quite alone, breakfasting
by herself, for he is gone to Scotland 1 Poor dear girl 1 When
she saw ns, she gave a little scream, and flew up to me, clinging
round my neck, and sobbing as she did on her wedding day;
it was as if the two years were nothing. However, in a moment,
886
HEAETSEASE;
she composed herselJ^ and said it was silly, but there was still a
sob in her throat, and she was shy and constrained as she used
to be with papa, in old times. She says she would not tell us
Captain Martindale was going to Scotland, because of not tan¬
talising us with his passing so near, but I fear it is that she
will not confess how often she is left alone. I am so glad we
are come, now he is out of the way. She has asked us to stay
while papa has to be in London, and I shall, but papa finds it
more convenient to sleep at uncle Christopher's. If we are not
here oftener, I am sure it is no fault of hers; and her husband
cannot be displeased with this little visit—at least he ought
not. She sent for the children; the babe was asleep, but
Johnnie came, and oh ! how curious it seemed to hear the voice
calling her mamma, and see the little creature holding out his
arms to go to her I felt, indeed, how long we have been
apart—it was our own Violet, and yet some one else. You
would have been amused to see how altered she was by having
her son in her arms ; how the little morsel seemed to give her
confidence, and the shy stifihess went away, and she looked so
proud and fond, and smiled and spoke with ease. There was
the dear little fair fellow standing on her lap, leaning against
her shoulder, with his arm round her neck, hiding his face
when I looked at him too much. She said he was puzzled not
to see the aunt he knew, and how I grudged his knowing any
aunt better than me ! They do look lovely together, and so
much alike; but I could cry to see them both so white and
wan; not a shade of her pretty colour on her cheek, and the
little darling so very tiny and weak, though he is as clever as
possible, and understands all you say to him. If I had but got
them both in our fresh north countree !
' Papa could not stay, and as soon as he was gone, she set her
boy down on the sofa, and threw her arms round my neck, and
we were like wild things—^we kissed, and screamed, and laughed,
and cried, till poor Johnnie was quite frightened. * Now, An¬
nette, come and see,* said Violet, and took me upsWrs to the
nursery, and there half waking, under the archway of her
cradle, lay, like a little queen, that beautiful creature, Helen,
opening her black eyes just as we came up, and moving her
round arms. How I longed for mamma to see her, and to see
Violet's perfect look of happiness as she lifted her out and said,
*Now, is not she worth seeing?' and then Sarah came up.
Violet says Sarah threatened to go away, when there were two
to be always racketing, but when it came to the point, could
not leave Johnnie, whom she keeps in great order, and treats
with much ceremony, always calling him Master John. She
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIPE.
837
believes Sarah disapproves of poor Helen altogether, as an in¬
truder upon Johnnie's comfort; and she is quite savage at ad¬
miration of her, as if it was a slight on him; but she has turned
out an admirable nurse, in her own queer way. Such a morning
as we have had, chattering so fast! all about you all. I am
sure she loves us as much as ever, and I do not believe she is
unhappy. She talks of her husband as if they were happy, and
he has given her such quantities of pretty things, and I hear of
so much that seems as if she was on comfortable terms with
them all. I am satisfied about her, pray be so too, dear
mamma.
* I am writing while waiting for her to drive to fetch my
things from uncle Christopher's—She tells me to finish with¬
out minding her visitor—I was interrupted by Sarah's bringing
Johnnie down, and he was very good with me, but presently
a gentleman was announced, without my catching his name. I
feared Johnnie would cry, but he sprang with delight, and the
stranger saying, ' Ha! master, you recollect me V took him in
his arms. I said my sister would come directly, and he gave a
good-natured nod, and muttered half to himself, * Oh ! another
of the genus Viola. I am glad of it.' I cannot make him
out; he must be a relation, or one of the other ofldcers. Violet
did not know he was there, and came in with the baby in her
arms; he stepped towards her, saying, *So you have set up
another! Man or woman V and then asked if she was another
flower. Violet coloured, as she spoke low, and said, 'Her
name is Helen.* I must ask Violet the meaning, for he looked
gravely pleased, and answered gratefully, ' That is very good of
you.' ' I hope she will deserve it,' Violet said, and was intro¬
ducing me, but he said Johnnie had done him that honour. He
has been talking of Captain Martindale (calling him Arthur),
and telling curious things he has seen in Ireland. He is very
amusing, bluff, and odd. but as if he was a distinguished per¬
son. Now I see that Violet is altered, and grown older—he
seems to have such respect for, and confidence in her; and she
BO womanly and self-possessed, entering into his clever talk as
Matilda would, yet in the simple way she always had. You
would be proud to see her now—^her manners must be perfec¬
tion, I should think; so graceful and dignified, so engaging
and quiet. I wish Louisa had seen her. What are they talking
of now 1
* Violet.—How did you find Pallas Athene)
' J7n7cnown.—^Ala,3, poor Pallas 1 With the judgment of the
cockney who buttered his horse's hay, the ragged boy skinned
her mice and plucked her sparrows in my abserce. The con-
z
838
HEARTSEASE;
sequence was her untimely end. I was met by my landlady ,
with many a melancholy 'Ah, sir!' and actually the good
creature had had her stuffed.
' Violet.—Poor PaUas! then the poor hoy has lost his em¬
ployment ?
' Unknown.—Happily, his honesty and his grief so worked
upon my landlady, that she has taken him as an errand boy.
So that, in fact, Minerva may he considered to have been the
making of his fortune.
' I leave this for a riddle for the sisters. I am longing to
ask Violet who this gentleman is who seems to know all the
negroes so well. (Scratched out.) What nonsense I have
written! I was listening to some letters they were reading
from the Mr. Martindale in the West Indies. Violet tells me to
finish with her dearest love.
'Your most affectionate,
'A. Moss.
' P.S.—He will come to-morrow to take us to a private view
of the Poyal Academy, before the pictures are removed.*
The same post carried a letter from Violet to her husband,
communicating the arrival of her guests, and telling him she
knew that he could not wish her not to have Annette with her
for these few days, and that it did make her very happy.
Having done this, she dismissed doubts, and, with a clear
conscience, gave herself up to the enjoyment of her sister's
visit, each minute of which seemed of diamond worth. Perhaps
the delights were the more intense from compression; but'it
was a precious reprieve when Arthur's answer came, rejoicing
at Violet's having a companion, and hoping that she would keep
her till his return, which he should not scruple to defer, since
she was so well provided for. He had just been deliberating
whether he could accept an invitation to the Highlands.
If the wife was less charmed than her sister, she knew that,
under any circumstances, she would have had to consent, after
the compliment had been paid of asking whether she could spare
him; and it was compensation enough that he should have
voluntarily extended her sister's visit.
Annette, formerly the leader of her younger sister^ was often
pleasantly surprised to find her little Violet become like her
elder, and that not only from situation, but in mind. With
face and figure resembling Violet's, but of a less uncommon
order, without the beauteous complexion and the natural grace,
now enhanced by living in the best society, Annette was a very
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
839
nice-looking, ladj'^-like girl, of tlie same refined tone of mind
and manners; and having had a longer space of young lady¬
hood, she had more cultivation in accomplishments and hook
knowledge, her good taste saving her from being spoilt, even
by her acquiescence in Matilda's superiority. She saw, however,
that Violet had more practical reflection, and though in many
points simple and youthful, was more of a woman than herself;
and it was with that sweet, innocent feeling, which ought not
to bear the same name as pride, that she exulted in the superi¬
ority of her beloved sister. Selfish jealousies or petty vanities
were far from her; it was like a romance to hear Violet de¬
scribe the splendours of Martindale, or the gaieties of London;
and laugh over the confession of the little perplexities as to
proprieties, and the mistakes and surprises, which she trusted
she had not betrayed.
Still Violet missed the power of fully reciprocating her
sister's confidence. Annette laid open every home interest
and thought, but Violet had no right to disclose the subjects
that had of late engrossed her, and at every turn found a
separation, something on which she must not be communi¬
cative.
The view of the Exhibition was happily performed under
Mr. Fotheringham's escort. Annette, thanks to Lord St. Erme's
gallery, had good taste in pictures; she drew well, and under¬
stood art better than her sister, who rejoiced in bringing out
lier knowledge, and hearing her converse with Percy. They
had the rooms to themselves, and Annette was anxious to
carry away the outline of one or two noted pictures. While
she was sketching, Percy wandered to another part of the
room, and stood fixedly before a picture. Violet came to see
what he was looking at. It was a fine one by Landseer of _a
tiger submitting to the hand of the keeper, with cat-like com¬
placency, but the glare of the eye and curl of the tail manifest¬
ing that its gentleness was temporary.
'It may be the grander animal,' muttered he; 'but less
satisfactory for domestic purposes.*
'What did you sayT asked Violet, thinking it addressed to
her.
'That is a presumptuous man,* he said, pointing to the
keeper. ' If he trusts in the creature's aliection, some day he
will find his mistake.'
He flung himself round, as if he had done with the subject,
and his tone startled Violet, and showed her that more was
meant than met the ear. She longed to tell him that the
creature was taming itself, but she did not dare, and he went
z 2
340
heartsease ;
back to talk to Annette, till it ended in Lis promising to come
to-morrow, to take tLem to tLe EUesmere gallery.
* That's the right style of woman,' soliloquized Percy, as he
saw the carriage drive ofiC ' Gentleness, meekness, and a dash
of good sense, is the recipe for a rational female—otherwise she
is a blunder of nature. The same stamp as her sister, I see;
nothing wanting, but air and the beauty, which, luckily for
Arthur, served for his bait.'
When he came, according to appointment, Annette was in
the drawing-room, unable to desist from touching and retouch¬
ing her copy of her nephew's likeness, though Yiolet had long
ago warned her to put it away, and to follow her up to dress.
He carried the portrait to the light. * M. Piper,' he read.
' That little woman! That mouth is in better drawing: than I
could have thought her guilty of.'
' Oh! those are Lord St. Erme's touches,' said unconscious
Annette. ' He met Miss Martindale taking it to be framed,
and he improved it wonderfully. He certainly understood the
little face, for he even wrote verses on it.'
Here Yiolet entered, and Annette had to hurry away for her
bonnet. Percy stood looking at the drawing.
' So, Johnnie has a new admirer,' he said.
Yiolet was sorry that he should hear of this; but she laughed,
and tried to make light of it.
' I hear he is in Germany.'
'Yes; with his sister and their aunt.'
'Well,' said Percy, 'it may do. There will be no collision of
wUl, and while there is one to submit, there is peace. A tigress
can be generous to a puppy dog.'
' But, indeed, I do not think it likely.'
' If she is torturing him, that is worse.*
Yiolet raised her eyes pleadingly, and said, in a low, mourn¬
ful tone: ' I do not like to hear you speak so bitterly.'
'Ho,' he said, 'it is-not bitterness. That is over. I am
thankful to have broken loose, and to be able to look back on
it calmly, as a past delusion. Great qualities ill regulated are
fearful things; and though I believe trials will in time teach
her to bring her religious principle to bear on her faults, I sec
that it was an egregious error to think that she could be led.'
He spoke quietly, but Yiolet could not divest herself of the
impression that there was more acute personal feeling than he
was aware of. In the EUesmere gaUery, he led them to that
little picture of Paul Potter's, where the pollard willows stand
up against the sunset sky, the evening sunshine gleaming on
their trunks, upon the grass, and jsilding the backs of the cows
OE. TltE BROTHERS WIFE.
while the placid old couple look on Urt the milking, the hooded
lady shading her face with her fan.
* There's my notion of felicity,* said he.
' Kather a Dutch notion,* said Violet.
'Don't despise the Dutch,* said Percy. 'Depend upon it,
that respectable retired burgomaster and his vrow never had
words, as we Brogden folk say.'
' I think you would find that very stupid,' said Violet.
' Not I,* said Percy. ' When I want to pick a quarrel, I can
get it abroad.'
' When?' said Annette, smiling.
'Yes, I like to keep my teeth and claws sharpened,' said
Percy; 'but one wants repose at home. That burgomaster is
my model.'
He continued to find sights for them, showing Violet more
lions of London than had ever come in her way. One day,
when a thunder-storm hindered their going to the Zoological
Gardens, he stayed the whole afternoon reading to them. In
the midst, Violet thought of last September's storm; she looked
up—an idea flashed upon her!
'How delightful! How well they suit! I shall have my
Annette close to me 1 They can marry at once 1 My father
will be satisfied. How happy they will be! It will be the
repose he wants. Dear Annette, what will she not be under
liis training!' The joyous impulse was to keep him to dinner;
but she had scruples about inviting him in Arthur's absence,
and therefore only threw double warmth into her farewells.
Her spirits were up to nonsense pitch, and she talked and
laughed all the evening with such merriment as Annette had
hardly ever known in her.
But when she was alone, and looked her joy in the face, she
was amazed to find how she had been forgetting Theodora,
whose affairs had lately been uppermost, Annette might be
worth a hundred Theodoras: but that did not alter right and
justice.
If Theodora was accepting the Earl! Violet knew he was
at Baden; he could not yet have been dismissed: and the sister-
in-law had proved a disappointing correspondent, her nature
being almost as averse to letter-writing as was Arthur's. Let
her marry him, and all would be well. The question, however,
really lay between Percy and Annette themselves; and Violet
thought he had made a wise discovery in preferring her gentle,
yielding sister to the former lady of his choice. Matters might
take their course; Arthur would be gratified by this testimony
to Uor iamily's perfections^ John would rejoice in whatever
842
HEAETSEASE;
»vas for his friend's real happiness; to herself, in every way, it
would be complete felicity.
Still she hesitated. She had heard of pique driving persons
to make a fresh choice, when a former attachment appeared
obliterated by indignation, only to revive too late, and to be
the misery of all parties. Percy's late words, harsh when he
fancied them indifferent, made her doubtful whether it might
not be so in his case. In his sound principle she had entire
confidence, but he might be in error as to the actual state of
his sentiments; and she knew that she should dread, for the
peace of mind of all parties, his first meeting, as her sister's
husband, with either Miss Martindale, or the Countess of
St. Erme.
She decided that Annette ought to hear the whole, so as to
act with her eyes open. If she had been engaged, she should
never have heard what was past, but she should not encourage
him while ignorant of the circumstances; and, these known,
Violet had more reliance on her judgment than on her own.
The breach of confidence being thus justified, Violet resolved,
and as they sat together late in the evening, found an oppor¬
tunity of beginning the subject. 'We used to expect a closer
connexion with him, or I should never have learnt to call him
Percy—*
* You told me about poor Mr. Martindale.'
' Yes, but this was to have been a live connexion. He was
engaged to Theodora.*
Violet was satisfied that the responding inteijection was
more surprised and curious than disappointed. She related
the main features of the story, much to Annette's indignation.
' Why, Violet, you speak as if you were fond of her!'
' That I am. If you knew how noble and how tender she
can be! So generous when most offended 1 Oh! no one can
know her without a sort of admiring love and pity.*
' I do not understand. To me she seems inexcusable.*
'Ho, no, indeed, Annette! She has had more excuse than
almost any one. It makes one grieve for her to see how the
worse nature seems to have been allowed to grow beyond her
power, and how it is like something rending her, when right
and wrong struggle together for the mastery.'
So many questions ensued, that Violet found her partial
disclosure had rendered the curtain over Martindale affairs far
less impenetrable; but she had spoken no sooner than was
needful, for the very next morning's post brought an envelope,
containing a letter for Miss Moss, and a few lines addressed to
herself:—■
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. ^ 343
*'My dear Mrs. Martijstdale,—Trust me. I have dis-
coyered my error, and have profited by my lesson. Will you
give the enclosed to your sister? I know you will act as
kindly as ever by ' Yours, &c.,
' A. P. P.'
So soon! Violet had not been prepared for this. She
gasped with wonder and suspense, as she laid the letter before
the place where Annette had been sitting, and returned to her
seat as a spectator, though far from a calm one: that warm¬
hearted note had made her wishes his earnest partisans, and all
her pulses throbbed with the desire that Annette might decide
in favour of him j but she thought it wrong to try to infiiience
her, and held her peace, though her heart leapt into her mouth
at her sister's exclamation on seeing the letter, and her cheeks
glowed when the flush darted into Annette's.
She glanced in a sort of fright over the letter, then looked
for help to Yiolet, and held it to her. ' Oh, Yiolet! do you
know?'
* Yes, I have a note myself. My darling Annette!'
Annette threw herself down by her side, and sat on the
floor, studying her face while she read the note, which thus
commenced:—
* My dear Miss Moss,—You will say that our acquaintance
is too short to warrant my thus addressing you; but your
sister knows me as well as most people; and in knowing your
sister, and seeing your resemblance to her, I know you. If
AM = YM, and YM = Wordsworth's 'spirit yet a woman
too,' then AM = the same.'
From this curious opening he proceeded to a more ordinary
and very earnest entreaty for her consent to his applying to her
father.
' Well, Yiolet!'
' How exactly like him !*
'How highly he does esteem youl' said Annette; 'but if he
thinks me like you he would find his mistake. After what
you told me—so soon! Oh, I wish it had not happened!
Yiolet, do tell me what to do.'
' I don't think any one can advise in a matter like this.'
' Oh 1 don't say so, Yiolet; you know the people, and I don't.
Pray say something.'
' He is a most excellent, admirable person,' said Yiolet, in an
unmeaning tone.
'Yes, I know that, but—'
S44
HEAETSEASE;
* Eeally, 1 think nothing hut yonr own feeling should decide.
*Ah! you did not hesitate when you were asked!' sai<l
Annette, sighing; and Yiolet at once blushed, smiled, and
sighed, as she spoke her quick conscious ' No, no 1'
' Such a romance cannot always he expected,' said Annette,
a little mournfully. 'He is everything estimable, in spite ol
his oddness. But then, this affair—so recent! Yiolet! (im¬
patiently) what do you think? what do you wish?'
'What I wish? To have my own Annette near me. For
two such people to belong to each other! Don't you know
what I like? But the question is what you wish.'
'Yes!' sighed Annette.
' I don't think you wish it much,' said Yiolet, trying to get
a view of her face.
' I don't know whether I ought to make up my mind. I
am not much inclined to anything. But I dare say it would
turn out well. I do like him very much. But Miss Mar-
tindale! Now, Yiolet, will you not tell me what you think?
Take pity on me.'
' Annette,' said Yiolet, not without effort, ' I see you have
not the feeling that would make you unhappy in giving him
up, so I may speak freely. I am afraid of it. I cannot be
certain that he is so completely cured of his old attachment as
he supposes himself to be while the anger is fresh. He is as
good as possible—quite sincere, and would never willingly pain
you, whatever he may feel. But his affection for Theodora was
of long standing; and without anyone's fault there might be
worries and vexations '
' Yes, yes,' said Annette, in a voice that re-assured her.
' I think it wiser not, and perhaps more honourable to
Theodora. Hitherto I have been wishing that it might yet be
made up again. If you had been disposed that way, I should
have been anxious,—as you seem doubtful, I fancy it would be
safer '
' O, Yiolet, I am so glad! It is a great relief to me.'
' But, you know, it is only I that say so.'
'Better you than a hundred! My doubt was this. You
know there are a great many of us, and papa wants to see us
well married. He has talked more about it since you went.
Now this is not romantic; but I was considering whether, for
the sake of the rest, I ought not to try whether I could like him.
But what you have said sets me quite at ease in refusing him.'
' Poor Percy!' said Yiolet. ' I am afraid he will be vexed.'
' And it is a great compliment, though that is to ^oii. Jl.o
takes me on trust from yon.'
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
. 345
' And he took me on trust from John/ said Violet. * I wish
he had known you before Theodora.'
' I only hope papa will never hear of it/ said Annette, shrink¬
ing. ' How fortunate that he was not here. I shall tell no
one at home.'
' If it had not been for Theodora,' sighed Violet, ' I know
nothing that would have been more delightful. It was too
- charming to come true!'
' Violet/ said Annette, with her face averted, ' don't be
sorry, for I could not have been glad of it now; though for
their sakes I might have tried to work myself into the feeling.
I cannot help telling you, though you will think it more
wrong in me, for I shall never see him again, and he never said
anything.'
' I know whom you mean,' whispered Violet, rightly divining
It was Mr. Fanshawe.
* Don't call it anything,' said Annette, with her head droop¬
ing. *I would not have told even you, but to console you
about this. Nothing ever passed, and I was silly to dwell on
the little things they laughed at me about; but I cannot help
thiuking that if he had seen any prospect '
' I wonder if John could ' Violet checked herself.
' O, don't say anything about it!' cried Annette, frightened.,
' It may be only my foolish fancy—but I cannot get it out of
my mind. You see I have no one to talk over things with
now you are gone. I have lost my pair in you, so I am
solitary among them; and perhaps that has made me think of
it the more.'
* Dearest! But still I think you ought to try to draw away
your mind from it.'
* You do not think I ought to try to like Mr. Fotlier-
ingham?'
* Indeed, under present circumstances, I could not wish that.'
* But do you think me very wrong for considering whether
I could? I hope not, dear Violet,' said Annette, who shared
her sister's scrupulous, self-distrustful character, and had
not, like her, been taught, by stem necessity, to judge for
herself.
*No, indeed/ said Violet; *but, since that is settled, he
ought to know it at once, and not to be kept in suspense.'
It was not till after much affectionate exhortation that
Violet could rouse her sister from talking rather piteously
over the perplexity it would have been if his case or hers had
been otherwise, arguing to excuse herself in her own eyes for
the notioii of the marriage for expediency, and describing the
316
HEARTSEASE;
displeasure that the knowledge of the rejection would produce
at home. It was the first time she had had to act for herself,
and either she could not resolve to begin, or liked to feel its
importance. Perhaps she was right in saying that Mr. Pother-
ingham would be disappointed if he supposed her Violet's equal;
for though alike in lowliness, amiability, and good sense, she
had not the same energy and decision.
At last the letter was begun, in the style of Matilda and
the Oolite Letter Writer combined, though the meek-spirited
Annette peeped through in the connecting links of the set
phrases. Violet, who was appealed to at every stage, would
fain have substituted the simple words in which Annette .
spoke her meaning; but her sister was shocked. Such ordi¬
nary language did not befit the dignity of the occasion nor
Matilda's pupil; and Violet, as much over-ruled as ever by
respect for her elder sisters, thought it an admirable composition.
*May I see yours?' asked Annette, resting before making
her fair copy.
' And welcome, but it is not worthy of yours.'
''My dear Mr. Potheringham,—I wish with all mj-
heart it could be—I am very sorry it must not. Pray say
nothing to my father: it would only put her to needless pain.
I beg your pardon for not being able to do anything for you.
You know how glad I should have been if I had not been
obliged to perceive that it would not be really right or kind to
either. Only do let me thank you for liking my dear sister,
and forgive us if you are grieved. I am very, very sorry.
' * Yours, very sincerely,
*' V. H. Martindale.' '
Annette raised her eyes in surprise. ' Ah 1' said Violet, ' it
is of no use for me to try to write like Matilda. I did once,
but I am not clever enough; it looked so silly and affected, that
I have been ashamed to remember it ever since. I must write
in the only way I can.'
Her sister wanted to tear up her letter as a piece of affecta¬
tion, but this she would not allow. It made her feel despairing
to think of spending two hours more over it, and she hoped that
she would be satisfied with the argument that the familiar style
employed by Mrs. Martindale towards an old friend might not
be suited to Annette Moss when rejecting his suit.
Each sentence underwent a revision, till Violet, growing as
impatient as was in her nature, told her at last that he would
think more of the substance than of the form.
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
347
Next, she had to contend against Annette's longing to flee
home at once, by Theodora's own saying, * London was wide
enough for both;' and more effectually by suggesting that a
sudden departure would be the best means of proclaiming the
adventure. It was true enough that Mr. Fotheringham was
not likely to molest her. No more was heard of him, till, two
days after, the owl's provider brought a parcel with a message,
that Mr. Fotheringham had given up his lodging and was going
to Paris. It contained some books and papers of John's, poor .
little Pallas Athene herself, stuffed, and directed to Master J.
Martindale, and a book in which, under his sister's name, he
had written that of little Helen. Violet knew he had intended
making some residence at Paris, to be near the public libraries,
and she understood this as a kind, forgiving farewell. She
could understand his mortification, that he, after casting off the
magnificent Miss Martindale, should be rejected by this little
humble country girl; and she could not help thinking herself
ungrateful, so that the owl, which she kept in the drawing-room,
as the object of Johnnie's tender strokings, always seemed to
have a reproachful expression in its round glass eyes.
The hope of seeing the expediency of her decision waxed
fainter, when she received the unexpected honour of a letter
from Lord Martindale, who, writing to entrust her with some
commission for John, added some news. ' I have had the great
pleasure of meeting with my cousin, Hugh Martindale,' he said;
* who, since the death of his wife, has so overworked himself in
his large town parish, as to injure his eyesight, and has been
ordered abroad for his health. It does not appear that he will
ever be fit to return to his work at Fieldingsby, and I am in
hopes of effecting an exchange which may fix him at Brogden
in the stead of Mr. Wingfield. When you are of my age, you
will understand the pleasure I have in returning to old times.
Theodora has likewise been much with him, and I trust may be
benefited by his advice. At present she has not made up her
mind to give any definite answer to Lord St. Erme, and since I
believe she hesitates from conscientious motives, I am the less
inclined to press her, as I think the result will be in his favour.
I find him improve on acquaintance. I am fully satisfied with
his principles and temper, he has extensive information, and
might easily become a valuable member of society. His sister.
Lady Lucy, spends much of her time with us, and appears to be
an amiable pleasing girl.'
Lord Martindale evidently wished it to be forgotten that he
had called Lord St. Erme absurd-looking.
Violet sighed, and tried to counterbalance her regrets by
348
HEARTSEASE ;
hopes that John would have it in his power to patronize his
chaplain. However, these second-hand cares did not hinder her
from thriving and prospering so, that she triumphed in {he
hopes of confuting the threat that she would not recover in
London, and she gloried in the looks with which she should
meet Arthur. A dozen times a day she told her little ones that
papa was coming home, till Johnnie leamt to repeat it; and
then she listened in ecstasy as the news took a fresh charm from
his lips.
She went to meet Arthur at the station; hut instead of
complimenting her on the renewed carnation of her cheeks, as
perhaps, in her pretty conjugal vanity, she had expected, when
she had taken such pains with her pink ribbons, he gazed
straight before him, and presently said, abruptly, * Is your sister
heref
Had she been displeasing him the whole time? She crJy
breathed a faint * Yes.'
' Is Fotheringham in town?'
' N"o; he is gone to Paris.'
* Then it is humbug, as I thought. I met that precious Miss
Gardner in the train going to Worthbourne, and she would
have me believe you were getting up a match between those
two? A fine story,—not a year since he proposed to Theodora!
There was she congratulating me on the satisfaction it must be
to Mrs. Martindalel'
' So she wanted to make mischief between us,' said Violet,
much hurt.
' Mischief is meat and drink to her. But not a jot did I
believe, I tell you, silly child. You are not wasting tears on
that crocodile tongue! I had a mind to tell her to her face
that Percy is made of different stuff; and for my own Violet
blossom—'
The tears dropped bright and happy. ' Though, dear Arthur,
it was true, as far as Percy was concerned. Annette has had
to refuse him.'
'A wise girll' exclaimed Arthur, in indignant surprise.
* But Percy 1 I could not have believed it. Why would she
not have Mm?'
* Chiefly from thinking it not right to accept him. I hope 1
did not do wrong in telling her all about it. I thought it only
fair, and she did not care enough for him to make the refusal
an effort.'
' I should think not! The fickle dog. To go and take up
with—No disrespect to Annette,—but after Theodora I
soon, too 1'
ok the brother's wipe.
349
* I fancied it more pique than inconstancy. There is so much
anger about him that I suspect there is more affection than he
knows.'
* And you think that mends matters,' said Arthur, laughing.
* Well, I hope Theodora will marry St. Erme at once, so as to
serve him right. I am sure she will if she hears of this.'
' And I am afraid Miss Gardner will write to her.'
* That she will, with nice histories of you and me and Annette.
And she will tell them at Worthhourne till old Sir Antony
disinherits Percy. No more than he deserves!'
She might well he glad of the part she had taken, now that
she found her husband so much more alive to the affront to his
sister than she had expected. He was in high good humour,
and talked merrily of his expedition, proceeding even to such a
stretch of solicitude as to say he supposed ' the brats were all
right, as he had heard nothing of them.'
His greeting to Annette was warm and cordial; he compli¬
mented her on her sister's recovered looks, and tried to extort a
declaration that she looked just like what she had been when
he took her from W ranger ton. Annette peeped out under her
eyelashes, smiled, and shook her head timidly.
*Ha! What's your treason. Miss Annette? Does not she
look as well as ever?'
'Better, in some ways,' said Annette, looking at Violet,
glowing and smiling, with her husband's hand on her shoulder.
* And what in others?'
' I like to look at her better than ever, but I cannot say she
is not paler and thinner.'
'Yes, and sober and matronly. That I am!' said Violet,
drawing herself up. ' I must stand on my dignity now I have
two children. Don't I look old and wise, Annette?'
' Not a bit now,' said Annette.
There was an end of Annette's doubt and dread of h(3 p grand
brother-in-law. He talked and laughed, took her on pleasant
expeditions, and made much of her with all his ready good
nature, till her heart was quite won. She did not leave them
till just as they were departing for Windsor, and as she looked
back from her railway carriage, at Violet and her husband, arm-
in-arm, she sighed a sigh on her own account, repented of as
soon as heaved, as she contrasted her own imsatisfactory home
with their happiness.
But the heart knoweth its own bitterness, and Annette little
guessed at the grief that lurked in the secret springs of her
sister's joy, increasing with her onward growth in the spirit that
brought her sure trust and peace. It was the want of fellow-
350
HEARTSEASE; '
ship -with her husband, in her true and hidden life. She could
not seek counsel or comfort from above, she could not offer
prayer or thanksgiving, she could not join in the highest Feast,
without finding herself left alone, in a region whither he would
not follow. It was a weariness to him. In the spring she had
had hopes. At Easter, an imploring face, and timid * Wont
you comel' had made him smile, and say he was not so good as
she, then sigh, and half promise, ' Next time, when he had con¬
sidered.' But next time, he had had no leisure for thinking;
she should do as she liked with him when they got into the
country. And since that, some influence that she could not
trace, seemed, as she knew by the intuition of her heart, rather
than the acknowledgment of her mind, to have turned him
away; the distaste and indifference were more evident, and he
never gave her an opening for leading to any serious subject. It
was this that gave pain even to her prayers, and added an acuter
pang to every secret anxiety.
' When his children are older, and he feels that they look up
to him,* thought Violet, hopefully, and in the meantime she
prayed.
Not so, bold knight, no deed of thine
Can ever win my hand;
That hope, poor youth, thou must resign,
For barriers 'twixt us stand.
Yet what doth part us I will now reveal,
Nor^jioblest one, from thee the truth conceal.
BTHUR guessed rightly. Miss Gardner's first leisure was
spent in writing her tidings to Theodora.
It was on a strange state of mind that they fell. Theodora
had gone abroad, softened and conscious of her faults, but her
indomitable will boiling up at each attempt to conquer them;
knowing that her fate hung in the balance, but helpless in the
power of her own pride and temper. Miserable, and expecting
to be more wretched, her outward demeanour, no longer checked
by Violet, was more than ever harsh, capricious, and undutiful,
especially under her presenb deprivation of the occupations that
had hitherto been channels of kindly feeling.
She was less patient than formerly with her aunt, who was
in truth more trying. Quickly gathering the state of affairs
with regard to Lord St. Erme, she was very angry with Lord
Maitindale for not having consulted her, and at the same time
CHAPTER XXIIT.
fouqub.
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
351
caressed her great-niece beyond endurance. Besides, it was
unbearable to hear sweet Violet scoffed at. Theodora spoke
hastily in her defence; was laughed at for having been gained
over; replied vehemently; and then repented of losing temper,
with one so asred and infirm. Her attention to Mrs. Hesbit
had been one of her grounds of self-complacency; but this had
now failed her—distance was the only means of keeping the
peace, and Theodora left her chiefly to her companion, Mrs.
Garth, a hard-looking, military dame, who seemed so well able
to take care of herself, that there was none of the compassion
that had caused Theodora to relieve poor little Miss Piper.
It was not long before Lord St. Erme persuaded his aunt
that her tour in Germany would not be complete without a
visit to Baden-Baden. Mrs. Delaval and Lady Martindale
immediately began to be as intimate as was possible with the
latter. Theodora intended to stand aloo^ and to be guarded
and scornful; but Lady Lucy was such an engaging, affectionate,
honest-hearted little thing, regarding Miss Martindale with all
her brother's enthusiastic devotion, and so grateful for the
slightest notice, that it really was impossible to treat her with
the requisite cold dignity.
And to admit Lady Lucy to her friendship was much the
same thing as admitting the brother. ' St. Erme' was the one
engrossing subject of the young girl's thoughts and discourse,
and it was soon plain that not a conversation passed but was
reported to him. If Theodora expressed an opinion, ' St.
Erme's' remarks on it were certain to be brought to her the
next day; if a liking or a wish, he was instantly taking measures
for its gratification. She might try to keep him at a distance,
but where was the use of it when, if his moustached self was
safely poetizing in the Black Forest, his double in blue muslin
was ever at her elbow?
By and bye it was no longer a moustached self. The orna¬
ments were shaved off, and she heartily wished them on again.
What could be said when Lucy timidly begged to know how
she liked the change in St. Erme's face, and whether she shared
her regrets for his dear little moustache? Alas! such a sacri¬
fice gave him a claim, and she felt as if each departed hair was
a mesh in the net to ensnare her liberty.
And what could she say when Lucy would talk over his
poems, and try to obtain her sympathy in the matter of that
cruel review which had cut the poor little sister to the heart?
It had been so sore a subject in London, that she could not then
bear to speak of it; and now, treating it like a personal attack
on his character, she told how ' beautifully St. Erme bore it.
85^
HEARTSEASE;
and wanted Miss Martindale to say how unjust and shocking it
was. Yet Miss Martindale actually, with a look incomprehen¬
sible to poor Lucy, declared that there was a great deal of
truth in it.
However, in process of time, Lucy came back reporting that
her brother thought so too, and that he had gathered many
useful hints from it; but that he did not mean to attend to
poetry so much, he thought it time to begin practical life; and
she eagerly related his schemes for being useful and distinguish¬
ing himself.
It was not easy to help replying and commenting on, or
laughing at, plans which showed complete ignorance of English
life, and then Theodora found herself drawn into discussions
with Lord St. Erme himself, who took her suggestions, and
built his projects with a reference to her, as his understood
, directress and assistant; till she grew quite frightened at what
she had let him take for granted, and treated him with a fresh
fit of coldness and indifference, soon thawed by his sister. She
could not make up her mind to the huiniliating confession by
which alone she could have dismissed him, and the dominion
she should enjoy with him appeared more and more tempting
as she learnt to know him better, and viewed him as a means
of escape from her present life. If it had not been for recollec¬
tions of Violet, she would have precipitated the step, in order
to end her suspense, but that perfect trust that she would not
accept him unless she could do so vath a clear conscience always
held her back.
It was at this juncture that, one day when walking with her
father, there was a sudden stop at the sight of another elderly
gentleman. *Ha! Hugh!' *What, you here, Martindale!'
v/ere mutually exclaimed, there was an ardent shaking of hands,
and she found herself introduced to a cousin, whom she had not
seen since she was a child.
He and her father had been like brothers in their boyhood,
but the lines they had since taken had diverged far and wide.
The hard-working clergyman had found himself out of his
element in visits to Martindale, had discontinued them, and
almost even his correspondence, so that Lord Martindale had
heard nothing of his cousin since his wife's death, two years ago,
till now, when he met him on the promenade at Baden, sent
abroad to recruit his worn-out health and eye-sight.
All have either felt or beheld, how two such relations, on
the verge ol old age, meet and refresh themselves with looking
back, beyond the tract of middle life, to the days shared
together in youth! Lord Martindale had not looked so bright,
0% TTI3 BR0TII_3R'S WITE. .
Gor talked and laughed so much for years, as over his boyish
reminiscences, and his wanderings up and down the pro -
menade with his cousin seemed as if nothing could terminate
them.
Clergymen and school-loving young ladies have a natural
affinity, and Theodora found a refuge from the Delavals and an
opportunity for usefulness. She offered to read to cousin
Hugh, she talked over parish matters, and after relieving her
mind with a conversation on the question of how much the
march of intellect ought to penetrate into country schools, it-
was wonderful how much more equable and comfortable she
became. The return to the true bent of her nature softened
her on every side; and without the least attempt to show off,
she was so free from the morose dignity with which she had
treated her own family since going abroad, that Mr. Hugh,
Martindale could hardly believe the account of her strange
ungovernable character, as it was laid before him by her father,
in his wish for counsel.
He watched her anxiously, but made no attempt to force her
confidence, and let her talk to him of books, school discipline,
parish stories, and abstruse questions as much as she pleased,
always replying in a practical, sobering tone, that told upon
her, and soothed her almost like Violet's mild influence; and to
her great delight, she made him quite believe in Violet's good¬
ness, and wish to be acquainted with her.
But all the time. Lord St. Erme was treated as her acknow¬
ledged suitor. Perhaps Mr. Martindale thought it might be
better if she were safely married; or, at any rate, only knowing
her personally as a high-minded person of much serious thought,
he believed her to be conscientiously waiting to overcome all
doubts, and honoured her scruples: while it might be, that the
desire for his good opinion bound Theodora the more to Lord
St. Erme, for with all her sincerity, she could not bear the
idea of his discovering the part she was playing, at the very
time she was holding such conversations on serious subjects.
The true history of her present conduct was that she could not
endure to be known as the rejected and forsaken of Mr.
Eotheringham, and thus, though outwardly tamer, she was more
melancholy at heart, fast falling into a state of duU resignation;
if such a name can be applied to mere endurance of the con¬
sequences of her own jJride and self-will.
bTow came Jane Gardner's letter. Theodora read it through,
then with calm contempt, she tore it up, lighted a taper, and
burnt it to ashes.
* There, Jane I' said she, as it shrivelled, black and crackling,
A A .
354
HEARTSEASE;
* there is all the heed I take. "Violet would no more allow me
to be supplanted than Percy could be inconstant.'
-Inconstant! "Where was her right so to term him? Was
he not released, not merely by the cold ' Very well,' which
seemed to blister her lips in the remembrance, but by her
whole subsequent course? That thought came like the stroke
of a knife, and she stood motionless and stunned. Love of
Percival Fotheringham was a part of herself! Certain from
her confidence in Violet that Jane's news was untrue, the only
effect of hearing it was to reveal to her like a flash that her
whole heart was his. He had loved her in spite of her faults.
Suppose he should do so still! Her spirits leapt up at this
glimpse of forfeited unattainable joy; but she beheld a forlorn
hope. At least she would restore herself to a condition in which
she might meet him without despairing shame. The impulse
was given, and eager to obey it, while it still buoyed her above
the dislike to self-abasement, she looked round for the speediest
measure, caring little what it might be.
Her father was reading his letters in the next room, when,
with flushed cheek, and voice striving for firmness, she stood
before him, saying, ' It is time to put an end to this. Will you
let Lord St. Erme know that it cannot be?'
'Now, Theodora!' exclaimed the much astonished Lord Mar-
tindale, ' what is the meaning of this ?'
'It cannot be,' repeated Theodora. 'It must be put a
stop to.*
'What has happened? Have you heard anything to change
your mind?'
' My mind is not changed, but I cannot have this going on.'
'How is this? You have been encouraging him all this
time, letting him come here—^
' I never asked him to come here,' said Theodora, temper
coming in, as usual.
' Theodora! Theodora! did I not intreat you to tell me what
you wished, when I first heard of this in London ? Could I get
a reasonable answer from you?'
Theodora was silent.
' Do you know what the world thinks of young ladies who go
on in this manner?'
' Let it think as it may, I cannot accept him, and you must
tell him so, papa—^
'No, indeed. I will not be responsible for such usage! It
must be your own doing,' said Lord Martindalc, thoroughly dis¬
pleased. ' I should be ashamed to look him in the face!'
Theodora turned to leave the room.
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
355
* What are you going to do]' asked her father.
* I am going to write to Lord St. Erme.*
* Come hack, Theodora. I must know that you are not going
to carry further this ill-usage of a most excellent man, more
sincerely attached to you than you deserve. I insist on knowing
what you intend to say to him.'
To insist was not the way to succeed with Theodora.
' I do not exactly know,' said she.
* I wish I knew what to do with yo:3!' sighed Lord Martin-
dale, in anger, grief, and perplexity. 'You seem to think that
people's affections are made to serve for your vanity and sport,
and when you have tormented them long enough, you cast
them off!'
Theodora drew her head up higher, and swelled at the
injustice. It was at that moment that Lord St. Erme entered
the room. She went forward to meet him, and spoke at once.
' I am glad you are here,' said she, proudly pleased that her
father should see her vindication from the charge of trifling.
' You are come to hear what I had been desiring my father to
tell you. I have used you very ill, and it is time to put a stop
to it.'
Lord St. Erme looked from her to her father in wonder and
dismay.
'Eirst understand,' said Lord Martindale, 'that this is no
doing of mine; I am heartily grieved, but I will leave you.
Perhaps you may prevail on this wilful girl
Theodora began a protest, and desired him to remain; but
he would not, and she found herself alone with her bewildered
lover.
'What is this? what have I done]' he began.
' You have done nothing,' said she. ' It is all my own fault.
The truth will be a cure for your regrets, and I owe you
an explanation. I was engaged to one whom I had known
from childhood; but we disputed—^my temper was headstrong.
He rejected me, and I thought I scorned him, and we parted.
You came in my way while I was angry, before I knew that I
can never lose my feelings towards him. I know I have seemed
to trifle with you; but false shame hindered me from confessing
how matters really stood. You ought to rejoice in being freed
from such as I am.*
' But with time!' exclaimed Lord St. Erme, in broken words.
' May I not hope that time and earnest endeavours—]'
' Hope nothing,* said Theodora. ' Every one would tell you
you have had a happy escape.*
And is this all] My inspiration 1—-you who were awakening
A A 2
856
HEARTSEASE;
me to a sense of the greatness of real life—^you who would have
led me and aided me to a nobler course—^
' That is open to you, without the evils I should have entailed
on you. I could never have returned your feelings, and it would
have been misery for both. You will see it, when you come to
your senses, and rejoice.'
' Kejoice I If you knew how the thought of you is entwined
in, every aspiration, and for life.'
' Do not talk so,' said Theodora. ' It only grieves me to see
the pain I have given 1 but it would be worse not to break off
at once.'
*Must it be sol' said he, lingering before his fleeting vision.
' It must. The kindest thing by both of us is to cut this as
short as possible.'
' In that, as in all else, I obey. I know that a vain loiterer,
like myself, had little right to hope for notice from one whose
mind was bent on the noblest tasks of mankind. You have
opened new views to me, and I had dared to hope you would
guide me in them; but with you or without you, my life shall
be spent in them.'
* That will be some consolation for the way I have treated
you,' said Theodora.
His face lighted up. * My better angel 1' he said, ' I will be
content to toil as the knights of old, hopelessly, save that if
you hear of me no longer as the idle amateur, but as exerting
myself for something serviceable, you will know it is for your
sake.'
'It had better be for something else,' said Theodora, im¬
patiently. 'Do not think of me, nor delude yourself with
imagining you can win me by any probation.'
' I may earn your approval—*
'You will earn every one's,' she interrupted. 'Put mine out
of your head. Think of life and duty, and their reward, as they
1 eally are; and they will inspirit you better than any empty
dream of me.'
' It is vain to tell me so!' said the Earl, looking at her
glancing eye and earnest countenance. 'You will ever seem to
beckon me forwards.'
' Something better will beckon you by and by, if you will
only begin. Life is horrid work—only endurable by looking
after other people, and so you will find it. How, let us have
done with this. Wish your sister good bye for me, and tell her
that I beg her to forgive me for the pain I have given you. I
am glad you have her. She will make you happy—I have only
OK, THE brother'S WIFE. S57
tormented those 1 loved best j so you are better off with her.
Good bye. Shake hands, to show that you forgive ma*
' I will not harass you by pertinacity,' said poor Lord St.
Erme, submissively. ' It has been a happy dream while I was
bold enough to indulge in it. Farewell to it, though not, I
tnist, to its effects.*
Lingering as he held her hand, he let it go; then, returning
to the grasp, bent and kissed it; turned away, as if alarmed at
his own presumption, and hastened from the room.
She flung herself into her father's chair to consider of seeing
Lady Lucy, of writing to Yiolet, of breaking the tidings to her
aunt, of speaking to her cousin Hugh; but no connected
reflection could be summoned up—nothing but visions of an
Athenian owl, and green cotton umbrella.
At length the sound of the opening door made her start
up.
'Have I interrupted you?' asked her cousin. 'I thought 1
should find your father here.'
' I do not know where he is,' said Theodora. ' Can I do
anything for you ? Oh ! I beg your pardon; I had forgotten
it was time to read to you.'
' You know I always hoped that you would not make it a
burden.'
' If you knew the relief it is to be of any sort of use,' returned
she; hastily setting his chair, and fetching the books.
Perhaps her attention wandered while she read, for they had
hardly finished before she looked up and said, ' That always
puts me in mind of Arthur's wife. The ornament of a meek and
quiet spirit is so entirely her adorning—^her beauty only an
accessory.'
^ Yes; I wish I knew her,' said Mr. Martindale.
' Oh 1 how I wish she was here 1' sighed Theodora.
' For any speeial reason ?'
'Yes; I want her to soften and help me. She seems to
draw and smooth away the evil, and to keep me from myself.
Nothing is so dreary where she is.'
' I should not have expected to hear you, at your age, and
with your prospects, ti.\k of dreariness.'
'That is all over,' said Theodora. 'I have told him that it
cannot be. I am glad, for one reason, that I shall not seem to
deceive you any more. Has papa told you what he thinks my
history V
' He has told me of your previous—affair,^
♦ I wpudcr wjiat is his view ?'
S58
HEARTSEASE ;
^His view is one of deep regret; lie thinks your temjjors
were incompatible.*
Theodora laughed. ' He has a sort of termagant notion of me.'
* I am afraid you do no justice to your father's affection and
anxiety.'
* It is he who does me no justice,' said Theodora.
' Indeed, I do not think that can be your sister's teaching,'
said Mr. Martindale.
* I wish she was here 1' said Theodora, again. * But now you
have heard my father's story, you shall hear mine;' and with
tolerable fairness, she related the history of the last few months.
The clergyman was much interested in the narrative of this
Jiigh-toned mind,—* like sweet bells jangled,' and listened with
earnest and sorrowful attention. There was comfort in the
out-pouring; and as she spoke, the better spirit so far prevailed,
that she increasingly took more blame to herself, and threw less
on others. She closed her confession by saying, 'You see, I
may well speak of dreariness.'
'Of dreariness for the present,' was the answer; 'but of
hope. You put me in mind of some vision which I have read
of, where safety and peace were to be attained by bowing to
the dust, to creep beneath a gateway, the entrance to the
glorious place. You seem to me in the way of learning tliat
lesson.'
' I have bent to make the avowal I thought I never could
have spoken,' said Theodora.
' And there is my hope of you. How for the next step.'
' The next! what is it f
' Thankfully and meekly to accept the consequences of these
sad errors.'
' You mean this lonely, unsatisfactory life ?'
' And this displeasure of your father.'
' But, indeed, he misjudges me.'
' Have you ever given him the means of forming a different
judgment f
' He has seen all. If I am distrusted, I cannot descend to
justify myself.'
'I am disappointed in you, Theodora. Where is your
humility V
With these words Mr. Martindale quitted her. He had
divined that her feelings would work more when left to them¬
selves, than when pressed, and so it proved.
The witness within her spoke more clearly, and dislike and
loathing of her proceedings during the last year grew more
strongly upon her. The sense of her faults had been latent in
OE,. THE BROTHER^S WIFE. ' 359
her mind for months past, but the struggle of her external Kfe
had kept it down, until now it came forth with an overpower¬
ing force of grief and self-condemnation. It was not merely her
sins against Mr. Fotheringham and Lord St. Erme that op¬
pressed her, it was the perception of the wilful and rebellious
life she had led, while making so high a profession.
Silently and sadly she wore through the rest of the day, un¬
molested by any remark from the rest of the family, but ab¬
sorbed in her own thoughts, and the night passed in acute
mental distress; with longings after Yiolet to soothe her, and
to open to her hopes of the good and right way of peace.
With morning light came the recollection that, after all, Yiolet
would rejoice in what she had just done. Yiolet would call it a
step in the right direction; and she had promised her further
help from above and within, when once she should have had
patience to take the right move, even in darkness. ' She told
me, if I put my trust aright, and tried to act in obedience, I
should find a guide !'
And, worn out and wearied with the tossings of her mind,
Theodora resolved to have recourse to the kind clergyman who
had listened to her confidence. Perhaps he was the guide who
would aid her to conquer the serpents that had worked her so ,
much misery; and, after so much self-will, she felt that there
would be rest in submitting to direction.
She sought him out, and joined his early walk.
* Help me,* she said; ' I repent, indeed I do. Teach me to
begin afresh, and to be what I ought. I would do anything.'
' Anything that is not required of you, Theodora, or anything
that is V
* Whatever you or Yiolet required of me,' said she, ' that I
would do readily and gladly, cost me what it might.'
* It is not for me to require anything,' said Mr. Martindale.
* What I advise you is to test the sincerity of your repentance
by humbling yourself to ask your father's forgiveness.'
He watched her face anxiously, for his hopes of her almost
might be said to depend upon this. It was one of those efforts
which she made with apparent calmness. ' You and Yiolet ask
the same thing,' she said; ' I will.'
' I am glad to hear you say this. I could not think you going
on right while you denied him the full explanation of your
conduct.'
' Did you mean that I should tell him all V exclaimed
Theodora.
' It would be a great relief to his mind. Few fathers would -
have left you such complete liberty of action, consented to your
360
HEARTSEASE;
engagement, and then acted so Tdndly and cantiously-in not
forcing on you this, for which he had begun to wish ardently.
You have grieved him extremely, and you owe it to hiTn to
show that this has not all been caprice.'
' I have promised,' repeated Theodora.
' Your second effort,' said Mr. Martindale, encouragingly.
They were nearly opposite an hotel, where a carriage was
being packed. Theodora turned, he understood her, and they
walked back; but before they could quit the main road, the
travellers rolled past them. Lord St. Erme bowed. Theodora
did not look up; but when past asked if any one 'was with him.
' Yes; his sister.'
' I am glad of it,' said Theodora. * She is an excellent little
thing, the very reverse of me.'
"Without failure of resolution, Theodora returned to break"
fast, her mind made up to the effort, which was more consider¬
able than can be appreciated, without remembering her distaste
to all that bore the semblance of authority, and the species of ^
proud reserve that had prevented her from avowing to her
father her sentiments respecting Mr. Eotheringham, even in the
first days of their engagement; and she was honest enough to
feel that the manner, as well as the subject of conversation,
must show the sincerity of her change. She would not let her¬
self be affronted into perverseness or sullenness, but would try
to imagine Violet looking on j and with this determination she
lingered in the breakfast-room after her mother and cousin had
left it.
' Papa,' said she, as he was leaving the room, ' will you listen
to me V
' What now, Theodora V said poor Lord Martindale, expecting
some of those fresh perplexities that made him feel the whole
family to blame.
It was not encouraging, but she had made up her mind. * I
have behaved very ill about all this, papa; I want you to for¬
give me.'
He came nearer to her, and studied her face, in dread lest
there should be something behind. ' I am always ready to for¬
give and listen to you,' he said sadly.
She perceived that she had, indeed, given him much pain, and
was softened, and anxious for him to be comforted by seeing
that her fault, at least, was not the vanity and heartlessness that
he supposed.
' It was very wrong of me to answer you as I did yesterday,'
she said. * I know it was my own fault that Lord St. Eri^g
was aU«?wed to follow us.'
OK, THE BKOTHER'S WIFE.
861
* And why did you consent 1'
' I don't know. Yes, I do, thougk; but that makes it worse.
It was because my perverse temper was vexed at your warning
me,' said Theodora, looking down, much ashamed.
' Then you never meant to accept him!' exclaimed her
father.
' No, not exactly that; I thought I might,' said she, slowly,
and with difficulty.
' Then what has produced this alteration V
' I will tell you,' said she, recalling her resolution. ' I did not
know how much I cared for Percy Fotheringham. Yesterday
there came a foolish report about his forming another attach¬
ment. I know it was not true; but the misery it gave me
showed me that it would be sin and madness to engage myself
to another.'
Lord Martindale breathed more freely. ' Forgive me for
putting the question, it is a strange one to ask now : * Were you
really attached to Percy Fotheringham V
' With my whole heart,' answered Theodora, deliberately.
* Then why, or how—^
' Because my pride and stubbornness were beyond what any
man could bear,' she answered. * He did quite right; it would
not have been manly to submit to my conduct. I did not know
how bad it was till afterwards, nor how impossible it is that my
feelings towards him should cease.'
* And this is the true history of your treatment of Lord St.
Erme V
*Yes. He came at an unlucky moment of anger, when
Violet was ill, and could not breathe her saving influence over
me, and I fancied—It was very wrong, and I was ashamed to
confess what I have told you now.'
* Have you given him this explanation V
^ ' I have.'
* Well, I am better satisfled. He is a most generous person,
and told me he had no reason to complain of you.'
' Yes, he has a noble character. I am very sorry for the
manner in which I have treated him, but there was nothing
to be done but to put an end to it. I wish I had never
begun it.'
' I wish so too 1' said Lord Martindale. * He is grievously
disappointed, and bears it with such generous admiration of you
and such humility on his own part, that it went to my heart
to talk to him, especially while feeling myself a party to using
him so ill.'
me is mucl^ too good for i^e,' sai4 flieodorji,; ' but I cou! J
362
HEAllTSEASE;
not accept him while I contrasted him with what 1 have throv^n
away. I can only repent of having behaved so badly.' •
' ell! after all, I am glad to hear you speak in this manner,'
said her father.
' I know I have been much to blame,' said Theodora, still
with her head bent down and half turned away. ' Ever since I
was a child, I have been imdutiful and rebellious. Being with
Violet has gradually brought me to a sense of it. I do wish to
make a fresh beginning, and to ask you to forgive and bear with
me.*
' My dear child 1' And I>3rd Martindale stepped to her sidcj
took her hand, and kissed her.
No more was needed to bring the drops that had long been
swelling in her eyes; she laid her head on his shoulder, and felt
how much she had hitherto lost by the perverseness that had
made her choose to beheve her father cold and unjust.
There was another trM for the day. The departure of Lord
St. Erme and his sister revealed the state of affairs to the rest
of the world; Mrs. Delaval came to make Lady Martindale a
parting visit, and to lament over their disappointment, telling
how well Lord St. Erme bore it, and how she had unwillingly
consented to his taking his sister with him to comfort him at that
dull old place, Wrangerton.
Lady Martindale, as usual, took it very quietly. She never
put herself into collision with her daughter, and did not seem
to care about her freaks otherwise than as they affected her
aunt. Mrs. Nesbit, who had thought herself on the point of
the accomplishment of her favourite designs, was beyond mea¬
sure vexed and incensed. She would not be satisfied without
seeing Theodora, reproaching her, and insisting on hearing the
grounds of her unreasonable conduct.
Theodora was silent.
Was it as her mother reported, but as Mrs. Nesbit would not
believe, that she had so little spirit as to be still pining after
that domineering, presuming man, who had thrown her off after
she had condescended to accept him.
' I glory in saying it is for his sake,' replied Theodora.
Mrs. Nesbit wearied herself with invectives against the
Fotheringhams as the bane of the family, and assured Theodora
that it was time to lay aside folly; her rank and beauty would
not avail, and she would never be married.
' I do not mean to marry,' said Theodora.
* Then remember this. You may think it very well to be
Miss Martindale, with everything you can desire; but how
shall, you like it when your father dies, and you have to turn
S63
out and live on your own paltry five thousand pounds 1 for not
a farthing of mine shall come to you unless I see you married
as I desire.*
' I can do without it, thank you,' said Theodora.
Mrs. Nesbit burst into a passion of tears at the ingratitude of
her nephews and nieces. Weeping was so unusual with her,
that Lady Martindale was much terrified, sent Theodora away,
and did her utmost to soothe and caress her; but her strength
and spirits were broken, and that night she had another stroke.
She was not in actual danger, but was a long time in recovering
even sufficiently to be moved to England; and during this
period Theodora had little occupation, except companionship to
her father, and the attempt to reduce her temper and tame her
self-will. Mr. Hugh Martindale went to take possession of the
living of Brogden, and she remained a prisoner at Baden,
striving to view the weariness and enforced uselessness of her
life, as he had taught her, in the light of salutary chastisement
and discipline.
HEARTSEASE i *
PAET III.
Heartsease in thy heart shall spring
If content abiding,
Where, beneath that leafless tree.
Life's still stream is gliding.
But, transplanted thence, it fades.
For it bloometh only
'Neath the shadow of the Crosa,
In -a valley lonely. J, N, L.
CHAFTEE I.
Love, hope, and patience, these must be thy graces.
And in thine own heart let them first keep school,
COLEBIDr-'?
The avenue of Martindale budded with tender green, and
in it walked Tbeodora, watching for the arrival of tlio
Bister-in-law, scarcely seen for nearly four years.
Theodora's dress was of the same rigid simplicity as of old,
her figure as upright, her countenance as noble, but a change
had passed over her; her bearing was less haughty; her step,
still vigorous and firm, had lost its wilfulness; the proud
expression of lip had altered to one of thought and sadness, and
her eyes had become softer and more melancholy. She leaned
against the tree where the curate had brought her the first
tidings of Arthur's marriage, and she sighed, but not as erst
with jealousy and repining.
There was, indeed, an alteration—its beginning may not be
traced, for the seed had been sown almost at her birth, and
though little fostered, had never ceased to spring. The first
visible shoot had been drawn forth by Helen Fotheringham;
but the growth, though rapid, had been one-sided; the branches,^
like those of a tree in a sea-wind, all one way, blown aside by
gusts of passion and self-will. In its next stage, the attempt
to lop and force them back had rendered them more crooked
and knotty, till the enterprise had been abandoned as vain.
But there was a soft hand that had caressed the rugged boughs,
softened them with the dews of gratitude and affection, fanned
them with gales from heaven, and gently turned them to seek
training and culture, till the most gnarled and hardened had
learnt patiently to endur(,) the straightening hand and pruning
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. 365
TJnder sUch tranquil uneventful discipline, Theodora had
spent the last four years, working with all her might at her
labours in the parish, under Mr. Hugh Martindale; and what
was a far more real effort, patiently submitting when family
duties thwarted her best intentions. Parish work was her
solace, in a somewhat weary life, isolated from intimate com¬
panionship. She had, indeed, Mr. Hugh Martindale for a guide
and adviser, and to her father she was a valuable assistant and
companion; but her mother was more than ever engrossed by
the care of Mrs. Hesbit; her eldest brother was still in the
West Indies; and Arthur only seen in fleeting visits, so short
that it had never been convenient for his family to accompany
liim, nor had Theodora even been spared to attend Violet, when
a little girl, now nearly two years old, had been added to her
nursery.
Letters ill supplied the lack of personal intercourse; Theo¬
dora did not write with ease, and Violet could not pour herself
out without reciprocity; so that though there was a correspon¬
dence, it languished, and their intimacy seemed to be standing
still. Another great and heavy care to Theodora was a mistrust
of Arthur's proceedings. She heard of him on the turf, she
knew that he kept racers; neither his looks nor talk were
satisfactory; there were various tokens of extravagance; and
Lord Martindale never went to London without bringing back
some uncomfortable report.
Very anxious and sad at heart, she hoped to be better
satisfied by judging for herself; and after long wearying for a
meeting, her wishes were at length in the way of fulfilment—
Arthur's long leave was to be spent at home.
The carriage turned in at the lodge gates. She looked up—
how differently from the would-be careless air with which she
had once watched! But there was disappointment—she saw
no brother I In a moment Violet had descended from the
carriage, and warmly returned her embrace ; and she was kiss¬
ing the little shy faces that looked up to her, as all got out
to walk up the avenue.
* But where is Arthur V
* He is soon coming,' said the soft sweet voice. ' He would
not let us wait for him.'
* What 1 Has he not got his leave V
* Yes; but he js going to stay with some of his friends. Mr.
Ilerries came yesterday and insisted.'
Theodora thought there was a mournful intonation, and
looked anxiously at her face. The form and expression were
lovely as ever; but the bright colouring had entirely faded, the
366
HEARTSEASE;
cheeks were thin, and the pensive gentleness almost mournfuL
A careworn look was round the eyes and mouth, even while
she smiled, as Theodora gave a second and more particular -
greeting to the children.
Johnny was so little changed that she exclaimed at finding
the same baby face. His little delicate features and pure fair
skin were as white as ever j for not a spring had gone by with¬
out his falling under the grasp of his old enemy the croup;
and his small slight frame was the more slender from his recent
encounter with it. But he was now a very pretty boy, his
curls of silken flax fringing his face under his broad-leafed black
hat, and contrasting with his soft dark eyes, their gentle and
intelligent expression showing, indeed, what a friend and com¬
panion he was to his mother; and it was with a shy smile, ex¬
actly like hers, that he received his aunt's notice.
' And Helen, my god-child, I have not looked at her! Where
are you Y
But the tread of country turf seemed to have put wHdness
into little Helen. She had darted off, and hidden behind a tree,
peeping out with saucy laughter flashing in her glorious black
eyes, and dimpling in the plump roseate cheeks round which
floated thick glossy curls of rich dark chesnut. Theodora flew
to catch her; but she scampered round another tree, shouting
with fun, till she was seized and pressed fast in her aunt's arms
and called a mischievous puss, while Theodora exulted in the
splendour of her childish beauty, exuberant with health and
spirits. The moment she was released, with another outcry of
glee, she dashed off to renew the frolic, with the ecstasy of a
young fawn, while the round fat-faced Anna tumbled after her
like a little ball, and their aunt entered into the spirit of the
romp, and pursued them with blitheness for the moment like
their own. Johnnie, recovering his mamma's hand, walked
soberly beside her, and when invited to join in the sport, looked
as if he implored to be excused. Yiolet, rather anxiously,
called them to order as they came near the house, consigned
A nnie to Sarah, and herself took Helen's hand, observing, gravely,
that they must be very good.
' One thing,' she half-whispered; ' I once had a hint from
Miss Piper that Mrs. Kesbit did not like Lady Martindale to be
called grandmamma. What do you think Y
* What nonsense 1 Mamma ought to be proud of her grand¬
children, and my aunt will probably never see them or hear
them at all. She never comes out of the room.'
* Indeed! Is she so much more infirm!'
* Yes, very much aged. Her mind has never been quite itself
OR, THE brother'S WIEE.
887
since the last stroke, though I can hardly tell the difference,
but I think it has softened her.*
' I suppose Lady Martindale is very much with her?'
* Almost always. She seems to cling to our presence, and I
am never quite secure that Mrs. Garth does not domineer over
Ixer in our absence, but with all my watching I cannot discover.
My aunt says nothing against her, but I sometimes fancy she is
afraid of her.*
' Poor Mrs. Nesbit. She must be altered indeed 1'
' She is altered, but I never am clear how far it is any real
change, or only weakness. One comfort is, that she seems rather
to like cousin Hugh's coming to read to her twice a week.
How he will delight in these creatures of yours.'
'Ah ! we know him,* said Violet. ' You know he comes to
us if he is in London. How pleasant it must be for you.*
' Ah, very unlike the days when poor Mr. Wingfield used to
come to ask me how to manage the parish,' said Theodora, be¬
tween a laugh and a sigh. 'When did you hear from John?'
' His god-son had a letter from him on his birthday.'
'O, Johnnie! that was an honour! Could you write and
answer him?'
'Mamma helped me,* whispered the boy, while eyes and
mouth lengthened into a bright blushing smile.
' Steady, Helen, my child! Quiet!' exclaimed Violet, as
the little girl's delight grew beyond bounds at the sight of the
peacock sunning himself on the sphynx's head, and Johnnie
was charmed with the flowers in the parterre; and with ' look
but not touch' cautions, the two were trusted to walk together
hand in hand through the gravelled paths.
' The spirits will break out in Httle skips!' said Theodora,
watching Helen. 'She preserves her right to be called a
splendid specimen! What a pair they are!'
' Poor Helen ! I shall be in dread of an outbreak all the time
we are here,* said Violet; 'but she means to be good, and every
one cannot be like Johnnie.*
' Ah ! Johnnie one speaks of with respect.'
' I don't know what I should do but for him,' said Violet,
with her sad smile; ' he is so entirely my companion, and I
suppose he seems more forward in mind from being so much in
the drawing-room.*
' Well! he is come to a time of life to merit his papa's notice.*
' More than the rest,* said Violet; ' but unluckily he is a
little bit of a coward, and is afraid when papa plays with hira.
We make resolutions, but I really believe it is a matter of
nerves, and that poor Johnnie cannot help it.
368
HEAHTSEASE ;
1
* What! Arthtir is rough and teasing V
' He does not understand this sort of timidity ; he is afraid
of Johnnie's not being manly; but I believe that would come if
his health would but be stronger. It is very unlucky,' said
Violet, *for it vexes papa, and I think it hurts Johnnie,
though I am always forced to blame him for being so silly.
One comfort is, that it does not in the least interfere with
Johnnie's affection—he admires him almost as he used when'
he was a baby.'
They were at the foot of the steps, where Charles Layton,
now a brisk page, was helping to unpack the carriage, more
intelligently than many a youth with the full aid of his
senses.
Lord Martindale met them with his grave kind welcome,
which awed even Helen into quiet and decorum, though per¬
haps, from the corners of her eyes, she was spying the Scagliola
columns as places for hide and seek. She opened them to their
roundest extent as her grandmamma came down stairs, and she
tried to take shelter behind her brother from the ceremonious
kiss, while Johnnie tightly squeezed his aunt's hand, and Lady
Martindale was quite as much afraid of them as they could be
of her.
So began the visit—a very different one from any Violet had
hitherto paid at Martindale. Theodora's room was now her
chief resort in the morning, and there Johnnie went through
his lessons with almost too precocious ease and delight, and
Helen was daily conquered over Mrs. Barbauld. There they
were sure to be welcome, though they were seldom seen down¬
stairs. Johnnie used to appear in the space before dinner, very
demure and well-behaved, and there seemed to be a fellow-
feeling arising between him and his grandfather, who would
take possession of him if he met him out of doors, and conduct
him to any sight suited to his capacity; but who was so much
distressed at his forwardness in intellect and his backwardness
in strength, that Violet hardly dared to hold a conversation
about him for fear of a remonstrance on letting him touch a
book.
One day Mrs. Nesbit suddenly said to Theodora, ' Arthur's
wife and children are here, are not they V
* Yes; Violet would have come to see you, but we doubted
if you were equal to it.'
* I have nothing to say to Mr. Moss's daughter; but bring
that eldest boy here, I want to see him.'
Theodora stepped out into the gallery, where J ohnnie was
often to be found curled up in the end window, poring over
OR, THE brother'S WIFE,
369
Rud singing to himself the White Doe of Bylstone^ which he had
found among his uncle's hooks.
She led him in, exhorting him not to he shy, and to speak
out boldly in answer to aunt hfesbit; but perhaps this only
frightened him more. Very quiet and silent, he stood under
his aunt's wing, with eyes cast down, answering with a
trembling effort the questions asked in that sharp searching
tone.
*His mother all over!' she said, motioning him away; but,
the next day, she sent for him again. Poor Johnnie did not
like it at all; he could hardly help shuddering at her touch, and
at night begged his mamma not to send him to aunt hfesbit;
for he could not bear it without her. She had to represent
that aunt Kesbit was old and ill, and that it would be unkind
not to go to her: but then came the difficult question, * Why
don't you go, mamma?' However, when his compassionate
feelings were aroused, he bore it better; and though he never
got beyond standing silently by her chair for ten minutes, reply¬
ing when spoken to, and once or twice reading a few sentences,
or repeating some verses, when Theodora thought it "would
please her, it was evident that his visit had become the chief
event of her day. One day she gave him a sovereign, and
asked what ho would do with it. He blushed and hesitated,
and she suggested, ' Keep it, that will be the wisest.'
'Ho,' came with an effort, and an imploring glance at aunt
Theodora.
' Well, then, what f Speak out like a man !' '
Still reluctant, but it was brought out at last; ' Cousin Hugh
told us about the poor sick Irish children that have no potatoes.
May I give it to him to send them V
' He"ver mind the Irish children. This is for yourseK.'
'Myself?* Johnnie looked up, bewildered, but with a sudden
thought, ' Oh ! I know, aunt Theodora, won't it buy that pretty
work-basket to give mamma on her birthday? She said she'
could not afford it. And Helen wanted the great donkey in
the shop-window. Oh! I can get Helen the great donkey;
thank you, aunt Nesbit!'
The next day aunt Hesbit received Johnnie by giving him
five sovereigns to take to cousin Hugh for the Irish, desiring
him to say it was his own gift; and while Jonnnie scrupulously
explained that he should say that she gave it to him to give, she
• began to instruct him that he would be a rich man by-and-bye,
and must make a handsome and yet careful use of his money.
'Shall I^' said Johnnie, looking up, puzzled at hia youngei
aunt, " w
9 B -
370
HEARTSEASE;
*Yes, that you will/ replied Mrs. Nesbit. 'What shall you
do then
' Oh ! then I shall buy mamma and my sisters eveiything
they want, and mamma shall go out in the carriage every day.'
' She can do that now/ said Theodora, who had expected less
commonplace visions from her nephew.
' No/said Johnnie, 'we have not got the carriage now. I
mean, we have no horses that will draw it.'
It was another of those revelations that made Theodora
uneasy ; one of those indications that Arthur allowed his wife
to pinch herself, while he pursued a course of self-indulgence.
She never went out in the evening, it appeared, and he was
hardly ever at home; her dress, though graceful and suitable,
had lost that air of research and choiceness that it had when
everything was his gift, or worn to please his eye ; and as day
after day passed on without bringing him, Theodora perceived
that the delay was no such extraordinary event as to alarm her;
she was evidently grieved, but it was nothing new. It was too
plain that Arthur gave her little of his company, and his chil¬
dren none of his attention, and that her calmness was the
serenity of patience, not of happiness.
This was all by chance betrayed; she spoke not of herself,
and the nightly talks between the two sisters were chiefly of
the children. Not till more than a week had passed to renew
their intimacy, did Theodora advert to any subject connected
with the events of her memorable stay in London, and then she
began by asking, ' What did I overhear you telling papa about
Lord St. Erme ?'
' I was speaking of his doings at Wrangerton.'
' Tell me.'
' Oh ! they are admirable. You know he went there with
that good little Lady Lucy, and they set %o work at once, doing
everything for the parish—'
' Do your sisters know Lady Lucy T
' Yery little; it is only formal visiting now and then. She
leads a very retired life, and they know her best from meeting
her at the schools and cottages.'
' Good little girl! I knew there was something in her !'
'She is always with her brother, walking and riding and
writing for him, carrying out all his views.'
' I saw how he came forward about those poor colliery chil¬
dren. Such a speech, as that, was turning his talents togood
account, and I am glad to hear it is not all speechifying.'
'No, indeed, it is real self-denial. The first thing he did was
to take his afiafrs into his own hands, so that my father has
on, THE BEOTHER'S WIFE
871
comparatively notliing to do "witli them. He found them in a.
bad state, ■which papa could not help, with him H-vdng abroad,
and attending to nothing, only sending for money, whatever
papa could say. So there was a great outlay wanted for church
and schools for the collieries at Coalworth, and nothing to meet
it, and that was the way he came to sell off all the statues and
pictures.'
' Did he ? Well done. Lord St. Erme!' cried Theodora.
* That was something like a sacrifice.'
* O yes! My sisters say they could have cried to see the
cases go by the "windows, and I cannot help grie"ving to think
of those rooms being dismantled. I am glad they have kept
the little Ghirlandajo, that is the only one remaining.'
' I honour them,' said Theodora.
' And it was for the sake of such a set,' proceeded Yiolet;
' there is a bad Chartist spirit among those colliers, and they
oppose him in every way; but he says it is his own fault for
having neglected them so long, and goes on doing everything for
them, though they are as surly and sullen as possible.'
Theodora looked thoughtful. ' Poor Lord St. Erme ! Yes,
he has found a crusade ! I wish ! Well, I ought to be
thankful that good has been brought out of e"\^. I deserved
no such thing. Yiolet, I wish he would marry one of your
sisters!'
' 0 no, don't wish that. I am glad there is no chance of it.
Hanks had better not be confounded,' said Yiolet, with a sad
seriousness of manner.
' You have just had a wedding in the family. A satisfactory
one, I hope V
* Yes, I think so. Mamina and Annette like Mr. Hunt very
much. They say there is such a straightforward goodness about
him, that they are sure dear Olivia will be happy.'
* Was there any difficulty about it V
' Why—^Matilda and Albert seemed to' think we should not
think it grand enough,' said Yiolet, half-smiling. ' He is a sort
of great farmer on his own estate, a most beautiful place. He
is quite a gentleman in manners and very well off, so that
my father made no difficulty, and I am very glad of it. Olivia
is the very person to enjoy that free country life.' Yiolet sighed
as if town life was oppressive.
' To be sure ! If one could be a farmer's daughter without
the pretension and vulgarity, what a life it would be ! That
was my favourite notion when I used to make schemes with
poor Georgina Gardner. Do you ever hear what she is doing,
Yiolet ? They have quite left off writing to me.'
872
HEATITSEASE;
' Last time I heard of them they were in Italy.*
' Going on in the old way, I fear. Poor Georgina! she
was sadly thrown away. But, at least, that Mark is not with
them.'
' O no,' said Yiolet, sighing more deeply this time ; * he is
always about in London.'
' Ah ! you see more of him than you wish, I fear V
* I see very little of him. Arthur would not ask him to our
fiouse at Chichester for the Goodwood races, and it was such an
escape !'
' I am glad at least Arthur does not trouble you with him.'
Yiolet sat with her forehead resting on her hand, and there
was a short space of thoughtful silence. It resulted in Theo¬
dora's saying, in a sad, low, humble tone, her eyes looking
straight into the red fire, ' Do you ever hear of Mr. Pother-
ingham V
* I believe he is still at Paris,' said Yiolet. *I only hear of
him through John, who said he had been thinking of going to
Italy. When he came through London, after Lady Pother-
ingham's death, he left his card, but we were at Chichester,
Have you seen that last article oi his V
* What, that on modern novels ? I was almost sure it was
his, and yet I doubted. It was like and yet not like him.'
* It was his,' said Yiolet. * He always has his things sent to
me. I am glad you observed the difference. I thought it so
much kinder and less satirical than his writings used to be.'
' It was so,' exclaimed Theodora. * There were places where
I said to myself, Hhis cannot be his; I know what he would
have said,' and yet it was too forcible and sensible to have been
written by any one else.'
* The strength is there, but not the sort of triumph in sarcasm
that sometimes made one sorry,' said Yiolet; ' and were you liot
struck by his choice of extracts ? I have fancied a different
strain in his writings of late.'
Theodora squeezed Yiolet's hand. ' I feared I had hardened
him/ she said. ' Thank you, ^ood night.'
or.. THE-BROTHER'S WIFE.
873
CHAPTEH 11.
St Osytli's well is turned aside.—Ceabbe.
ON the first convenient day, Lord Martindale sent Violet to
call at Hickworth Priory, a visit which she was the more
desirous of making, as Emma's correspondence, after languishing
for awhile, had ceased, excepting that she sent a fresh allegory
of Miss Marstone's to Johnnie on each birthday; and the
Brandons having given up coming to London for the season, she
scarcely knew anything about them, excepting through Theo¬
dora, who reported that they retired more and more from
society, and that Miss Marstone was much with them.
Theodora would have accompanied Violet, but she was sure
that her absence would be a boon to Emma, whom she had of
late tried in vain to draw out; and, besides, one of the house¬
maids was ill, and Theodora, whom her cousin Hugh called the
mother of the maids, wished not to be away at the doctor s visit.
So little Johnnie was his mother's only companion; but she was'
disappointed in her hopes of introducing him to his godmother.
To her surprise Lady Elizabeth was alone, Emma was at Goth-
lands with her friend Miss Marstone.
* They were very kind in asking me,' said Lady Elizabeth,
* and so was Emma about leaving me ; but I do not wish to be
a drag upon her.'
* Oh ! how can you say so V exclaimed Violet.
' It did not suit,' said Lady Elizabeth. ' The uncle, old Mr.
Randal, is an old-fashioned, sporting squire, and the other Miss
INIarstones are gay ladies. I felt myself out of my element
when I was there before; but now I almost wish I was with
her.'
* You must miss her very much, indeed.'
* It is what we must all come to, my dear,' said Lady Eliza¬
beth, looking at the young mother, with her boy leaning
against her knee, deep in a book of illustrations. ' You have a
good many years to look forward to with your little flock; but,
one way or other, they will go forth from us.'
Lady Elizabeth thought Johnnie too much absorbed to hear;
but Violet found his hand tightly squeezing hers.
' I thought you at least had kept your daughter,' she said.
' Emma will be five-and-twenty in the autumn.'
* But, oh 1 Lady Elizabeth, I thought '
' I cannot tell, my dear. I hope Emma's arrangements insr.y
bo such that we may go on together as before.'
874
HEAKTSEASE;
* How do you mean V exclaimed Violet, confounded.
' Her judgment is sound,' continued Lady Elizabeth, * if she
will only use it; and when it comes to the point. Miss Mar-
stone's may be the same.'
' Is she gone to Gothlands to settle her plans f
' Yes ; I could not well have gone with her, for we have four
little orphan girls in the house, whom I could not well leave to
the servants. That is quite as I wish, if the rest could be added
without Theresa Marstone making this her home, and intro¬
ducing all the plans they talk of.'
' She could not introduce anything to make you uncomfort-
■ able !'
' It is not so much comfort that I mean, my dear. I do not
think that I should object to giving up some of the servants,
though in my time it was thought right to keep up an establish¬
ment. Perhaps a family of women are not called upon to do
things in the same style, and there is no doubt that our means
may be better employed. We have too many luxuries, and I
would not wish to keep them. Ho, if it was entirely Emma's
doing, I should be satisfied; but there is more influence from
Miss Marstone than I quite like. I cannot fully rely on her. -
judgment, and I think she likes to manage.'
* She could never presume to manage in your house!'
' Emma's house, my dear.'
* But that is the'same.'
Lady Elizabeth sighed, and made a movement with her head;
then said, * All that they think right and conscientious they
will do, I am sure j but the worst of it is that Theresa has
friends who are not of our Communion, and she does speak
strongly of things that do not accord with her notions. I
cannot go along with her, and I must confess she sometimes
alarms me V
' And does Emma think with her entirely V
' I fear—I mean I think she does ; and, by-the-bye, my dear,
do you know anything of a Mr. Gardner V
' I do know a Mr. Mark Gardner.'
' That is his name. He is staying in the neighbourhood of
Gothlands, and seems very deep in their counsels. I am afraid
he is leading them farther than Theresa Marstone herself would
have gone.'
' Oh, then, he cannot be the same person. I meant a very
diflbrent style of man, a cousin to those Miss Gardners who
used to be friends of Theodora.'
* Ahi I meant to ask you about Miss Gardner and Perci.val
Fothcringham. What 1 you have not heard V
OB, THE brother'S WIFE,
ST5
* No, nothing. What do you mean T
* Married.*
* Married ! No^ never!'
' I thought you would have known all about it, and I was
anxious to hear what kind of connexion it was for Percival.'
* Do tell me, how did you hear of it ? When was it V
* Not long ago, in Italy. I heard of it the other day from
my nephew, Edward Howard, who is just returned; and he
told me that Mrs. Finch was leading a dashing life at Florence,
and that her sister had just married Mr. Fotheringham, 'the
author.''
' 0, I do not know how to think it possible ! Yet it is such
an imcommon name.*
' Do you know whether his name is Antony V
' Yes, it is his first name. I remember Arthur's laughing at
him for being ashamed of it, as he said.'
' That confirms it. I asked Edward if the Christian name
was Percival, and he said it was Antony, and some such name,
but he could not be sure.*
' Ah ! there would be a confusion owing to his being alway?
called Percy.*
' He said, too, that it was a good match for Miss Gardner, as
he was heir to an estate in Yorkshire.*
' Worthboume ! Then I am afraid it must be too true. The
author, too!'
' So Edward was told.*
' I must write and ask John Martindale. He will be sure to
know the whole history.*
The rest of the visit and the homeward drive were like a
dream. Yiolet was lost in amazement, compassion, and disap¬
pointment, and in the debate how Theodora should be informed.
Should she wait till there were further particulars to confirm
it 1 But when she thought it over, there seemed no more
wanting. She knew that Percy had been thinking of visiting
Italy a year ago, and the name, the authorship, and connexion
with Worthboume swept away all doubt. As to making
inquiries, she did not know Arthur's present address ; and even
if she had had it, she would have shrunk from saying anything
that should lead to one additional conversation with Mark
Gardner j besides which Arthur had a fashion of never answer¬
ing any question asked by letter.
Nor could Violet venture to delay. It was better that such
'tidings should come from sympathizing lips than through the
goj?.sip of the neighbourhood; and Theodora ought to be aware
of them as soon as possible, that she might no longer cherish
37G -
HEAETSEASE;
tlie shade of her affectioiu Alas! that he should have donS.
this at the very momeiit when she had truly beoome worthy
of him, or at least, of what he had once been!
At night, when Theodora came to linger over her fire, the
intelligence was reluctantly and hesitatingly spoken; Violet's
eyes were bent down, for she knew how little that spirit could
brook that its suffering should be marked.
Theodora stood up before her, at her full height, with flasliing
eye and indignant voice; 'Do you think I believe it? No,
indeed! I may have lost him for ever, but he would never lose
himself. I scorn this as I did Jane Gardner's own story that
you were going to marry him to your sister. I knew you both
too well.*
Violet put her arm round Theodora. ' Dearest, I am the more
afraid that we must believe this, because he was not always con¬
stant. He did think of Annette.'
' Think of her? What do you mean? Did he make her an
offer?'
' Yes. I would never have told you if I did not think it
might help you in this.'
'I don't want help,' said Theodora, raising her head and
turning from Violet. ' Let him do as he likes.'
Butj ere she had made two steps towards the door, her breast
heaved with a convulsive sob. She threw herself on the ground,
and rested her face on Violet's lap. The sobs came at long
intervals, with a tight, oppressed sound. Much alarmed, Violet
caressed her, and tried to soothe her with gentle words, and at
last they unlocked her lips.
' It is not myself! Oh, no! I knew I had forfeited him long
ago. I had proved myself unworthy. I had no right lo hope.
But that he should have changed—^let his clear sense be blinded
by her art! He, to whom I could have looked up all my life!—
who was so noble in rejecting mel'
The large drops had gathered and flowed, seeming to scald
their course down her •cheeks. 0, Violet 1 I wish your sister
had married him! Then he would have been happy—he would
not have degraded himself. Oh! what change can have come
over him?' . '
'You know Lady Fotheringham was fond of Jane Gardner,
and he might have taken her upon her word.'
' As if Percy would see with any old woman's eyes, when
once he came in contact with her! No, I see but one expla¬
nation. It must have been I who lowered his estimate of
woman. Well I might do so, when I treated like a toy the
happiness he had confided to me. I, on whom he had fixed his
OR, THE brother's WIFE. 377
firdent soul for so many years past. No wonder lie learnt to hold
all women cheap alike! O, that summer of madness 1 If I have
dimmed the brightness of that noble nature!'
'Dear, dear Theodora, what can I say to comfort you] She
may be altered; he may have improved her.'
' She is not capable of it,' said Theodora; ' there is nothing
in her but time-serving and selfishness. And he, with that
large true heart, so detesting falsehood—lie must either be
wretched or deceived—debased! No, there is no comfort—- .
there never will be.'
' Except the best sort,' tenderly whispered Violet.
Theodora rested her head on her hands, and remained perfectly
still for some moments, then looked up, and spoke in a depressed
voice.
' I cannot talk any more. I feel shattered from head to foot.
I must be quiet.'
' Then, dearest, pray go to bed at once, and I will come and
see you.'
' I cannot. I undertook to give Maria her draught at one
o'clock. May I stay here while you go to bed]'
' Anything, dearest, dearest sister.'
' Only let me be in the room with you, and be quiet.'
She would not, as Violet intreated, lie down on the bed
beside her, but remained seated on the floor, her eyes riveted
on the fire, never looking round; her face stupified, her hands
hanging motionless, like one stunned; and when Violet's anxious
gaze was closed by irresistible sleep, that dark head was still
motionless before the fire.
Her mind was indeed a blank, sensible of nothing but the
effect of the shock. The phrase now and then occurred, ' Percy
is married to Jane;' but her perceptions were so sluggish that
she scarcely knew that it concerned her. She seemed to have
forgotten who Percy was, and to shrink from recalling the
remembrance. There was a repose in this state of stupor which
she was reluctant to break; and after the great clock, sq melan¬
choly in the silence, had tolled half-past twelve, her sensations
were absorbed in the dread of hearing One / the summons to
exertion.
The single note pealed out, and died quivering slowly away;
she rose, lighted her candle, and quitted the room, feeling as ii
the maid's illness and the doctor's directions belonged to some
period removed by ages.
37^
HEARTSEASE;
CHAPTER III.
This house of splendour and of princely glory
Doth now stand desolated, the afl&ighted servants
Rush forth through all its doors. I am the last
Therein. Wallenstein.
Theodora was no sooner in the gallery than she was
recalled to the present. There was a strange gleam of lighfc
reflected on the avemie. Roused at once to action, she hurried
towards the window. The fire was within the house. She
pushed open the door leading to Mrs. Neshit's apartments.
Light was flashing at every chink of the bed-room door. She
threw it back. Out rolled a volume of smoke, the glare of
flame burst on her, the curtains were blazing! 'Aunt! Aunt
Nesbit, are you there?' she cried, in tones low with horror and
choked with smoke; she plunged between the burning curtains,
felt that she had a hold of something, dragged it out, found it
move and gasp, bore it from the room, and, depositing it on a
couch in the gallery, only then could perceive that it was indeed
Mrs. Nesbit, uninjured, though half-suflfocated.
Mrs. Garth, who slept in the adjoining room, with the door
open, had been waked by her call, and came running out. An old
soldier, she had full self-possession, and was at once efiective;
and it was well, for she exclaimed, ' Miss Martindale, you are on
fire,' just as the light and the scorching were revealing the
same to herself. There was no time for personal terror, barely
for pain; the fire was crushed out between them by the help of
a woollen table cover, they scarcely knew how, they only saw
that the draught had increased the blaze in the room, and dense
clouds of smoke came bursting out upon them.
Mrs. Nesbit clung terrified to her niece, but Theodora, with
a word or two of encouragement, freed herself from her grasp,
and leaving her to Mrs. Garth's care, flew up the nursery stairs.
She must have the cliildren in their mother's sight before the
alarm should reach her. Sarah's first waking impulse was to
growl, that Master Johnnie would catch his death of cold, but
the next moment she was equal to any emergency; and the
little ones were at their mother's door just as she was opening
it, thinking the noise more than Maria's illness could occasion,
and setting foi-th to see whether there was anything amiss
in the nursery. Theodora, put Annie into her arms. ' All safe.
It is only the north wing. Don't be frightened. Stay where
you are.'
Violet could only obey, thankful at having her three around
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. 3?9
her, and trying to keep her terror from being visible enongb to
increase Johnnie's exceeding alarm, or to frighten Helen out of
her happy state of inquisitive excitement and curiosity.
Theodora had hurried to call her parents. They were already
in motion. Lord Martindale's first care was for Violet and the
children, Lady Martindale's for her aunt, and almost instantly
she was embracing and supporting the pale shrunken figure, now
feebly tottering along the gallery, forsaken by Mrs. Garth, who
had gone back to secure her own valuables.
By this time, the gallery was full of screaming maids, whom
Sarah had, with difficulty, prevented from leaping at once from
attic windows; and staring men, hallooing for water, which no
one brought, except little Helen, who, escaping from her
mother's room, ran barefooted into the midst, holding aloft the
water-bottle triumphantly, and very indignant at being captured,
and carried back in the butler's arms.
The fire was spreading so fast that Lord Martindale decided
on removing all the helpless to the gardener's house at the end of
the pleasure ground. He came himself to call Violet, told her
not to be alarmed, and, taking his grandson in his arms, led the
way. Mrs. Hesbit was carried on a mattress between two of the
servants. Lady Martindale walking beside her, absorbed in
trying to guard her from injury or alarm; Annie, asleep and
unconscious, was in her mother's arms, and Theodora carried
the amused and chattering Helen. At the foot of the stairs,
Violet exclaimed, * My cross, I must not leave it!' and would
have turned, but Theodora prevented her. ' I know where it
is,' she said, am going to see how they are moving Maria;'
and putting Helen into the nearest pair of arms, she ran
back.
Harrison's successor, Mr. Armstrong and his wife, were on
foot, and ready to receive them. Their spare bed was for Mrs.
Hesbit, in their own the three children were placed. In all his
haste. Lord Martindale paused till he could lay his little
shivering ice-cold charge in the bed, and see him hide his head
in his mother's bosom. * Good boy 1' he said, ' I told him» not
to cry for you, and he has not made a sound, though I have felt
him trembling the whole way. Take care of him,'
Little did she need the recommendation, though it sent a
thrill of gladness through her that it should have been made
at such a time. She had great apprehension of the effect of
tlie shock on the child's tender frame and timid nature, his
obedience and self-command seeming almost to enhance the
excess of terror. The shuddering horror and convulsive clinging
were beyond control, and were renewed vyhenever a fresh glare
3S0
HEARTSEASE;
broke out from the biirniog house; to turn him away from the
window, or to put up blinds and curtains made it worse, for the
shadows of the trees, flickering mysteriously, seemed still more
terrific. His sister screamed with excitement and delight at
each brighter burst of flame, till she suddenly laid down her
head and fell fast asleep; but still his nervous trembling
continued at intervals, and his mother could not leave him, nor
cease from saying consoling words of his heavenly Guardian,
the only means that soothed him, especially when his sighing
exclamation recurred, ' O, if papa was but here!' the tune to
which her heart was throbbing throughout that dreadful
night. She felt guilty of being useless, but he was her first
care, and her power of real service was small: so she could-
only hang over him, and as she watched the healthful sleep of
her little girls, join her prayers and thanksgivings with his, that
all papa's treasures were safe. Hot till the flames were dying
down, morning twilight showing cold and grey, and Sarah
coming in with bundles of rescued garments, was Johnnie's mind
free enough to unclasp his hand, and show something fast held
in it. 'Aunt Helen's cross, mamma; I thought I might keep
hold of it, because I was frightened.'
Her caresses lulled him at last to sleep, while she grieved at
Theodora's having gone in search of the cross. She knew of her
safety from Sarah, who reported that she had been working like
any ten; but she had not yet seen her, and the silence and sus¬
pense became oppressive.
Theodora had hardly spent a moment in seeking the cross; she
tied on Violet's bonnet over the hair falling round her, hurried to
assist in carrying the sick maid to a bed made up for her at the
stables, and then, missing the dumb page from among the ser¬
vants, she rushed back to look for him, dashed up the stairs
through thick smoke, found him asleep, and crossing a floor
that almost burnt her feot, she shook him awake, and saw him
too in safety. She bethought her of her brother John's posses¬
sions, now that the living were all secure; she hurried into
the work, she tore down his prints and pictures, carried them
and his books out,—desks, drawers, weights she would never
have dreamt of lifting, were as nothing to her. Many times
did her father meet her, exclaim and urge her to desist, and to
go to Armstrong's; she said she was just going: he went in
one of the thousand directions in which he was called at once,
and presently again encountered her, where he least expected it,
coming out of a cloud of smoke with a huge pile of books in her
arms ! On she worked, regardless of choking, blinding smoke—
regardless of the glare of flame—never driven from the field
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. ' 381
biit by a deluge from a fire-engine; when stumbling down
Btairs, guided by the banisters, she finally dismayed her father,
who thought her long ago in safety, by emerging from the
house, dragging after her a marble-topped chess table, when
half the upper windows were flashing with flame.
Then he locked her arm into his, and would not let her stir
from his side.
Water had been the great vleficiency. Fire-engines were slow
in coming, and the supply from the fountains was as nothing, so
til at the attempt had necessarily been to carry out property
rather than to extinguish the fire. Sarah, after coolly collecting
all that belonged to her mistress or the children, had taken the
command of Miss Alticidora Standaloft, (who usually regarded
her as vulgarity personified,) scolded away her hysterics, and
kept guard over her, while she packed up her lady's jewels and
wardrobe, not until then allowing her the luxury of shrieking
at every jet of flame. The other servants and the villagers had
worked with hearty goodwill below stairs; and when Theodora
had time to look around, the pleasure-ground presented a strange
scene. Among the trodden plants and shrubs lay heaps of fur¬
niture, sofas, chairs lying tumbled here and there, with plate,
pictures, statues, ornaments heaped in wild confusion; crowds
of people, in every variety of strange dishabille, gathered round;
two long lines of them handing bucket after bucket, with
machine-like regularity, from the fountain; others removing
the furniture from the terrace; cushions, ormolu, fine china, ,
handed out of the lower windows; the whole seen by the wild
lurid light that flashed from the windows above, strangely illu¬
minating the quiet green trees, and bringing out every tiny leaf
and spray by its fierce brilliancy, that confused every accus¬
tomed shadow, while the clouds of smoke rolled down as if to
wither all around.
And above the rushing roaring sound! the thunder of falling
ceilings; the red light within some familiar windows; the grey
sky reflected in others, till, after a few uncertain flickers, the
glow awoke in them also. Then arose the whiter gusts of va¬
pour, when water, hissing and boiling, contended with fire.
In vain ! the flame surmounted! Shouts, cries ! Lord M&r-
tindalo pushing nearer, calling to all for heaven's sake to come
out, leave all, only come out; men rushing from the doors,
leaping from the lower windows; one dark figure emerging at
the moment before a tremendous crash shook the earth beneath
their feet; the fire seemed for a moment crushed out, then
clouds of smoke rose wilder and denser, yellowed by the light
of the morning; the blaze rirshed upwards uncontrolled, and the
382
HEARTSEASE;
intensity of brightness, behind and above the walls, glared on
the mass of awe-struck faces. There was not a movement, not
a word, not a sound, save that of the roaring flame.
The first voice was Lord Martindale's: 'Are all out? Is
every one safe V
'Yes, my lord, all but the claret of 1826,' said that last to
escape, half-clad, grimy, and singed, only in courteous voice,
the butler.
' Thank God !' said Lord Martindale, fervently. ' And, Sim-
monds, thank you for what you have done to-nightand he
heartily shook the butler's hand.
' Oh, my lord, if it had been more ! If that claret was but
safe, I should feel I had done my duty,' said Simmonds, almost
overcome, but giving place to Mr. Hugh Martindale, who, just
released from a chain of buckets in the kitchen yard, was coming
up to wring his cousin's hand, say there seemed no more to be
done, and repeat his congratulations on the safety of life and
limb. But a fresh alarm arose, lest the fire might extend to
the stabling; and in watching the horses led out, the spreading
of wet tarpaulins on the roof, the engines playing on the burn¬
ing mass in the house, and the flames rising with diminishing
fierceness in the intervals of the bursts of steam, there was such
intense excitement that no one could think of aught but the
sight before them.
At last there was a touch on Lord Martindale's arm; a mes¬
sage from the gardener's house that he must come directly: Mrs.
Hesbit was in a fit.
The morning dewiness and calmness of the garden had a
curious effect, as they walked hastily through it, out of sight of
the confusion on the lawn; everything looked so blue and pale,
especially Violet, who came down to meet them.
' I have sent for Mr. Legh,' she said. ' It is very terrible.
She is quite insensible, but—
She broke off suddenly. Theodora had sat down, untied her
bonnet, then tried to rise, but tottered, and sank senseless on the
floor.
Her father lifted her, so as to place her with her head on
Violet's lap. Violet removed the bonnet, the hair came with
it, burnt off in masses, the very eyelashes and brows were
singed, the forehead, cheeks, and neck frightfully reddened and
blistered. Lord Martindale took her hands to chafe them :
they were bleeding, and purple from bruises, the arms scorched
and burnt—injuries overlooked in the excitement, but ready to
repay themselves after her five hours' violent and incessant
exertion. It was a frightfully long swoon; and her father,
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
383
almost in despair, had sent a second messenger for medical aid
before Violet could look up consolingly, and direct his attention
to the signs of returning animation. She presently half opened
her eyes, perceived in whose arms she lay, and who was bending
over her—she heard his fond words j hut reviving no further,
ilosed her eyes, without attempting to speak.
Lord Martindale could no longer delay going upstairs. There
the scene was most distressing; there was complete insensibi¬
lity, with a tendency to convulsive movement, a condition so
plainly hopeless that he would fain have removed his wife,
hitherto so unaccustomed to any spectacle of suffering. But
Lady Martindale was not to be detached from her who had
absorbed her affection from infancy. Wrapped in that one idea,
she hardly heard his representations of their daughter's state,
and, with piteous looks, repelled his assurances that her care
was "unavailing, and ought to be relinquished to Mrs. Garth and
the maids. He was obliged at length to desist, and returned
just as Violet and Mr. Martindale had succeeded in moving
Theodora to a slippery horse-hair sofa. She looked up and
replied, * Better, thank you,' to his first inquiry; but when
asked if she was in pain, was forced to answer, 'Yes, not much,^
and closed her eyes, as if she only wished not to be disturbed.
They held council over her: Mr. Martindale urged taking
her at once to his parsonage; he would find the carriage, and
Violet should bring her, leaving the children to follow under
Sarah's charge when they should awake. Violet only demurred
at leaving Lady Martindale; but Lord Martindale authorita¬
tively told her, that it was not fit for her to be in Mrs. Hesbit's
room, and he should be much obliged to her to see Theodora
properly taken care of.
The transit was serious, every one longed to have it over,
but dreaded the arrival of the carriage, which came before it
was expected. Besolute as ever, Theodora astonished them, by
springing at once on her feet, disdaining aid; but she had
hardly taken a step, before she faltered, and was just falling,
when her father caught her in his arms and carried her to the
carriage, where Violet was ready to uphold her sinking head.
Mr. Martindale took the short way, and was at home before
them, to lift her out, and transport her at once to her room.
Since the marriage of Pauline, Theodora had given up a per¬
sonal attendant, and no ladies' maids were forthcoming, except
Miss Standaloft, whose nerves could not endure the sight of
Mrs. Nesbit, far less of Miss Martindale, so the whole business
of undressing fell upon Violet, and the rector's little undermaid,
who, having been a school-girl, was of course devoted to Miss
884 HEARTSEASE;
Martindale. A difficult task it was, for besides tke burcs.
bruises, and faintness, every muscle and sinew were so strained
and tender from tbe violent exertion, and the blows she had
unconsciously received, that the gentlest touch and slightest
movement were severely painful. Violet was most grateful for
her never-failing resolution. Every move was made unhesi¬
tatingly the moment it was requisite, and not a complaint was
uttered, scarcely even a confession of suffering; on anxious in¬
quiry, ' Never mind, it can't be helped,' was the utmost reply,
given in a blunt, almost annoyed manner, as if she could not
bear to be disturbed out of that silence of endurance.
In the same manner, between stupefaction and fortitude, the
surgeon's visit was gone through, and Violet heard from him
that there was no serious consequence to be apprehended, pro¬
vided fever could be averted. Violet, much alarmed as to the
effect of the tidings of the previous night, thought it right to
mention that she had undergone a severe shock, and perceived
that he thought it greatly increased the chance of serious ill¬
ness ; but he could do nothing but insist on tranquillity; and,
as Theodora had now fallen into an exhausted sleep, he returned
to his other patient.
The hours seemed to have forgotten their reckoning; it was
to Violet as if she had been years without looking after her chil¬
dren, and when she found it was only half-past nine, she was
dismayed to think of the length of day yet to come. Leaving
Theodora's sleep to be guarded by the little maid, she ventured
down. The dumb boy was watching, with tearful eyes, at the
foot of the stairs, his whole face one question about Miss Mar¬
tindale. Answering him reassuringly on the slate, she opened
the dining-room door, and a refreshing sight met her eyes.
Hound the breakfast-table sat her own three, from their glossy
heads to their little shining shoes, in order trim, as if no dis¬
aster had ever come near them;—^Kttle Annie on cousin Hugh's
knee; Helen's tongue going as fast as ever; Johnnie in shy ^
good behaviour. A general cry of joy greeted her, and they
vere in an instant around her, telling of the wonders of the
lawn; how the dying gladiator was lying on the blue damask
bed, and the case of stuffed humming birds on the top of the
kitchen dresser, and the poor peacock so frightened that he hid
himself in the laurels, and would not come near them.
All alarms had gone away like a dream of the night, and the
day had dawned on the Happy creatures in all its freshness and
newness, which their elders would fain have shared; but the
necessity of attending to them had something reviving in it,
^d Violet could not look at them without rpuowed thril|a of i
oil, THE KliOTlIEEw'S WIFE. 885^
thankfulness. It was like rescued mariners meeting after a ship¬
wreck, when her father-in-law came in and embraced her and
the children affectionately, with a special caress for Johnnic,
' the best little boy he ever saw.* He looked worn and de¬
pressed, and Violet hastened to help Mr. Martindale in setting
breakfast before him, while he anxiously bade her rast, hoped
she had not been hurt by all she had undergone; and asked
for Theodora, whose illness, and his wife's despair at her aunt's
condition, were the chief actual distress. For the rest he was
so thankful that no life had been lost, as to have hardly a
thought to bestow on the ruin and destruction. .
There was now time for the question, how did the fire begin?
Mrs. Nesbit, before her attack came on, had said, that wishing
to take a draught, and not liking to call Mrs. Garth, she had
drawn the light near to the curtains, and had, doubtless, left
it there. It seemed as if Mrs. Garth had taught her to dread
disturbing her at night, and now Lady Martindale shrank with
horror from letting her even approach the patient.
But how had Mrs. Hesbit been rescued without the slightest
bum, and what had occasioned Theodora's injuries ? Not till
Violet began to explain did it dawn on her what a heroine she
was describing. All had been so simply and fearlessly done,
that it had not struck her till she heard it in her own
narration.
Lord Martindale was much affected. ' My brave girl!' he
said; *then under Providence the safety of every one of us is
owing to her. I wish she was awake that I might tell her so
tliis minute !'
It was delightful to see how this seemed to compensate for
everything; and, indeed, he said it was almost worth while to
liave been burnt out for the sake of seeing how nobly every one
had behaved, servants and neighbours, rich and poor, working
alike at the risk of their lives; and he was positively overcome
as he spoke of the warm sympathy that met liim on all sides,
testifying the universal respect and affection with which he was
regarded. Notes and messages were coming in from all the
neighbourhood to intreat to be allowed to shelter his family
but it was impossible to move at present, and his views were
fixed on occupying the house which had so long stood empty.
* Arthur can have a room fitted up there directly,' he said.
* Where is he, my dear ? How soon can he come V
Violet was obliged to confess her ignorance. He had said he
should be going about, and had given her no address. Much
vexed. Lord Martindale forbore to distress her by remarks, and
replied to his cousin's question whether the house was insured—'
00
386
HEARTSEASE;
^J?or twenty thousand pounds, but that is nothing like the
amount of damage. I hardly ^ow how we shall meet it. I
must have John at home to settle matters. How strange it is
to look back. I remember as if it was yesterday, when John
was born, Mrs. Hesbit insisting on my pulling down the poor
old house, to make the place fit, as she said, for my son's inherit¬
ance, and there is an end of it! Who would have told her that
she would burn it down herself, poor woman ? She always de¬
tested the old hall. Don't you remember the stags' antlers,
Hugh! Ay, Johnnie, you would have wondered at those—
a dozen stags' heads with branching horns in the hall.'
' Oh I tell me, grandpapa! Was it where you lived when you
were a little boy V
* Ay, Johnnie,' said Lord Martindale, pausing to take him
on his knee. * Cousin Hugh could tell you how we went on <
together there! Such jackdaws' nests as used to be in the
chimneys—^
* I do believe,' said his cousin, ' you have more regret at this
moment for the old house than for this one 1'
'Well! when I think of going home, the old red pediment
with the white facings always comes into my mind, as it used to
look up the avenue, when we came back for the holidays. Those
old shields with the martlets—see, Johnnie, like that—^ holding
up the crest on a spoon, ' where the martins used to build their
nests over the windows, were such as I never saw anywhere
else. I found one of them lying about at the farm the other
day.'
* Do you remember the hornet's nest in the wall of the
garden— V
' What a garden that was ! They have never found any pear
equal to that jargonelle, where you ate twenty the first day of
the holidays. What do you think of that, Johnnie V
' Ay, Johnnie, and I can tell you of something grandpapa
did,' retorted Mr. Hugh Martindale j and to Violet's diversion,
the two old cousins continued to make Johnnie an excuse for
bringing up their boyish memories, which seemed to rise on
them the more vividly, now that the great mansion no longer
obstructed their view. It was complete oblivion of everything
else, and seemed to do infinite good to Lord Martindale, but
soon it was interrupted j Lady Elizabeth had driven over to
beg to carry the whole party back to Rickworth with her, or at
least to take home Violet and the children; but this could not
be; Violet could not leave Theodora, and though Lord Martin¬
dale pressed her to consult her own comfort by removing, he
was evidently gratified by her begging to be allowed to remain
OR, THR BROTflER'S WIFE. S87
at the parsonage. He then returned to his wife, and Lady
Elizabeth, after offers of every service in her power, took leave,
while Violet returned to her charge.
■ Theodora awoke with less fever than they had ventured to
hope, and quite composed, though much surprised with her first
acquaintance with illness, and not even comprehending that she
could not get up, till the pain of the attempt corroborated
Violet's assurance.
' How base it is.* said she, ' not to be able to do a few hours*
work without haViag to take to one's bed. I flattered myself I
was not so despicably weak, for a woman.'
* You might be satisfied,' said Violet, her heart too full to say
more.
* Not while your Sarah walks about as if nothing had
happened.'
* Where should any of us bo but for you ?' said Violet, bend¬
ing over her.
* There's not an inch of me fit for kissing!' exclaimed Theo¬
dora, turning away.
' Lord Martindale will soon come to tell you what he thinks
of it.'
' Papa! Where is he 1 I don't remember him since we
went down to Armstrong's. Yes, I do though 1' she paused,
* but I can't think of it. Crying would be worse. What a
queer thing fainting is 1 I used to speculate what it wa,3
like.*
' How do you like it V said Violet, perceiving her mood.
'Tolerably, in some respects; but it makes one's memory
ha^y. What has become of mamma 1 I suppose she is afraid
of the sight of my visage.*
' Oh I no, no 1'
' My aunt, of course ! How could I forget I Mra. Arm¬
strong spoke of her being ill. Was it another stroke?' said
Theodora, alarmed as her recollection returned, and Violet was
obliged to tell the whole.
' My poor mother I' said Theodora, gravely, ' I wish I could
help—*
There was a knoek at the door. Miss Standaloft stood hesi¬
tating and making signs to Violet.
' Is there any news of Mrs. Nesbit V asked Theodora. ' There
can be only one thing to hear. Is it over V
It was, and the end had been quiet. Theodora drew a long
breath, and repeated, ' Poor mamma !*
' Do you want me ? Do you think I might go to her V said
Violet ' She has no one with her but the gentlemen.*
0 o2
888 - HEARTSEASE;
' I should be very glad if you were there. Only don't hurt
yourself, or Arthur "will be angry; and to have you to nurse
"would be more than could be borne. My poor aunt! I think
she softened at the last, and she loved us all very much at one
tima'
' I am glad she "was kind to Johnnie,' said Violet.
Miss Alticidora was induced to sit on the other side the
curtain, intending to call Sarah if anything was wanted, and
Violet walked across the park, dreading to enter for the first
time the presence of the shadow of death, fearing in her low¬
liness to intrude or presume, but drawn onwards by the warm¬
hearted yearning to perform a daughter's part, if perchance her
husband's mother could derive the least solace from her atten*
tions.
She crossed the trodden grass, and gazed on the ruin of the
abode that had once almost oppressed her with its grandeur.
Past away ! and "with it, she whose hopes and schemes were set
on the aggrandisement of the family—she had gone where
earthly greatness was weighed in its true balance ! And the
lime trees budded, new and young in their spring greenness, as
when the foundation-stone was laid 1
Violet thought how she had been taught to look on this as
her boy's inheritance, and therewith came the prayer that he
might win his true inheritance, made without hands, ever
spring-like and beyond the power of the flame ! She looked
up at the shell, for it was no more, she only recognised the
nursery windows by their bars; tlie woodwork was charred,
the cement blackened by the fire, where yesterday Helen's and
Annie's faces had been watching her return ! A sick horror
passed over her as she thought how much had depended on
Theodora's watchful night, and imagined what niight have
awaited Arthur !
Then with hopeful, grateful anticipation, she looked to his
coming, and his greeting after such perils endured in his ab¬
sence. 'O, will not thankfulness bring him those thoughts!
It must! He must join with me, when he owns the mercy and
sees our children safe. Oh! then blessings on this night's
danger! Let me see, he will leam it from the paper 1 When
can he come ? Oh! how his looks and one word from him will
reward Theodora!'
She felt as if her happy anticipation had been selfish when
she came near the cottage with its blinded windows. Lord
Martindale was speaking to some one, but turned at once to
her. ' You here, my dear ? You have heard V
' Yes, I have ; but Theodora and I thought as Lady Martin-"
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. 389
dale has no maid here, that I had better come and see if I
could do anything for her. Can 11* said she, with her humble
sweetness.
' I cannot tell, my dear,* he answered. ' She attends to
nothing, and has not been able to shed tears. We cannot
rouse her. Indeed, I am sorry you came j you ought to be
resting.*
*0, no, we both wished it. Should I be troublesome to
her?'
* No, indeed, my dear child,* said he, affectionately. ' It is a
great relief to me that you should be with her, for here is
much that I must attend to, and I wish nothing so much as to
get her to the parsonage. The carriage is waiting, but she will
not hear of coming away, and I do not know how to leave her
here.*
So saying, he led her into the room; Violet gave one shrink¬
ing glance towards the bed, while the chill of awe shot through
her veius; but the chief thought was needed for her who sat
rigid and motionless, with fixed tearless eyes, and features in
cold stillness more than ever like marble. Violet felt as if that
deathly life was more painful to look upon than death itself,
and her hand trembled in Lord Martindale's grasp ; he pressed
it closer, and going up to his mfe, said, ' Anna, my dear, here
is our child Violet so kind as to come and see you.*
Lady Martindale made a courteous movement, as if by
mechanism, but without looking up. He was delaying, unable
to leave them thus, though he was much wanted below stairs.
'I will stay while you go,' whispered Violet, though she
longed to keep him, for that presence filled her with trembling,
and promising speedy return, he departed.
For some minutes she could venture nothing, and the silence
in which she heard only the beatings of her own heart seemed
more than she could bear ; but at last she collected herself, and
an impulse suddenly occui'ring to her, she ventured to touch
her mother-in-law, and said, * Theodora has been asking for
you.*
Lady Martindale shook her head. * I cannot come, I cannot
leave her.*
' Poor Theodora is so much hurt!' pleaded Violet j * you will
be surprised to see how she is scorched ! Such arms and hands,
that she cannot help herself—and she wants cold applications
continually.*
Lady Martindale once looked attentive, but a glance at her
aunt brought back her face of silent misery. Violet was per¬
plexed, but strove on—* poor Theodora ! I hope you will come
390
HEARTSEASE ;
to her. She wants care very much. Did you know that it
was in saving lier that she was so sadly burnt V
'No : Was itl'
' Yes, she snatched her out through the burning curtains.
That was the way Theodora's hair was all burnt off; jtnd her
arms are so blistered?' continued Violet, controlling her trem¬
bling, and speaking as when she was persuading one of the
children—'Poor Theodora ! Will you not come and see her ?'
' Where is she V
' She is at the parsonage. They are ready to take us.'
' Oh, no ! I cannot go. You go to her.'
' Pray, pray come with me. Theodora is so ill! It v/ould
do her so much good to see you; and we are afraid of her being
anxious or distressed, lest she should have fever. Wont you
come V
A motion, as if she could not bear this, made Violet fear she
must desist, and she paused for a short interval, then said, '
was very fond of Theodora.'
'Oh! Yes, yes
' She would not like her to be left so long.'
' I thought you were taking care of her.'
' Oh, yes 1 but I cannot be the same as you would. One
always wants one's mother so much in illness.'
' She was always a mother to me 1' The tearg came at last,
and she wept unrestrainedly; while Violet hung over her with
soft caressing words of sympathy that cannot be detailed, till
the first grief had had its course, and she again tried the expe¬
riment of repeating Theodora's name, and saying how much she
was suffering.
Lady Maitindale did not reply, but suffered Violet to put on
her cloak, and gradually lead her from the room, saying at each
pause something of' poor Theodora.'
The deed was done j it might be by importunity, but it was
worth achieving, even at the risk of being vexatious. Lord
Martindale could hardly believe his eyes when he saw his wife
on her way to the carriage, and Theodora was equally astonished
when she appeared at her bed-side.
It was a new thing to see one, hitherto healthy and indepen¬
dent, so completely prostrated; and no more was needed to
awaken the natural affection so long stifled or thrust aside.
Lady Martindale was greatly shocked, and, perhaps magnifying
her daughter's illness, had no room for any other thought. She
wished to do everything for her herself—would hardly adimt
Violet's assistance—and took every care, with skilfulness that
was marvellous in one trained to ineffectivenes.s.
OK, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
391 '
To Theodora her attendance was a new and exquisite repose.
It was the first taste of her mother's love, and made her con¬
tent to be helpless; as there she lay, murmuring thanks, and
submitting to be petted with a grateful face of childlike peace^
resting in her mother's affection, and made happy by the deptt
of warm feeling in her father's words.
'It is a good speculation to be ill,' said she, with a smile
of stroug feeling when they had bidden her good night, and
left her to Violet, who was to sleep on a mattress on the
floor.
CHAPTEH lY.
' Will you walk into my parlour ?' said a spider to a fly.
Maey Howitt.
And where was Arthur 1
Spending the day with his sporting friends, much to his
own satisfaction, till in the evening, greatly against his will, he
VYas taken out to dine with an old Mr. Handall, of Gothlands,
the master of the hounds.
His nieces, the Misses Marstone, were the ladies of the house
—^well-dressed people, a little passees, but apparently not having
found it out. Arthur watched the arrivals, hoping that the
order of precedence might not consign him to the flow of talk,,
of which he had already had quite a sufficiency, when, to his
surprise, two ladies, evidently at home, entered together.
One—thin, sallow, spectacled—^was, as he knew, an inhabi¬
tant ; but the other—small, slight, and retiring, and, in spite of
clinging lirifresh muslin and shrinking figure, with the unmis-
takeable air of high breeding, was a most unexpected sight. At
least, thought he, here was one lady who would not bore him,
and making his way to her, he inquired for Lady Elizabeth.
Emma, on the other hand, asked after Violet; and it was
curious that both questions were put and answered with con¬
straint, as if each was conscious of being something like a
truant.
Another surprise. 'Mr. Gardner.' In walked Mark him¬
self, and, after shaking hands with the eider Miss Marstone,
came towards Emma and her friend, and was received with
cordial familiarity. He entered into conversation with Arthur,
drawing a little further from Miss Brandon at each step, till
having brought him close to old Mr. Eandall, and placed him
under the infliction of a long prose about the hounds ; he re¬
treated, and was soon again in conversation with the two
friends, Emma's face raised and lighted up with eagerness.
39i HEAETSEASE;
»
Colonel Martindale had no escape from the head of the table
and the eldest of the Misses Marstone. Kesigning himself to
his fate, he made talk; and,,though now broader, redder, and
somewhat coarser in feature and complexion than he had been a
few years ago, he looked so gay and unincumbered, that his
neighbour speculated as to whether he could be the eldest son,
and resolved to discover what her sister, Sarah Theresa, knew
of him.
' It is so pleasant when friends meet unexpectedly,' said she.
' I did not know you were acquainted with either of our guests.'
' Miss Brandon is a near neighbour of my father, and a great
friend of Mrs. Martindale.'
Death to any incipient scheme of Miss Marstone; but she
smiled on, and remarked, ' A very amiable girl, and a beautiful
place, is it not, Bickworth f
* Very pretty, a fine property,' said Arthur, talking as if in
his sleep, for he had caught Mark Gardner s voice saying some¬
thing about an oratory.
' My sister is often staying there,' proceeded the lady. You
know Miss Brandon's scheme of restoring the Priory V
' I did not know that was anything more than talk.'
* I used to think so,' said Miss Marstone j * but both she and
my sister Sarah treat it quite seriously, and Mr. Gardner is
their prime counsellor.'
Arthur started, and with difficulty refrained from laughing.
* Ah ! I believe he has been a little wild, but that is all over
now. He has taken quite a different turn now, and given up
everything of that sort—throws himself into all their views.'
' Indeed !' said Arthur, who knew to his cost that if the
reform had taken place at all, it must have been of extremely
recent date.
' 0, yes, I assure you. He is staying with the curate, Mr.
Bilworth.'
' Ha ! that is an old name at school.'
' Yes; he was an old schoolfellow—a very good man, to whose
persuasions everything is owing.'
She pointed him out, and the first glance was a revelation
to Arthur, who recognised him as the boy who, at school, had
been the most easily taken in. He soon understood tho state
of affairs. Mark, clever, gentlemanly in appearance, and apt at
catching the tone of the society around him, was making a
bold stroke—had persuaded his kind-hearted, simple friend to
believe him a sincere penitent, and to introduce him as such to
the ladies at Oothlands, from whom he caught the talk most
pleasing to them. At present il vas all cccltJsia^tical lesthptigSi
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. 393
and dLcontent with the existing system,-especially as regarded
penitence j by and bye, when his hold should be secure, he would
j)ersuade the heiress that she had been the prime instrument in
his conversion, and that she had gained his heart.
A bit of rhapsody from Miss Sarah Theresa, and poor Emma's
embellished and animated countenance, were suJ^cient indica¬
tions that they were smoothly gliding into the snare; and
accustomed as Arthur was to see Mark Gardner in a very dif¬
ferent aspect, he was astonished at his perfect performance of his
part—^the humility and deference befitting the sense of his errors,
and conversation so entirely at home in all their peculiar lan¬
guage and predilections, that Arthur was obliged to feel for the
betting-book in his own pocket to convince himself that he was
still deeply involved with this most admirable and devoted of
penitents. He could not help, as he took leave, giving a knowing
look, conveying how easily he could spoil his game.
However, Arthur was in reality much annoyed. Of late years
his easy temper had well nigh surrendered itself to the ascen¬
dency of Mark Gardner; and though dissatisfied, remorseful,
and anxious, he had allowed himself to be led farther and far¬
ther into extravagance. The sight of his home excited regrets,
therefore he shunned it; and though weary and discontented in
his chains, he was devoid of force or will to break them, and a
sort of torpor seemed to make it impossible for him to resist
Mark Gardner. Their money matters were much entangled.
. They had entered into a partnership for keeping horses for the
turf, and there was a debt shared between them, the amount ol
which Arthur dreaded to investigate.
That Gardner should obtain a rich wife would be the greatest
relief to Colonel Martindale j but he had rather it should have
been any heiress in the world but Emma Brandon. He had
a friendly feeling towards her, and a respect for her mother,
that made him shrink from allowing her to become a victim,
especially when he would himself be the gainer; and, on the
other hand, he could not endure to betray a friend,—while he
knew that his wife, his father, and his sister would be horrified
at his secrecy.
After a night spent in execrating the dinner party, he received
a call from Mr. Gardner, who, without being aware that he took
any interest in Miss Brandon, came to put him upon his guard,
but found him less manageable than usual. Arthur made a
formidable description of Lady Elizabeth's discretion, underrated
the value of Bickworth, and declared that it would be so tied
up that Mark would gain nothing but a dull, plain little wife.
Kot thus deterred. Mark only asked of him discretion; and
594
HEARTSEASE;
when, trying to cloak his earnest under faltering jest, he declared
that he had a regard for the Brandons, and should get into a
scrape with his father, his friend held out the allurement of
freedom from his difficulties, but was obliged to touch on this
lightly, for Arthur's honour was ready to take fire at the notion
of being bought. It ended in Gardner's treating the matter as
if he had engaged not to betray him, and being hardly gainsaid,
otherwise than by a sort of bantering proviso, that in case of an
appeal direct, he could not be expected to vouch for Mark's
entire and disinterested reformation.
With an intense dislike to the world in general, Arthur was
considering how to prevent his wife from meeting Lady Eliza¬
beth, and how to be out of the way before the report should
spread of Mark's addresses, when everything else was driven
from his mind by the arrival of the papers, with the announce¬
ment of the fire at Martindale.
The safety of the infant family of the Honourable Lieutenant-
Colonel Martindale was the first news that met his eye ; next,
that of the death of Mrs. Nesbit,—^the chief thought that occu¬
pied him in his hasty homeward journey.
He had been taught to think himself her heir j and though
never forgiven for his marriage, hoped that the will might not
have been altered, and considered that, whether it were in his
favour or not, so large a property coming into the family could
not fail to render his circumstances more easy, by enabling his
father to augment his allov dhce, which, though ample in itself,
appeared far from sufficient to a man with expensive tastes and
an increasing family. The hope of independence, and of not
being obliged to wish success to Gardner, was an opening into
liberty and happiness.
By night he was at the parsonage, and Yiolet in his arms as
soon as the door was opened. That moment was perfect—he
was so eagerly tender, so solicitous lest she should have been
injured by terror or exertion, so shocked at her peril in his
absence. In the fulness of her heart she even asked him to
come and see the children safely asleep.
* N ow ? What should I do that for !'
There was no unkindness, but the full felicity of the evening
was marred.
There was no room for him at the parsonage, and an apart¬
ment in the empty house had been fitted up for him, so that
she only saw him for an hour of confused talk over the events
of the fire, and Theodora's condition, which was very uncom¬
fortable j for though the fever was slight, the burns and bruises
were in an unsatisfactory state, and eyes, arms, and hands of very
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. 395'
little use. Slie was patient, and resolute as ever, and so grateful
to iler nurses that waiting on her was a pleasure.
In fact, attendance on her was the only resource for occu¬
pying Lady Martindale, who, when not thus engaged, was
listless and dejected, attending to nothing that passed around
her, and sometimes giving way to inconsolable bursts of grief.
It was as if her aunt had been her one idea in life, and without
her she could turn to nothing else. Violet was very anxious to
prevent the children from molesting her, and in much dread of
their troubling her, now that all were in such close quarters. It
was trying to be engaged with Theodora, and to hear the little
feet and voices where they were not intended to be.
But when she was able to hasten to the rescue, she beheld
Helen in Lady Martindale's lap, and Johnnie by her side, all
three intent on making bouquets; and all apologies and proposals
to fetch them away were replied to by assurances of their good¬
ness, and the pleasure afforded by their company.
It appeared that while playing in the garden, the little
brother and sister had been, as it were, fascinated by watching
her fixed melancholy figure in the drawing-room. Again and
again they had peeped in at the window, striving to forget, but
ever attracted by the sweet compassion of their hearts ; till at
last, after much pausing and whispering, they had betaken them¬
selves to the corner of the garden where cousin Hugh had
given permission to gather as they liked, and at the expense of
his own small fingers, Johnnie had pulled the first bud of
sweet-brier. Lady Martindale had felt a soft touch, and heard
a little timid, coaxing voice—* Grandmamma, may we 1 Would
you like this little, young rose f while towards her was raised
a face delicate and glowing with pale pink like the bud itself.
Grandchildren and flower were at once in her bosom.
Warm, womanly child-love had been forced down to a far
corner of her heart; but there it was, and like the rod piercing
to the hidden spring, that fragrant gift of love touched it home,
and thenceforth it was such fondling as Violet almost feared
might be spoiling, especially of Helen; who, however unruly
or exacting she might be, seemed only to endear herself the
more, and was visibly far more her grandmother's darling than
her gentle, well-behaved brother. This new affection for the
children opened her heart to their mother, on whom she leant
more than she knew. To her she talked of all her aunt's un¬
wearied fondness and care, ever since she had come into her
Lands an orphan in her infancy. There had been real and
entire devotion to each other on the part of the aunt and niece j
and the affection she had been able to inspire, together with the
596
HEARTSEASE ;
goleinn feelings towards the newly dead, gave her memory a
softness that almost enabled Yiolet to think of her in Lady
Martindale's point of view, forget her harshness, and the
worldly pride for her niece and her family,' to which she had
sacrificed their best happinesa
It was a melancholy retrospect. Mrs. Nesbit might be said
to have perfectly succeeded in the object of her life. She had
formed her beloved niece, like the fabled image of snow,
moulded by the enchanter and animated by no will but his,
and had seen her attain the summit of her wishes, universally
admired and distinguished for every talent and grace; while
still completely under her influence, and as aflectionate and
devoted as ever. Could any desire be more fully attained?
But there had ever been further craving, disappointment, com¬
bats, hatred, avarice, disgust; aT:d with all around that could
make old age happy and ho&cUrable, it had been a querulous
melancholy struggle for power, spent in clutching at the toys
that had no pleasure in them—in trying to force worldly
advantages on those who cared not for them, then revenging
their indifference as a personal insult. She had sunk into the
grave without any one having the power to regret her save that
one fond, faithful niece, the one creature she had always regarded
with genuine unselfish affection.
Lord Martindale, whose wife she had ruled, and whose
children had been made unhappy by her, could hardly help
owning to himself that her death was a relief to him; and
Arthur barely made a fair show of moderate respect, in his
anxiety for the property that would free him from embarrass¬
ment. His first inquiry was whether the will were burnt. No,
it was in the hands of a lawyer, who would bring it on the day
of the funeral. Lord Martindale might look reprovingly at
Arthur's eagerness, but the matter was no less important to him.
He had begun life with an expenditure as large as his income
could bear; and as his children had grown up, and unpros-
perous times had come, he had not been able to contract his
expenses. Of late he had almost been in difficulty as to tho
means of meeting the calls for the year; economy was a thing
unknown and uncomprehended by his wife; and the giving up
the house in London had been the only reduction he could
accomplish. No one else in the family had an idea of self-
denial except Theodora, who, perceiving how matters stood, had
refused to have a maid of her own, and had begged him no
longer to keep a horse for her. Some change ought to be made,
but he had gone on in this unsatisfactory manner, trusting that
at Mrs. Nesbit's death all would be straight. Her West ludian
OR. THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
estates and accumulation of wealth must be bequeathed either
to his wife or among his children; and in either case he wouid
be set at ease—either relieved from supporting Arthur, or
enabled to do so without difficulty.
The funeral took place in full grandeur. Lady Martindale
had made it a special request that every one would mourn as if
for her mother, and it was just one of the occasions when pomp
was needed to supply the place of grief.
The only real mourner shut herself up in her own room,
wliither Theodora begged Yiolet to follow her. She found her
stretched on her bed, abandoned to grief. It was the sense of
orphanhood j the first time she had come so close to death and
its circumstances, and it was overpowering sorrow ; but Yiolet
had better leamt how to deal with her, and could venture to
caress and soothe—entreat her to remember how much was
left to love her—and then listen to what Lady Martindale
began as th^ rehearsal of her aunt's care to shield her from
sorrow; but Yiolet soon saw it was the outpouring of a pent-
up grief, that had never dared to come forth. The last time
the vault had been opened it had been for the infant she had
.lost, and just before for the little girls, who had died in her
absence. * My dear,' she said, ' you do not know how it is all
brought back to me. It is as if your three darlings were the^
same I left when we went abroad. Your sweet Helen is exactly
like my precious little Anna, whom I little thought I was never
to see again! Oh, my babies!'
Yiolet was quite relieved to find this excessive grief was not
spent on her aunt, but that it was the long-restrained sorrow
for an affliction in which she could so much better sympathise.
It had been of no avail for Mrs. Nesbit, in mistaken kindness,
and ignorance of a mother's heart, to prevent her from ever ad¬
verting to her darlings; it had only debarred her from the
true source of comfort, and left the wound to ache unhealed,
while her docile outward placidity was deemed oblivion. The
fear of such sorrow had often been near Yiolet, and she was
never able to forget on how frail a tenure she held her first¬
born ; and from the bottom of her heart came her soothing
sympathy, as she led her on to dwell on the thought of those
innocents, in their rest and safety. Lady Martindale listened
as if it was a new message of peace ; her tears were softer, and
she dwelt fondly on little Anna's pretty ways, speaking, and
Yiolet hearing, as if it had been a loss of to-day, instead of more
than thirty long years ago.
Lady Martindale opened a dressing-box, saying how relieved
she had been to find it safe, and from a secret drawer drew out
398
HEARTSEASE;
a paper and sRowed Violet some soft locks of ckesnut hair
^ Their papa gave me these/ she said. ' My dear aunt would
not let me look at them—she thought it hurt me; but I must
see if Anna's hair is not just like Helen's.' And then she
begged Violet not to be alarmed at the resemblance, and kissed
her for saying she was glad of it, and had no fears on that score.
She dwelt on these reminiscences as if they were a solace of
which she could never taste enough, and did not cease talking
over them till Lord Martindale entered. Violet understood
his feeling and the reserve hitherto shown to him sufficiently to
attempt breaking it down, and ventured, as she quitted" the
room, to lay her hand on the little curl, and say, ' Grand¬
mamma thinks Helen like her little Anna.'
Seeing Arthur leaning on the balusters, looking discomposed,
she went down to him. ^ Where have you been ?' he said, rather
sulkily.
* With your mother ; I hope she is growing more calm.'
Wery absurd of her to take it so much to heart l" said
Aithur, entering the drawing-room. ' Have you heard about
this will f
' No. What V
'Never was such a will on this earth ! It ought to be
brought into court! I verily believe the old hag studied to
make it a parting emanation of malice I'
' Oh, hush! hush !' cried Violet, shocked.
' It is all very well saying Hush, hush; but I should like to
know what you mean to live upon V
' What has she done V
' She has gone and left it all to that child!'
' What child V
'My son—your boy John, I tell you; but, mark you, so as
to do no good to a living soul. Not a penny is he to touch till
we are all dead, if we starve meantime. She has tied it up to
accumulate till my eldest son—or John's, if he has one—rcomes
to the title, and much good may it do him !'
' Poor little dear!' said Violet, inexpressibly pained by his
tone.
'Anything but poor! It is 100,000?. to begin with, and
what will it be when he gets it t Think of that doing nothing,
and of us with no dependence but the trumpery 5000?. by the
marriage settlements. It is enough to drive one crazy.*
' It is a pity,' said Violet, frightened by his vehemence.
' It is an end of all chance for me. When she had always
taught me to look to it I It is absolute cheating.'
* Of late she never led us to expect anything.'
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
399
*!No} azid you never took pains to stand weU "with her;
Some people—
* O, Arthur, Arthur 1'
* Well, don't be foolish ! You could not help it. Her spite-
fulness was past reckoning. To see her malice! She imew
John and Theodora would not let me be wronged, so she passes
them over, and my mother too, for fear it should be made up to
me. Was ever man served so before ? My own son, as if to
make it more aggravating !'
. At an unlucky moment Johnnie ran in, and pulled his
mother's dress. * Mamma, may Helen dig in the bed by the
garden door V
*Go away 1' said Arthur, impatiently. ' We can t have you
bothering here.'
Though inattentive and indifferent to his children, he had
never been positively unkind, and the anger of his tone filled
the timid child's eyes with tears, as he looked appealingly at
his mother, and moved away, lingering, and beginning a trem¬
bling * but mamma—
* Don't stay here!' cried Arthur, in an indiscriminating fit
of anger, striking his hand on the table. * Did I not order you
to go this moment, sir V
Poor Johnnie fied, without hearing his mother's consoling
' I'll come;' which only, with her look of grief, further irritated
Arthur. *Ay, ay! That's always the way. Nothing but the
boy, whenever I want you.'
Violet saw defence would make it worse, and tried to give
him the attention he required; though quivering with sup¬
pressed distress for his harshness to his poor little boy, whom
she could hardly help going at once to comfort. She hardly
heard his storming on about the unhappy will, it only seemed
to her like the apple of discord, and great was the relief when
it was ended by Lord Martindale's coming down, asking why
J ohnnie was crying. She hoped this might cause Arthur some
compunction; but he only answered, gruffly, * He was trouble¬
some, he is always fretting.*
Violet found the poor little fellow with tear-glazed face
trying to suppress the still heaving sobs, and bo grateful to his
grandmamma, who had brought him into her room, and was
trying to console him, though unable to discover the secret of
his woe. As he sprung to his mother's lap, his grief broke
forth afresh. His affection for his father was a deep, distant,
almost adoring worship; and the misery inflicted by those
looks and words was beyond what could be guessed, save by his
mother. He thought himself naughty, without knowing why,
HEARTSEASE ;
and could hardly be soothed by her caresses and assurances that
papa was not really angry, but he must not interrupt another
time.
'But mamma, Helen wanted to dig up all cousin Hugh's
little green things.'
Yiolet was thus reminded that she must seek after her
daughter, whom she found revelling - in mischief j and was
obliged to sentence to dire disgrace, causing general commisera¬
tion, excepting that her papa, ignorant that it was his own
fault, declared children to be the greatest plagues in the world.
She saw him no more in private; but grieved at his moodi-
ness all the evening, and at bedtime watched a red spark
moving to and fro in the garden. Her heavy sigh made
Theodora ask what was the matter.
' I wish Arthur would not stay out in the dew. He has a
little cough already,' said she, putting forward the care that
would best bear mention.
' You used to be above caring for dews and night airs.'
' I must for him and Johnnie !' said Violet.
' Ah 1 what do you say to your son's prospects V
' I don't suppose it will make much difference to him,' was
the dejected answer, Violet's eyes still following the red end of
the cigar in the darkness.
' Well! that is contempt for wealth 1 Fancy what will be in
his hands. I thought you would be moralizing on the way to
bring him up to use it.'
'I have not thought of that,' said Violet; 'besides, it will be
long enough before he has it.'
' What 1 will it not be when he is of age V
' No, when he comes to the title.'
' Oh 1 I see. Mamma did not understand that! She thought
it absolutely left to him. How is it, then V
' It is put in trust till either he, or John's son, if he should
have one, comes to the title.'
' Then, it does you no good V
' Only harm,* Violet could not help saying.
. ' How harm 1 It might be worse for you to have it.*
' Most likely,' said Violet's submissive voice. ' But it vexes
Arthur so much!' and the tears fell unseen.
'Well it may \' said Theodora. 'One cannot say what one
thinks of it noWy but— Poor Arthur 1 I was very much
afraid she was going to leave it to me. Now I wish she had.'
' I wish so too.'
' It was silly of me to warn her that Arthur should have
his share; but after all, I don't regret it. I would not have
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
401
had it on false pretences. Did you hear when the wiVI was
dated V
'September, i8—.*
' When Johnnie was a baby. Ah ! I remember. Well, I
am glad we all forfeited it. I think it is more respectable.
I only wish mamma had come in for it, because she is the
right person, and papa is a good deal straitened. That really
was a shame! Why did not she let them have it?*
* Arthur thinks it was for fear we should be helped.'
'No doubt,' said Theodora. 'Well. I wish! It is a horrid
thing to find people worse after they are dead than one thought
them. There ! I have had it out. I could not have borne to
keep silence. Now, let us put the disgusting money matter
out of our heads for good and all. I did not think you would
have been distressed at such a thing, Yiolet.'
' I don't want it,' said Violet, amid her tears. ' It is Arthur's
disappointment, and the knowing I brought it on him.'
' Nonsense 1' cried Theodora. ' If I had Arthur here, I would
scold him well; and as to you, he may thank you for every¬
thing good belonging to him. Ten million fortunes would not
be worth the tip of your little finger to him, and you know
he thinks so. Without you, and with this money, he would be
undone. Now, don't be silly! You have got your spirits tired
out, and sleep will make you a sensible woman.'
Violet was always-the better for an atFectionate scolding, and
went to bed, trusting that Arthur's disappointment might
wear off with the night. But his aunt's inheritance had been
too much the hope of his life, for him to be without a strong
sense of injury, and his embarrassments made the loss a most
serious matter. He applied to his father for an increase of
allowance, but he could not have chosen a worse time; Lord
Martindale had just advanced mney for the purchase of his
company, and could so ill afford to supply him as before, that
but for the sake of his family, he would have withdrawn part
of his actual income. So, all he obtained was a lecture on ex¬
travagance and neglect of his wife and childi'en; and thus
rendered still more sullen, he became impatient to escape from
these grave looks and reproofs, and to return to town before
the disclosure of Mr. Gardner's courtship. He made it his pre¬
text that Violet was unwell and overworked in the general
service; and she was,'in truth, looking very ill and harassed;
but he was far more the cause than were her exertions, and it
was a great mortification to be removed from his parents and
sister when, for the first time, she found herself useful to them,
and for such an ungracious reason too, just when they were so
402 ^ HEARTSEASE;
^ *
inucli drawn together by the dangers they had shared, and the
children seemed to be making progress in their grandmother's
affections. Poor Johnnie, too 1 it was hard to rob him of
another month of conntry air, just as he was gaining a little
strength and colour.
But pleading was useless; the mention of Johnnie revived
the grievance, and she was told she must not expect everything
to ' give way to that boy of hers; every one was ready enough'
to spoil him without his help. He would not stay crammed
into this small house, with the children eternally in the way^
and his father as black as thunder, with no diversion, and
obliged to sleep out in that den of a cottage, in a damp, half-
furnished room—an allegation hardly true, considering Violet's
care to see the room aired and fitted up to suit his tastes; but
he was determined, and she had not even the consolation of
supposing care for her the true reason; the only ground she
could find for reconciling herself to the measure was, that night
walks were not mending his cjDugh, which, though so slight that
he did not acknowledge it, and no one else perceived it, still
made her uneasy. Especially Violet felt the ingratitude of
leaving Theodora in her weak, half-recovered state; but it was
almost as if he had a sort of satisfaction in returning his father's
admonitions on the care of his wife, by making it a plea for depriv¬
ing them of her in their need, and he fixed his day without remorse.
CHAPTER V.
E'en in sleep, pangs felt before,
Treasur'd long in memory's store,
Bring in visions back their pain,
Melt into the heart again.
By it crost affections taught
Chastened will and sobered thought.
AIschylus.—Ansttce.
Arthur did nut succeed in eluding Lady Elizabeth. She
called the day after the funeral, begging especially to see
Mrs. Martindale. She looked absent and abstracted, while
Lord Martindale was talking to her, and soon entreated Violet
to come with her for a short drive.
Ho sooner were they in the carriage than she said,
' Violet, my dear, can you or Arthur tell me anything of this
Mr. Gardner?'
* I know very little of him personally," said Violet, for he
was too much an associate of her husband's for her to be
OR, THE brother'S WlYE,
403
willing to expose him; ' hut are you sure we mean the same
person V
* Quite sure. Did you not hear that Arthur met him at
Gothlands V
* No j I have had very little talk with him since he came
back, and this fire has put everything out of our minds.'
* Of course it must, my dear. However, Arthur came with
lilr. Herries to dine there, and met hir. Gardner as an old
friend; so he must be the same, and I am particularly anxious
for some account of him. I must tell you why—I know I am
safe with you—but you will be very much surprised, after all
her declarations '
' O, Lady Elizabeth, it cannot be that.'
'I have always been prepared for something of the sort.
Hut what, my dear V seeing her agitation, and quickly infected
by it.
* O, don't let her,' was all Yiolet could utter.
* Tell me ! what is he ?—what do you know of him ? They
spoke of him as once having been extravagant——'
Yiolet drew a long breath, and tried to speak with com¬
posure. ' He is a dreadful man, gambling, betting, dissipated—
such a person that Arthur never lets him come near me or the
children. How could he dare think of her V
'Can it be the samef said Lady Elizabeth, infinitely shocked,
but catching at the hope. ' This man is Lady Eotheringliam's
nephew.'
'Yes, he is,' said Yiolet, sadly. 'There is no other cousin
named Mark. ' Why, don't you remember all the talk about
Mrs. Einch?'
So little had Lady Elizabeth heeded scandal, that she had
hardly known these stories, and had not identified them with.
the> name of Gardner. Still she strove to think the best.
' Arthur will be able to tell me,' she said; ' but every one
seems fully satisfied of his reformation—the curate of the
parish and all. I do not mean that I could bear to think of
her being attached to a person who had been to blame. Her
own account of him alarmed me enough, poor dear child; but
when I hear of the clergyman and Theresa Marstone, and all
admiring his deep feeling of repentance '
' How can he be so wicked 1' exclaimed Yiolet.
' You are convinced that he is not sincere 1'
'Why, of course, one does not like to say anything un¬
charitable j but there is something shocking in the notion of
his talking of being good. If he did repent he would know
how horrible it would be for him to marry Emma——'
D D 2
404
HEARTSEASE;
* He does affect great huimlity. He declares that no one
can be more conscious of liis unfitness than himself; but he was
betrayed into this confession of his sentiments—Emma's purity
and devotedness, as Theresa writes to me, having been such
powerful instruments in leading him to a better course. If it
was not for poor Emma's fortune, one might trust this more !
Oh! Yiolet, I never so much was inclined to wish that her
brother had been spared 1'
' But surely—surely Emma cannot like him V
' I grieve to say that she and her friend have been in one of
their fits of enthusiasm. He seemed to accord with their idea
of a penitent—only longing for stricter rules than are to be
found with us. From what I have heard, I should have been
much less surprised if he had become a monk of La Trappe; in
fact, I was almost afraid of it.'
' And does not this undeceive them Y
' No j poor Emma's only doubt is because she cannot bear to
be unstable, and to desert the work to which she was almost
pledged j but she saj'^s she is ashamed to perceive how much
the sacrifice would cost her. She adds, that decide as she may,
he concurs with her in devoting everything to the restoration of
the Priory.'
* Poor Emma! He has debts enough to swallow two-thirds!
And Miss Marstone, what does she say V
' His becoming a suitor seems to have been a surprise and
disappointment to her; but if she thinks him a pupil of her
own, or expects to govern the Priory in poor Emma's stead, she
will be in his favour. No j I have no hope from Theresa
Marstone's discretion.'
* The rest of the family V
* Theresa despises the others too much to attend to them.
Mr. Pandall seems to be startled at the present aspect of affairs,
and asks me to come; and I should have set off this morning,
but that I thought I might learn something from you and
Arthur.*
* Every one would tell you the same. He was expelled from
the "University, and has gone on shockingly ever since, breaking
his mother's heart! Poor Emma ! after heading every gentle¬
man !*
* I fear she has much to suffer. He made her think him not
a marrying man, and put her off her guard. Bid you say he was
agreeable!'
'Perhaps I might think so if I knew nothing about him; but
I bci-ye ^Iwa^s had a repugnance to him, and it is all I can ^o
OB, THE BEOTHER'S WIFE. * 405
not to dislike kim more than is right. If I saw him speak to
Johnnie, I think I should!'
* And now tell me, for I ought to have every proof, if you
know anything that would convince Emma that this present
repentance is assumed?'
Violet coloured excessively. 'Arthur could tell,' she said,
half choked; and as Lady Elizabeth still waited, she was
obliged to add, 'JHe was active in the same way at the last
races. I know there are things going on still that a man who
really meant to reform would have broken off. Arthur could
give you proofs.'
Violet could not bear to be more explicit. Her own secret
feeling was that Mr. Gardner was her husband's evil genius,
leading him astray, and robbing her of his affection, and she
was not far mistaken. Sneers, as if he was under her govern¬
ment, were often employed to persuade him to neglect her, and
continue his ruinous courses; and if she shrunk from Gardner,
he in return held her in malicious aversion, both as a counter
influence and as a witness against him. It was the constant
enmity of light to darkness, of evil to innocence.
The whole drive was spent in conversing on this engrossing
theme; Lady Elizabeth lamenting the intimacy with Sarah
Theresa, a clever, and certainly in many respects an excellent
person, but with a strong taste for singularity and for dominion,
who had cultivated Emma's naturally ardent and clinging nature
into an exclusive worship of her; and, by fostering all that was
imaginative in her friend's composition, had led her to so
exalted an estimate of their own ideal that they alike disdained
all that did not coincide with it, and spumed all mere common
sense. Emma's bashfulness had been petted and promoted as
unworldly, till now, like the holes in the philosopher's cloak, it
was self-satisfaction instead of humility. This made the snare
peculiarly dangerous, and her mother was so doubtful how fai
she would be guided, as to take no comfort from Violet's
assurances that Mr. Gardner's character could be proved to be
such that no woman in her senses could think, a second time, of
accepting him.
' I cannot tell,' said poor Lady Elizabeth; ' they will think all
wiped out by his reform. Emma speaks already of aiding him
to redeem the parit. Ah! my dear,' in answer to a look, ' you
have not seen my poor child of late: you do not know how
much more opinionative she has become, or rather, Theresa has
made lier. I wisli she could have been more with you.'
' I never was enough of a companion to her,' said Violet.
4^06
HEARTSEASE;
In my best days I -was not up to her; and no\7, between cares
and children, I grow more dull every day.'
' Your best days! my dear cMId. "Why, how old are
you V
*■ Almost twenty-two,' said Violet; ' but I have been married
nearly six years. I am come into the heat and glare of middle
life. Not that I mean to complain,' said she, rousing her
voice to cheerfulness; ^but household matters do not make
people companions for those who have their youthfulness, and
their readings, and schemes.'
* I wish Emma could have been drawn to take interest in
your sound practical life.'
' If she would make a friend of Theodora I'
' Yes, but the old childish fear of her is not gone; and Emma
used to think her rather wild and flighty, and so indeed did I;
but how she is changed! I have been much pleased with con¬
versations with her of late. Do you think it is owing to Mr.
Hugh Martindale's influence'{'
In great part it is. What a blessing it is to them all to
have him here.'
' Ah! it has been one of the things that made me most dread
Theresa, that she will not like that good man.'
'What can she say against himf
'I don't exactly understand them. They called him a
thorough Anglican, and said he did not feel the universal pulse!
Now, I know it has been unfortunate for Emma that our own
vicar does not enter into these ways of thinking; but I thought,
when Mr. Hugh Martindale came into the neighbourhood, that
there would be some one to appeal to; but I believe Theresa
will trust to no one but of her own choosing.'
' They had come back to the parsonage-gate, and Lady Eliza¬
beth set Violet down, promising to write as soon as she arrived
at Gothlands; Arthur was samatering in the garden, and as soon
as the carriage was out of sight, came to meet her.
' O, Arthur, Lady Elizabeth wanted to speak to you. Cannot
you catch her?'
'II No. Nonsense.'
'She wanted to ask you about Mr. Gardner. Was it he
whom you met at Gothlands?'
' Well, what of that?'
' Poor Lady Elizabeth! Is it not shocking that he has been
making an offer to Emma?'
'He has, has he? Well, and what is she going to do I'
• There can be but one answer,' said Violet. ' Lady Elizabeth
came to hear about him.'
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
40?
* A fine cliance for gossip for you.' ^ -
* I was forced to tell her,' said she, trying to liide the pain
given her by his contemptuous tone. * I would not have spoken
if I could have helped it.'
' Ay!' said Arthur, ' as he says, set on a lady to talk of her
husband's friends.*
' But, oh! Arthur, what could I do? Think of poor Emma.*
* Emma is a fool.'
' Only you must not be angry with me. I would have said
nothing without cause, but when it comes to this,—and he is
pretending to be reformed.'
* Well, so he might be if you would let him.'
* But, Arthur 1' then eagerly seizing a new hope, ' you don't
mean that he is really improving? Oh! has he given up those
horses, and released you?'
He timned petulantly away. 'How can he? You have
taken away any chance of it now. You have done for him, and
it is of no use to go on any more about it.'
He marched off to his own abode, while she was obliged to
sit down under the verandah to compose herself before Theo¬
dora should see her.
Theodora perceived that much was amiss; but was spared
much anxiety by not being with the family, and able to watch
her brother. The cottage was completely furnished from the
wreck of Martindale; but the removal thither was deferred by
her slow recovery. Though not seriously ill, she had been
longer laid up than had been anticipated in a person so healthy
.and strong; the bums would not heal satisfactorily, and she
was weak and languid. It seemed as if the unsparing fatigues
she had been in the habit of undergoing; her immoderate
country walks—^lier over late and over early hours, had told on
her frame, and rendered the effects of her illness difficult to
shake off. Or, thought Violet, those tidings might - be the
secret cause, although she never referred to them, and con¬
tinued not merely patient, but full of vigour of mind, cheerful,
and as independent and enterprising as submission to orders
permitted. Her obedience to irksome rules was so ready and
implicit, that Violet marvelled, till she perceived that it was
part of her system of combat with self-will; and she took the
departure of her sister in the same manner, forbearing to
harass Violet with lamentations; and when her mother de¬
plored it, made answer, ' It is my fauH. If I had not persuaded
Arthur out of living at Brogden, we should be staying with
them.'
As to the chance of permanent disfigurement, she treated'
m
' HEARTSEASE;
it very coolly, listening with indifference to her mother's fre¬
quent inquiries of the surgeon. 'Never mind, mamma, you
and Violet will keep up the heauty of the family till Helen
comes out.'
The first time she was able to come down stairs was the last
evening before they were to depart. One of Arthur's sparks
of kindly feeling awoke when he beheld his once handsome,
high-spirited sister, altered and wrapped up, entering the room
with an invalid step and air; and though she tried to look
about in a bright degage manner, soon sinking into the cushioned
chair by the window with a sigh of languor. The change was
greater than he had anticipated from his brief visits to her in
her bed-room; and, recollecting the cause of the injuries, he
perceived the ingratitude of depriving her of Violet; but his
contrition came too late, for he had already exchanged his
. leave of absence with another officer.
All that was in his power was to wait upon her with that
engaging attention that rendered him so good a nurse. He was
his pleasantest self, and she was so lively as to put every one
else into good spirits. It was pretty to see the universal
pleasure in her recovery—the weeding woman, going home
late, and looking up at the window to see if she was there, as
Miss Helen had promised, and curtseying, hardly able to speak
for joy and grief together, when Theodora beckoned her to the
window, and asked after her children. The dumb page, too, had
watched an hour for her crossing the hall; and when Arthur
would have taken the tea from him, to hand to her, he gave
such a beseeching glance as was quite irresistible, and the
more affecting as Theodora's hands were not yet in condition to
converse with him, and she was forced to constitute Johnnie
her interpreter.
It was long since any of them had spent so happy an evening;
and at night Arthur insisted on helping her upstairs, and said,
'I declare it is a shame not to leave you Violet. Suppose you
keep her till you are all right again
'O, thank you, Arthur; but for Violet looked
doubtful.
'Why, I thought you wanted to stay, Violet?' said Artlur.
' If you could.'
' Too late for that; but you must settle it between you before
to-morrow morning. Good night.*
Lady IMar tin dale warmly pressed Violet to stay, and she
found it much worse to have personally to make the choice
than to be only a piece of property at Arthur's disposal. She
was, however, firm, saying that he would be uncomfortable
OK, THE brother'S WI^E. 409
without her j and she was grateful to Theodora for perceiving
her motives, and preventing further entreaties.
' You are right,' said Theodora, when her mother was gone.
' It would not be fit to leave him with an empty house, so
T must yield you up; but I cannot bear to think of you in
London.'
' I am used to it,' said Violet, with her patient smile.
* And it will not be four years before we meet again. I shall
try hard to come to you in the autumn.'
*How comfortable that would be! But you must not be
uneasy about me, nor put any one out of the way. I can get on
very well, as long as I have Johnnie.'
It was not till both had laid dow, to rest, and the room was
dark, that Theodora said, 'I innderstand it now. Her poor
sister must have brought her into some bad foreign society, from
which he could only rescue her by marrying her.'
So abrupt was this commencement that Violet had to recol¬
lect who was meant, and so decided was the tone, that she
asked," * What have you heard V
* Nothing fresh, have you V
'No. Arthur had heard nothing from Mr. Mark Gardner;
and I am afraid we shall hear no more till John answers my
letter.'
'No matter; I have found out how it must have been.
Lady Eotheringham, of whom he made a sort of mother,
always liked Jane. Depend upon it, she was anxious about the
way in which poor Georgina was reported to be going on
abroad, and told Percy, when she died, to try if he could do
anything to save Jane. You see he goes to Italy, and there
finds, of course, that there is no way of fulfilling his aunt's
wishes but by sacrificing himself.'
' You have arranged it all most fully 1'
' See if I am not right—or, rather, you will not see; but I
know that was the way. It is his nature to be fantastically
generous, as some people would call it; and as long as he is the
same Percival Fotheringham, the rest is as nothing. I was un¬
just at the first moment. Jane has a better nature, which he
can develope. There is a sense of religion to work on—a power
of adaptation to those she is with; and if what she has seen in
Italy has shocked her and made her turn to him, he may be
the making of her. She is clever enough ; and when she finds
that nothing but truth and honesty will succeed with him, she
will learn them at last.'
' How glad I am you take it in this way.*
' This quiet time has been good for me,' said Theodora. ' It
410
HEARTSEASE;
would have been maddening to have had no pause before waking
to ordinary life.'
* Then the fire came at the right time for you.'
* Have you not read of men rushing into battle, hoping each
shot would strike them V
* 0, Theodora!' ' .
' It did not last long. Don't be frightened. "Woman fear,
and the stifling smell, and burning feel, and the sight of the"
red hot gulf, were enough to drive it oif. I shall never forget
the touch of the floor in Charles's room ! I thought of nothing
but the fire. The feeling only came back with the fainting. I
remember a confused notion that I was glad to be dying with .
you holding my head and papa so kind. How savage I felt
when every one would rouse me, and tell me I was better ! I
was in hopes the world was all over with me; but I see I have
a great deal to do first, and the comfort of lying torpid here has
been veiy great. I have had time to be stunned, and to get a
grasp of it and of my own mind.'
' Dear Theodora! It is indeed sometimes a blessing to be
laid up. It brings out so much kindness. It is the easiest of
all the crosses.'
' I should not wonder if my rampant health had helped to
make me the more wayward,' said Theodora. * I would not but -
have been ill for the sake of the kindness from my father and
mother. I was sure of you, but there is It has given me
spirit to look out upon life.'
' I hope there is peace at least in the look.'
^ There is. It is not worse than before, except the vanishing
of a lingering foolish hope, and that is safest. Repentance must
always be there. My life is like myself; the wounds may heal,
but the marks will remain and the freshness and glow will never
return here. I am glad I am so much altered. I should not
like to be again within the pale of attractive people.'
^ It is strange to hear you say such things so calmly.'
* I made up my mind long ago. In following poor Georgina
—or rather, my own self-will—I threw away the bloom of life,
Percy warned me that those who reject light crosses have
heavy loads imposed. I made what now seems hardly a cross
of reed, into a scourge ! Oh, Yiblet! Would that I had done
no harm but to myself by those races 1'
' Hush !' said Violet's smothered voice.
' But for that,* said Theodora, recovering steadiness of tone,
* I should bear everything peacefully. I was unworthy of
Percy, and am better off than I deserve. Oh, Violet I I have
wished to thank you for m^ing me go to Baden, and promising
OR, THE brother'S. WIFE.
411
that if I would submit, guidance would come. There it was,
the instant I really sought it. What would have become of me
if I had not been haunted by your look and your words ? How
many times they saved me from accepting Lord St. Erme!
And if I had, how my self-will, and pride, and jealousy would
have grown! and how wretched I should be making him
now r
' It is much better as it is.*
' Yes, whatever pain 1 did give him by my very shameful
usage, it would have been far worse to have gone on. I was
thankful that I was stopped. Now I think I see my own life.
There are my home duties j and oh ! how could I have spoken
as I once did of papa ! How shocking it must have seemed to
you !*
* I do not know what it was, but it was under great provoca¬
tion, and you did not understand him then.'
• 'No, you and Hugh drove me to hi'n, and in seeing him
. pleased with anything I can do for him, there is solid happiness.
I have learnt to enter into his affection and deep feeling and
anxieties, and I would not have missed these four years of
reciprocity with him for anything ! And I shall get on better
with mamma now. I fancy she has a different nature after all,
from what my aunt forced on her. Well, then, you know I
have long set up for a maiden aunt, and there is John, who
might want a housekeeper. Or if I am of no use to my ov/n
folks, there are the poor always. Perhaps I may come to Emma
Brandon's priory. It would be fine discipline to be under
Mother Theresa.'
This unexpected pleasantry Yiolet could only answer by a
groan.
' Seriously,' continued Theodora, ' my doubt would be whether
it would be right to turn to such a course only when one has
nothing else to do. It is a different thing from giving the
energies and wishes and visions of youth, as Emma has done.
I could only offer the worn-out. But that is speculation.
There is present duty at home and in the village, and bright¬
ness in your children, and my hopes are on John. I have
used him vilely, because he tried to teach me to take to you, and
I do long to see him and ask his pardon, and you will help me,
BO that he shall believe in my sorrow, and we will be a sober
old brother and sister together.'
' I believe he wishes for nothing more. He will feel your
having worked for him, instead of saving anything of your
own.*
' I had little to care for • my childhood had few recollections
412
HEARTSEASE ;
and I bad nothing of Helen's. It was a pleasnre' to wort for
him. Do yon know when I saw that marble chess-table which
had belonged to the parsonage, and which Percy had left in
John's charge, a horrid feel came that I would not save it for
Jane, and I left it. Then I remembered that was a nasty
spiteful bit of revenge, and I hated myself, and da,shed in when
I really did know that it was not safe. I was altogether mad, -
I believe. I felt desperate, and rather enjoyed facing danger
for it. And then I felt the heat of the fire from the gallery
again, and the spout from the fire-engine came, and the smoke
was so thick that I missed my footing with that great heavy
thing, and fell down stairs to the first landing, and I believe
that must have been what hurt my hand and side so much.'
Then as she heard Violet's tightened breath at the thought
of the frightful peril,
'Well for me I did not perish with these wild thoughts ! I
am. glad I have told you at last. I have felt as if I ought to
confess it, and yet I was ashamed. Is the thing safe V
'Yes, I saw it at Brogden; but oh to think of it!'
' I am glad it is safe ; it was John's charge, and he ought to
restore it; but you will dream of it, like poor little Johnnie,
if you take it so much to heart. I should not have told you
at night. Put it out of your head, and let us sleep in peace.'
' Good night, dear sisten Thank you for talking to me. 0,
this is better than the night we parted before.'
'As much better as it is to have found one's anchor than to'
Ik} tossed at the will of the waves. That was a frightful time.
Thank heaven that you made me feel for the cable ! There is
a dreary voyage to come, but after all, every day we end the
Creed with ' The life everlasting.''
OHAPTEB VI.
What have I? Shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden well,
A well of love, it may be deep,
I trust it is, and never dry.
Wliat matter if the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity. WoRliSWOiiTiI.
VIOLET experienced the trials to which she knew she was
returning. Por some time past her husband's habits had
been growing less and less domestic, and his disappointment
alienated him still more. It was as if Mrs. Nesbit had left
behind her a drop of poison, that perverted and envenomed the
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. _ 413'
- pride he used to take in his son, as heir to the family honours,
and made him regard the poor child almost in the light of a
rival, while he seemed to consider the others as burdens, and
their number a hardship and misfortune.
He was so impatient of interruption from them, that Yiolet
kept them carefully out of his way, while he was in the house,
and this was seldom for a long space of time. AH the • fancied
trials of the first year of her marriage seemed to have actually
come upon her ! She hardly saw him from morning to night,
and when he did spend an evening at home, he was sullen and
discontented, and found fault with everything. She was far
from well, but his days of solicitude were gone by, and he was
too much wrapped up in his own concerns to perceive her
failure in strength, and the effort it cost her to be cheerful.
The children were her great solace, but the toil of attending to
them was almost beyond her powers, and if it had not been for
her boy, she felt as if she must have been quite overwhelmed.
Quiet, gentle, and thoughtful, he was a positive assistance in
tlie care of his sisters ; and to read with him, hear his remarks,
watch his sweet obedience, and know herself the object of his
earnest affection, was her chief enjoyment, though even here
there was anxiety. His innocence and lovingness had some¬
thing unearthly, and there was a precocious understanding, a
grave serious turn of mind, and a want of childish mirth,
which added to the fears caused by his fragile health. Play
was not nearly so pleasant to him as to sit by her, reading or
talking, or to act as her little messenger j and it was plain that
he missed fondness from his father almost as much as she did
for him. To be in the room with papa was -his most earnest
desire, and it saddened her to see that little slight figure silent
in the corner, the open book on his lap, but his pale face, soft
dark eyes, and parted lips, intent on every movement of his
father, till the instant a want was expressed, or the least occa¬
sion for a service offered, there was a bound to execute it, and
the inattentive indifferent ' thank you' was enough to summon
up the rosy hue of delight. Would Arthur only have looked,
how could he have helped being touchedBut he continued
neglectful and unheeding, while the child's affection seemed to
thrive the more under disregard.
Violet's only satisfaction was in the absence of Mr. Gardner.
£lhe heard constantly from Lady Elizabeth Brandon; but there
\jas little that was hopeful in that quarter. Emma's heart was
more entirely in the power of her suitor than even their fears '
had anticipated. She had kept so entirely aloof from gentlemen,
and so suspiciously repel led the most ordinary attention, that when
414
HEARTSEASE;
once she had permitted any intimacy the novelty gave it a double
charm. He had come upon her at first as one bowed down with
sorrow for the follies of his youth, seeking only for the means of
repairing what was past, and professing that happiness was over,
and all he could hope was to evidence the depth of his repent¬
ance by his devotion and self-sacrifice in the cause of the Church.
Then, when at unawares, he allowed it to be discovered by
Theresa that the hearty supposed to be awake only to remorse,
had been gained by the earnestness and excellence of her young
friend, and that in her was the most powerful means of consoling
and aiding him, when he seemed sunk in the depths of despair
at having allowed his sentiments to transpire, and only too much
humiliated by the idea of been named together with Miss Bran¬
don, it was impossible but that Emma's gentle and enthusiastic
spirit should go more than half way to raise him from his de¬
spondency. - She could not believe his errors so great, after all;
or even if they were, who would not overlook them, and rejoice
to have the power of comforting such a penitent 1 Theresa
Marstone, with a woman's latent love of romance, was prime
' confidante to both, encouraged all, and delighted in the prospect
of being supreme in the Priory, and moulding the pattern house¬
hold of the pair formed and united under her auspices.
In the midst of such a dream as this, what chance had Lady
Elizabeth of convincing the friends that their penitent, scarcely
persuaded to relinquish plans of a hermitage, was a spendthrift
adventurer, seeking to repair his extravagance with the estate?
of Rickworth ]
Emma shed indignant tears, and protested that it was cruel
to bring up his past faults ; talked of the Christian duty of for¬
giving the returning sinner ; and when Lady Elizabeth showed
that he had very recently been engaged in his usual courses,
Theresa, with a sensible face and reasonable voice, argued that
ordinary minds could not enter into the power of the Church's
work, and adduced many cases of equally sudden change of
life.
She did not mention whether there was always the heiress of
ten thousand a year ready as a reward.
The list of charges against Mark's character deepened every
day, and added to poor Lady Elizabeth's horror, but he always
contrived to render them as nothing to Emma. He had always
confessed them beforehand, either to her or to Theresa, with
strong professions of sorrow, and so softened and explained away,
that they were ready to receive each fresh accusation as an ex¬
aggeration of a fault long past, and deeply regretted, and only
admired their injured Mark the more. Lady Elizabeth wrote to
OE, THE EEOTHEK'S WIFE. , 415
beg Violet to give her the clue which she had said Arthur pos¬
sessed to Mark's actual present character.
In much distress Violet wrote the letter, mentioning some.
disgraceful transactions which she knew to have been taking
place at the very time when the good curate believed his friend
sincerely repentant. She had heard them, not from Arthur,
but from Mrs. Bryanstone, who always learnt from her brother
every such piece of gossip ; but still, after what had passed, and
Lady Elizabeth's appeal direct to Arthur, she thought it her
duty to teU him before she sent the letter, and to ask if the
facts were correct.
It was a most unpleasant duty; but Arthur was not in such
a mood as when first she had mentioned the subject to him. He
muttered something about the intense folly of a woman who
could believe a word out of Gardner's mouth j said if Emma
desired to be made miserable for life she could not take a better
way; wished he had never set eyes on the fellow, and then,
grumbling at Violet's beggiug him to read the letter, he cast
his eye over it, and said it was all true, and there was worse, too,
if Lady Elizabeth did but know it; but what this was he would
not tell her. He made no objection to her sending the letter,
saying he supposed it must be done, since she was asked; but
it was all her doing, and Lady Elizabeth might have gone to
some one else; and inconsistently ended with, ' After all, what's
the use of making such an uproar about it ? Such tilings have
happened twenty times before, and will again.'
* Hot with my poor Emma, I hope. Imagine her with such a
man as that!'
* Well! there are plenty of such couples. I wonder what
would become of the world if wives were not better than their
husbands.'
Every rational person at Gothlands thought this letter con¬
clusive ; Emma herself was shaken; but a walk in the shrub
bery with.Mark settled it in her mind that his newly-formed
wishes of amendment had then been weak—he had not then
seen her, he had not learnt so much as at present. He had not
been able to confess these deeds, because others, who had now
spoken, were concerned in them; but now it was a relief to be
able to tell all to his Emma! The end of it was, that Emma
herself was almost ready to press forward the marriage, so as to
give him the means of clearing himself from the debts, which,
as ho insinuated, were the true cause of .Colonel Martindale's
accusations. He forgave him, however, though if all was known
of his dealings with Arthur Martindale—! And then there
was a long confidential talk with Theresa Marstone, after which
416
HEARTSEASE;
she told Lady Elizabeth that, though Mr. Gardner spared
Emma's feelings with regard to her friend, there could be no
doubt that Colonel Martindale had done much to lead him
astray.
At last, as a dutiful concession, Emma resolved on a compro¬
mise, and put him on his probation for a year. This was parti¬
cularly inconvenient to him, but he was very resigned and
humble; * perhaps he had hoped more from her affection, but
he knew it was his penalty, and must submit. If there was but
some religious house to which he could retire for the interme¬
diate space; for he dreaded the effect of being sent back to the
world.'
Theresa was wrought upon to counsel haste; but Emma had
principle at the bottom of her effervescence of folly, and was too"
right-minded, as well as too timid, to act in direct opposition to
her mother, however she might be led to talk. Therefore they
parted, with many tears on Emma's part, and tender words and
promises on Mark's. Lady Elizabeth had little hope that he
would not keep them; but she took advantage of the reprieve
to conduct Emma to make visits amongst her relations—sober
people, among whom sense was more likely to flourish, and
among whom Mr. Gardner could never dare to show himself.
He went, as he told Emma, to seek for some continental
convent, whe^ft perhaps he might be received as a boarder, and
glean hints for the Priory. Ordinary minds believed that his
creditors being suspicious of the delay of his marriage with the
heiress, had contributed to this resolution.
He spent a few days in London on his way, came to call on
Colonel Martindale, and was much with him, as Yiolet after¬
wards found, though she did not know of it at the time.
She perceived the renewal of his influence in a project of
which Arthur began to talk, of leaving the army and esta¬
blishing himself at Boulogne. Though by rigid economy and
self-denial she had continued to make the original sum appor¬
tioned to her cover all household expenses, and his promotion
had brought an increase of income, Arthur declared that, with
such a family, his means were inadequate to the requirements
of his profession, and that unless his father could assist them
further, they must reside abroad. Lord Martindale treated the
threat with great displeasure, and to Yiolet it was like annihi¬
lation. When thankful for Mark Gardner's absence, she was
to be made to pursue him, probably in order that he might
continue to prey on Arthur in secret, and then, at the year's
end, bring them as witnesses that he had abstained from open
transgression; she was to see her husband beconie the idUng
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
Englislimaii abroad, in the society most likely to be his ruin;
to have her children exposed to the disadvantages of a foreign
education—^what more was wanting to her distress 1 She ven¬
tured to expostulate on their account j but Arthur laughed,
and told her they would learn French for nothing ; and when
slie spoke of the evils of bringing up a boy in France, it was
with the look which pained her so acutely, that she was an¬
swered, <ITo fear but that he will be looked after: he is of
consequence in the family.*
Never had the future looked so desolate; but sufficient unto
the day was the evil thereof. She had the root of peace and
strength, and had long been trained in patient trust and en¬
durance. To pray, to strive, to dwell on words of comfort, to
bear in mind the blessings of the cross, to turn resolutely from
gloomy contemplations, and to receive thankfully each present
solace,—^these were the tasks she set herself, and they bore the
fruit of consolation and hidden support. Her boy's affection
and goodness, the beauty and high health of her little girls, and
the kindlier moments when Arthur's better nature shone out,
were balm and refreshment, because she accepted them as gifts
from the Fatherly Hand that laid the trial upon her.
Her submissive distress so far worked on Arthur, that she
heard no more of the Boulogne scheme for the present; and she
drove it out of her mind, grateful for his silence, whether it
was only from consideration for her, or whether he had really
relinquished the design, now that Mr. Gardner was no longer
near to maintain his ascendency.
The summer was dreary at Brogden, as well as in Cadogan-
place. Theodora soon was able to call herself well, and to re¬
sume her usual avocations; but she had not the same sense of
energy and strength of body, and her days were combats with
inertness and fatigue. She did not slacken her exertions, but
they had no zest, and she suffered for them. Moreover, she
was uneasy about Arthur and his wife; and to partake her
father's confidence was to share his many anxieties, and to be
perplexed by his cares as well as her own. With her mother
there were other difficulties. Lady Martindale had been kept
so far apart from her daughter, that now it seemed as if they
could not amalgamate, and when Theodora no longer was ill,
the old habit of reserve returned. Assiduously did Theodora
wait on her, read to her, and go out with her in the carriage;
but still without becoming familiar, or being able to cheer her
tpirits. In truth, after having been for years an obedient at¬
tendant on her aunt. Lady Martindale felt the blank of the
want of occupation, and thus the sense of her loss was over re-
£ £
418 HEAltTSEASE;
r.e^yed. Science, literature, and accomplisliments had Leen her
pursuits, chiefly because her aunt led her to them, and they
had been gradually dropped with Mrs. Nesbit's interest in them.
In themselves they had no charm for her, and she turned from
them now as painfully recalling what she had lost. Dispirited,
and without employment, the natural consequence was that her
health suffered, and she became a prey to the varied torments
of neuralgia, while Theodora proved herself a better nurse than
could have been expected for an illness in which she only half
believed.
Many hopes were fixed on John's return; but this was de¬
ferred,—he was in the midst of church building, and establish¬
ing schemes to which absence would be fatal, and he could only
promise to come home next year, when things should be put in
train. To his sister he wrote a letter so full of warm affec¬
tionate gratitude for her exertions in his behalf, that she was
positively soothed and refreshed, and reckoned the more on be¬
ginning with him the fraternal imion so long delayed, but to
which she looked as the solace of her future life.
As to Percival Fotheringham, there was no further explana¬
tion of his marriage. John wrote to Yiolet that he had not
heard from him for many months, for it was dlfScult to keep
up a correspondence between Barbuda and the continental
towns whither he was journeying. His last letter had spoken
of a tour in Italy in contemplation, and that in which he had
communicated Lady Potheringham's death, mentioned some
of her last cares being for Jane and Georgina, and how she had
tried to leave some provision which might rescue the former
from the necessity of following her sister into the undesirable
society she found abroad. This only served to confirm Theo¬
dora's conjecture.
Prom other sources no intelligence was gained. London was
empty, and Violet saw no one likely to know anything of his
movements; and when she heard that Mark Gardner had been
in town, and eagerly inquired whether he had been askedj she
found that Arthur had forgotten the whole matter. Lady
Elizabeth finished the letter, rejoicing- in his departure, by
saying—'He confirms what I told you of the marriage of his
cousin and Mr. Potheringham, and calls it a lucky thing for her.
I had no opportunity of hearing the particulars.' And, finally,
Mrs. Bryanstone had heard of Miss Gardner's marriage wifli
one of the Potheringhams of Worthbourne, and only wante'4
Mrs. Martindale to strengthen her in the belief that ib was thd
dear, eccentric Crusader, ,
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
m
CHAPTEK" VII
'Mid fiombre shades of evening dim
Upon the rock so lone, so di'ear.
Scorning weak frame and sinking limb.
My heart grows bright and bold of cheer J
Out of the depths of stormy night
My hope looks up with cloudless eyes,
And to the one true deathless light,
Its joyful pinions swiftly rise:
Thanks to the seraph shape that beamed
Benign upon my darkened breast.
So for her service worthy deemed,
My grateful heart abounds in rest.
ou must not be frigbtened, dearest Violet—^Albert is
safe; thanks to that most noble-hearted, admirable Lord
St. Erme, and above all, thanks to Him who directed this
dreadful stroke away from us. I hope you will receive this before
you see the newspaper. Mamma has gone up with them, to
help them to break it to poor Lady Lucy. May she be sup-
[)orted!
' The history, as far as I can tell you, is this:—The men at
the collieries have been as troublesome and insubordinate as
ever, seeming to think opposition to Lord St. Erme an assertion
of their rights as free-born Englishmen; and at last, finding it
impossible to do anything with them as long as they did not
depend immediately upon himself, he took the pits into his own
hands when Mr. Shoreham went away, a fortnight ago. It
seems that Mr. Shoreham, knowing that he was going, had let
everything fall into a most neglected state, and the overlookers
Tu'ought reports to Albert that there Avere hardly any safety-
lamps used in the great pit, and that the galleries were so
insufficiently supported that there was great danger in con¬
tinuing to work there. However, the reports Avere contradictory,
and after trying in vain to settle what was to be done, Lord
Sb. Erme rode this morning to the collieries, to make a personal
inspection, and insist on the men using the Davy-lamp. After
trying to dissuade him, Albert proposed to go down with him;
but he would not consent—^he only smiled, and said there was
no need for it. It did not strike Albert till afterwards that he
was conscious of the risk, and would not allow another to share
it! He was waiting for him, not far from the shaft, when the
earth seemed to give way under his feet; there was a thunder^
irg sound, a great cry, and he fell. When he recovered his
Fouque's Minstrel Love,
'Wraugerton, August 20th.
E 2
420
HEARTSEASE J
footing, the mouth of the'shaft was gone, the scaffolding
prostrate, the people around in horror and consternation. The
pit had fallen in, and there were at least twenty men there,
besides Lord St. Erme. Oh! how you will share that shuddering
thankfulness and sorrow, that we felt, when Albert galloped
up to the door and threw himself into the arm-chair, so unnerved
by the shock that he could not at first speak. Happily his wife
was here, so she heard all at once. He is gone with mamma and
papa to tell the poor sister. Alas! though we think most of
her, there are many other sufferers.
' Three clock,—Albert is come back. He says Lady Lucy
met them in the hall, pale and trembling, as if she had already
worked herself into an agony of fright. She begged them to tell
her at once, and stood quite still, only now and then moaning
to herself, ' Oh, St. Erme! St. Erme!' Mamma took her by the
hand, and tried to speak soothingly; but she did not seem to
attend, and presently looked up, flushed and quivering, though
she had been so still before, and declared that the whole might
not have fallen; she had heard of people being dug out alive;
they must begin at once, and she would go to the spot. There is
no hope, Albert says; even if not crushed, they must have
perished from the foul air; but the poor girl has caught fast
hold of the idea, and insists on going to Coalworth at once to
urge it on. They cannot prevent her, and mamma cannot bear
that she should be alone, and means to go with her. The
carriage was ordered when Albert came here! Poor thing,
there was never fonder love between a brother and sister; she
hardly had a thought that did not centre in him. It breaks
my heart to think how often we have seen them walking arm in
arm together, and said they might be taken for a pair of lovers.
' Five 0^clock.—^Annette begs me to conclude her letter. My
father has returned home, and fetched her to Coalworth, to be
with my mother; and the poor young lady (already, I fear.
Countess of St. Erme) who, he tells us, continues buoyed up by
the delusion that her brother may yet be found alive, and is
calling on all around to use the utmost exertions for his
recovery. I regret that I cannot go in Annette's stead; but I
cannot leave home in mamma's absence, as poor Louisa is much
affected by Albert's peril, and in so nervous a state that she will
not hear of my quitting her for a moment. We have indeed
received a lesson, that no rank, however exalted, can protect
from the strokes of Providence, or the uncertainties of human
life. But the postman calls. Adieu.
' Your affectionate sister,
^ Matjlda hloss.*
OB, THE BBOTHEB S WIEE.
421
friie last moral sentiment, be it observed, reached ^ Miss
Martindale, rendered illegible by scrawls of ink from Yiolet'a
hand.)
'Coalworth, August 21st.
'Deakest Violet,—^IVIatilda told you how I was sent for to
come here. They are working on,—^relays relieving each other
day and night; but no one but poor Lady Lucy thinks there is
any hope. Mr. Alder, the engineer , says Lord St. Erme must
have been in the farthest gallery, and they cannot reach it in
less than a week, so that if the other perils should be escaped,
there would be starvation. The real number lost is fourteen,
besides Lord St. Erme. It was a strange scene when I arrived
at atout seven o'clock yesterday evening. The moor looking so
jquiet, and like itself, with the heath and furze glowing in the
setting sun, as if they had no sympathy for us, till, when we
came near the black heaps of coal, we saw the crowd standing
round,—then getting into the midst, there was the great broken
down piece of blackened soil and the black strong-armed men
working away with that life-and-death earnestness. By the
ruins of a shed that had been thrown down, there was a little
group;—Lady Lucy, looking so fair and delicate, so unlike
everything around, standing by an old woman in a red cloak,
whom she had placed in the chair that had been brought
for herself, the mother of one of the other sufferers. Mamma
and papa were with her; but nothing seems to comfort Jier so
much as going from one to the other of the women and
children in the same trouble with herself. She talks to them,
and tries to get them to be hopeful, and nurses the babies, and
especially makes much of the old woman. The younger ones
look cheered when she tells them that history which she dwells
on so much, and seem as if they must believe her; but the poor
old dame has no hope, and tells her so. * 'Tis the will of God,
my lady, don't ye take on so now. It will be all one when we
come to heaven, though I would have liked to have seen Willy
again; but 'tis the cross the Lord sends, so don't ye take on;'
and then Lady Lucy sits down on the ground, and looks up ro
lier face, as if her plain words did her more good than anything
we can say, or even the clergyman, who is constantly going
from one to the other. Whenever the men come to work, or
go away, tired out. Lady Lucy thanks them from the bottom of
her heart; and a look at her serves to inspirit and force them
on to wonderful exertions. But alas! what it must end in!
We are at the house that was Mr. Shoreham's, the nearest to
the spot. It was hard work to get poor Lady Lucy to come in
last night. She stood there till long after dark, when the stars
4£2
HEARTSEASE;
were "all out, and mamma could only get lier away T:)y telling
her, that her brother would be vexed, and that, if she made
herself ill, she would not be able to nurse him. She did not
sleep all night, and this morning she was out again with
daylight, and we were obliged to bring her out some breakfast,
which she shared with the fellow-sufferers round her, and
would have taken nothing herself if the old dame had not
coaxed her, and petted her, calling her * My pretty lady,' and
going back to her lecture on its being a sin to fret at His will.
Mamma and I take turns to be with her. When I camein,
she w^as sitting by the old woman, reading to her the Psalms,
and the good old creature saying at the end of each, ^ Yes, yea,.
He knows what is good for them. Glory be to Him.'
^ Aug. 22nd.—As before. They have tried if they can open
a w^ay from the old shaft, but cannot do it with safety. Lady
Lucy still the same, but paler and more worn; I think, less
hopeful j I hope, more resigned.
^ Aug. 2'^rd.—Poor Lucy was really tired out, and slept for
two whole hours in the heat of the noon, sitting on the ground
by old Betty, fairly overpowered. It was a touching sight;
the old> woman watching her so sedulously, and all the rough
people keeping such strict silence, and driving off all that could
disturb her. The pitmen look at her with such compassionate
reverence ! The look and word she gives them are ten thousand
times more to them, I am sure, than the high pay they get for
every hour they work ! Next Wednesday is the first day they
can hope to come to anything. This waiting is dreadful. Would
that I could call it suspense !
* Aug. 2J^th, Swnday.—She has been to church this morning.
I did not think she could, but at the sound of the bell, she
looked up, and the old woman, too; they seemed to understand
each other without a word, and went together. The service
was almost more than one could bear, but she was composed,
except at the references in the sermon to our state of intense
anxiety, and the need of submission. At the special mention
in the Litany of those in danger, I heard from beneath her
hands clasped over her face, that low moan of * 0, brother,
brother !' Still I think when the worst comes, she will bear it
better and be supported.
'Five dcloch.—There is hope!—O Yiolet! We went to
church again this afternoon. The way leads past the o^d shaft.
As we came by it in returning, Lady Lucy stood still, a ad said
she heard a sound. We could hear nothing, but one of the
wives said, 'Yes, some one was working, and calling down
there.' I flew to the main shaft, and called Mr. Alder. He
OR, THE BROTilER^S WIFE.
423
was incredulous, but Lady Lucy insisted. A man went down^
and the sound was certain. No words can be made out. • They
are working to meet them.* Lucy burst into tears, and threw
her arms round my neck as soon as she heard, this man's re¬
port ; but oh! thankful as we are, it is more cruel than ever
not to know who is saved, and this letter must go to-night
without waiting for more.
* 2^tK—He is alive, they say, but whether he can rally i?
most uncertain. All night they worked on, not till six o'clock
this morn IDg was any possibility of communication opened.
Then questions were asked, * How many were there f ' Fifteen,
all living, but one much crushed.' Oh! the suspense, the
lieart-beating as those answers were sent up from the depths of
the tomb—a living, tomb indeed; and how Lady Lucy pressed
the women's hard hands, and shed her tears of joy with them.
But there was a damp to her gladness. Next message was that
Lord St. Erme had fainted—they could not tell whether he
lived—^lie could not hold out any longer ! Then it was that she
gave way, and indeed it was too agonising, but the old woman
seemed better able to calm her than we could. Terrible mo¬
ments indeed! and in the midst there was sent up a folded
paper that had been handed out at the small aperture on the
point of a tool, when the poor things had first been able to see
the lights of their rescuers. It was to Lady Lucy j her brother
had witten it on the leaf of a pocket-book, before their single
lamp went out, and had given it in charge to one of the men
when he found his strength failing. She was too dizzy and
trembling to make out the pencil, and gave it to me to read to
her. I hope I am not doing wrong, for I must tell you how
beautiful and resigned a farewell it was. He said, in case this
note ever came to her, she must not grieve at the manner of
his death—it was a comfort to him to be taken, while trying
to repair the negligence of earlier years; they were a brave
determined set of men who were with him, and, she must pro¬
vide for their widows and children. There was much fond
thought for her, and things to console her, and one sentence
you must have—' If ever you meet with the hoclt-heseeltes Mdd-
clien, let her know that her knight thanks and blesses her in
his last hour for having roused him and sent him forth to the
battle field. I would rather be here now than what I was when
she awoke me. Perhaps she will now be a friend and comforter
to you.*
' I think those were the words. I could not help writing
them. Poor Lucy cried over the note, and we lowered down
baskets of nourishment to be handed in, but we heard only of
424 HEARTSEASE;
Lord St. Erme's contintied swoon, and it was a weary while
before the opening could be widened enough to help the sufferers
out. They were exhausted, and could work no more on their
side. But for him, it seems they would have done nothing; he
was the only one who kept his presence of mind when the
crash came. One lamp was not extinguished, and he made
them at once consider, while the light lasted, whether they
could help themselves. One of the hewers knew that they were
not far from this old shaft, and happily Lord St. Erme had a
little compass hung to his watch, which he used to carry in his
wanderings abroad; this decided the direction, and he set
them to work, and encouraged them to persevere most man¬
fully. He did not work himself—indeed, the close air oppressed
him much more than it did the pitmen, and he had little hope
for his own life, however it might end ; but he sat the whole
time, supporting the head of the man who was hurt, and keep¬
ing up the resolution of the others, putting them in mind of
the only hope in their dire distress, and guiding them to prayer
and repentance, such as might fit them for life or death. ' He
was more than ten preachers, and did more good than forty
discourses,' said one man. But he had much less bodily strvingth
than they, though more energy and fortitude, and he was
scarcely sensible when the first hope of rescue came. It seemed
as if he had just kept up to sustain them till then, and when
they no longer depended on him for encouragement, he sank.
The moment came at last. He was drawn up perfectly insen¬
sible, together with a great brawny-armed hewer, a vehement
Chartist, and hitherto his great enemy, but who now^ held him
in his arms like a baby, so tenderly and anxiously. As soon as
he saw Lady Lucy, he called out, ^ Here he is. Miss, I hope
ye'll be able to bring him to. If all lords were like he now 1'
and then his wife had hold of him, quite beside herself with
joy j but he shook her off with a sort of kind rudeness, and,
exhausted as he was, would not hear of being helped to his
home, till he had heard the doctors (who were all in waiting)
say that Lord St. Erme was alive. Lady Lucy was hanging
over him in a sort of agony of ecstasy, and yet of grief; but
still she looked up, and put her little white hand into the
collier's big black one, and said, * Thank you,' and then he
fairly burst out crying, and so his wife led him away. I saw
Lord St. Erme for one moment, and never was anything more
death-lil^e, such ghastly white, except where grimed with coal-
dust. They are in his room now, trying to restore animation.
He has shown some degree of consciousness, and pressed his
sister's hand, but aU power of swallowing seems to be gone,
on, the beother's wipe,
4^5
and tlie doctors are in great alarm. The othei's are doing
well — the people come in swarms to the door to ask for
hinn
' —Comfort at last. He has been getting better all
night, and this morning the doctors say all danger is over.
JMamma says she can hardly keep from tears as she watches the
happy placid looks of the brother and sister, as he lies there so
pale and shadowy, and she hangs over him, as if she conld never
gaze at him enough. Several of the men, who were with him,
came to inquire for him early this morning j none of them
Buffered half so much as he did. I went down to speak to
them, and I am glad I did; it is beautiful to see how he has
won all their hearts, and to hear their appreciation of his con¬
duct. They say he tended the man who was hurt, as if he had
been his mother, and never uttered one word of complaint.
' He told us,' said one man, ' God could hear us out of the
depth, as well as when we said our prayers in church; and
whenever our hearts were failing us, there was his voice speak¬
ing somewhat good to cheer us up, or help us to mind that
there was One who knew where we were, and would have a
care for us and our wives and children.' 'Bless him,' said
another, ' he has been the sa'^ng of our lives;' ' Bless him ;'
and they touched their hats and said Amen. I wish his sister
could have seen them !
' Five dclock.—Mrs. Delaval is come, and there is no room
nor need for us, so we are going home. It is best, for mamma
was nursing him all night, and is tired out. He has improved
much in the course of the day, and they hope that he may soon
be moved home. The pitmen want to carry him back on his
mattress on their shoulders. He has made himself king of their
hearts ! He has been able to inquire after them, and Lady
Lucy, who forgets no one, has been downstairs to see the old
Betty. * Ah ! my pretty lady,' she said, ' you are not sorry
now that you tried to take the Lord's Cross patiently, and now,
you see, your sorrow is turned into joy.' And then Lady Lucy
would not have it called patience, and said she had had no sub¬
mission in her, and Betty answered her, ' Ah ! well, you arc
young yet, and lie fits the burden to the shoulder.' How an
adventure like this brings out the truth of every character, as
one never would have known it otherwise. Who would have
dreamt of that pattern of saintly resignation in'the Coalworth
heath, or that Lady Lucy Delaval would have found a poor
old woman her truest and best comforter 1 and this without the
least forwardness on the old woman's part.
' Just going I Lady Lucy so warm-hearted and grateful-—
426
HEARTSEASE;
and Lord St. Erme himself wished mamma good-bye in such a
kind cordial manner, thanking her for all she had done for his
sister. I am sorry to go, so as not to be in the way of seeing
anything more of them, but it is time, for mamma is quite
overcome. So I must close up this last letter from Coalworth,
a far happier one than I thought to end with.
* Your most affectionate, A. M.
'P.S. Is he not a hero, equal to his hoch-heseeltes MadcJienf
I am ashamed of having written to you what was never meant
for other eyes, but it will be safe with you. If you had seen
how he used to waylay us, and ask for our tidings from you
after the fire, you would see I cannot doubt who the madchen
is. Is there no hope for him ? The other affair was so long
ago, and who could help longing to have such minstrel-love re¬
warded.'
That postscript did not go on to Brogden, though Annette's
betrayal of confidence had been suffered to meet the eye of the
high-souled maiden.
The accounts of Lord St. Erme continued to improve, though
his recovery was but slow. To talk the adventure over was a
never-failing interest to Lady Martindale, who, though Theodora
suppressed Annette's quotation, was much of the opinion ex¬
pressed in the postscript, and made some quiet lamentations
that Theodora had rejected him. -
' No, we were not fit for each other,' she answered.
' You would not say so now,' said Lady Martindale. * He
has done things as great as yourself, my dear.'
' I am fit for no one now,' said Theodora, bluntly.
' Ah, my dear !—But I don't know why I should wish you to
marry; I could never do without you.'
' That's the most sensible thing you have said yet, mamma.'
But Theodora wished herself less necessary at home, when, in
a few weeks more, she had to gather that matters were going
on well, from the large round-hand note, with nursery spelling
and folding, in which Johnnie announced that he had a little
brother.
An interval of peace to Yiolet ensued. Arthur did not
nurse her as in old times j but he was gentle and kind, and
was the more with her as the cough, which had never been
entirely removed, was renewed by a chill in the first cold of
September. All went well till the babe was a week old, when
Arthur suddenly announced his intention of asking for a fort¬
night's leave, as he was obliged to go to Boulogne on business.
Here was a frosh thunderbolt. Violet guessed that Mr.
OE, THE BEOTHEIl'S V/IFE. • !
\
Gardner was there, and was convinced that, whatever might be
Arthur's present designs, he would come back having taken a
house at Boulogne. He answered her imploring look by telling
her not to worry herself j he hoped to get ' quit of the concern/
and, at any rate, could not help going. She suggested that his
cough would bear no liberties j he said, change of air would
take it ofl^ and scouted her entreaty that he would consult Mr,
Harding. Another morning, a kind careless farewell, he was
gone!
Poor Violet drew the coverlet over her head; her heart failed
her, and she craved that her throbbing sinking weakness and
feverish anxiety might bring her to her final rest. When she
glanced over the future, her husband deteriorating, and "his
love closed up from her; her children led astray by evil
influences of a foreign soil; Johnnie, perhaps, only saved by
separation—Johnnie, her precious comforter; herself far from
every friend, every support, without security of church ordi¬
nances—all looked so utterly wretched that, as her pulses beat,
and every sensation of illness was aggravated, she almost
rejoiced in the danger she felt approaching.
Nothing but her infant's voice could have recalled her to a
calmer mind, and brought back the sense that she was bound
to earth by her children. She repented as of impatience
and selfishness, called back her resolution, and sought for
soothing. It came. She had taught herself the dominion over
her mind in which she had once been so deficient. Vexing
cares and restless imaginings were driven back by echoes of
hymns and psalms and faithful promises, as she lay calm and
resigned, in her weakness and solitude, and her babe slept tran¬
quilly in her bosom, and Johnnie brought his books and his¬
tories of his sisters; and she could smile in thankfulness at
their loveliness of to-day, only in prayer concerning herself for
the morrow.
She was content patiently to abide the Lord.
CHAPTER VIII.
But one, I wis, was not at home.
Another had paid his gold away.
Another called him thriftless loone.
And bade him sharply wend his way.
J/cir of Lyme.
' TTTE Is done for. That wife of his may feel the consequence
Xl of meddling in other folk's concerns. Not that I care for
that now, there's metal more attractive; but she has crossed
428
HEARTSEASE;
me, and shall suffer for it.' These short sentences met the ear
of a broad-shonldered man in a rough coat, as, in elbowing his
way through the crowd on the quay at Boulogne, he was de¬
tained for a moment behind two persons, whose very backs had
all the aspect of the dissipated Englishman abroad. Struggling
past, he gained a side view of the face of the speaker. It was
one which he knew; but the vindictive glare in the sarcastic
eyes positively made him start, as he heard the laugh of triumph
and derision, in reply to some remark from the other.
* Ay ! and got enough to get off to Paris, where the old Pinch
has dropped off his perch at last. That was all I wanted of
him, and it was time to wring him dry and have done with
him. He will go off in consumption before the year is out—
As he spoke, the stranger turned on him an honest English
face, the lips compressed into an expression of the utmost con¬
tempt, v/hile indignation flashed in the penetrating grey eyes,
that looked on him steadily. His bold defiant gaze fell, quail¬
ing and scowling; he seemed to become small, shrink away, and
disappeared.
' When scamp number two looks round for scamp number
one, he is lost in the crowd,' muttered the traveller, half smiling;
then, with a deep breath, * The hard-hearted rascal! If one
could only wring his neck! Heaven help the victim ! though,
no doubt, pity is wasted on him.'
He ceased his reflections, to enter the steamer just starting
for Folkestone, and was soon standing on deck, keeping guard
over his luggage. The sound of a frequent cough attracted his
attention, and, looking round, he saw a tall figure wrapped in
great coats leaning on the leeward side of the funnel.
' Hollo ! you here, Arthur ! Where have you been V
' What, Percy % How d'ye do V replied a hoarse, languid
voice.
* Is Mrs. Martindale here V
* Ho.' He was cut short by such violent cough that he was
obliged to rest his forehead on his arm; then shivering, and
complaining of the cold, he said he should go below, and moved
away, rejecting Percy's offered arm with some impatience.
The weather was beautiful, and Percy stood for some time
watching the receding shore, and scanning, with his wonted
keen gaze, the various countenances of the passengers. He
took a book from his pocket, but did not read long; he looked
out on the sea, and muttered to himself, ' What folly now ?
Why wont that name let one rest ? Besides, he looked despe¬
rately ill; I must go and see if they have made him comfort¬
able in that dog-hole below.'
OR. THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
' 429
Pei'cy shook himself as if he was out of humour j and, with
his hands in his pockets, and a sauntering step, entered the
cabin. He found Arthur there alone, his head resting on his
arms, and his frame shaken by the suppressed cough.
* You seem to have a terrible cold. ' This is a bad time to be
crossing. How long have you been abroad V
* Ten days.—How came you here V
*I am going to Worthbourne. How are all your folks V
'All wellj' and coughing again, he filled up a tumbler
with spirits and water, and drank it off, while Percy ex¬
claimed ;
' Are you runnihg crazy, to be feeding such a cough in this
way?'
' The only thing to warm one,' said he, shuddering from head
to foot.
' Yes, warm you properly into a nice little fever and inflam¬
mation. Why, what a hand you have ! And your pulse!
Here, lie down at once,' as he formed a couch with the help of
a wrapper and bag. Arthur passively accepted his care ;, but
as the chill again crept through his veins, he stretched out his
hand' for the cordial.
' I wont have it done !' thundered Percy. ' I will not look
on and see you killing yourself 1'
' I v/ish I could,' murmured Arthur, letting his hand drop, as
if unequal to contest the point.
The conviction suddenly flashed on Percy that he was the
victim ! 'You have got yourself into a scrape,' he said.
' Scrape ! I tell you I am ruined ! undone!' exclaimed
Arthur, rearing himself up, as he burst out into passionate
imprecations on Mark Gardner, cut short by coughing.
' You 1 with your wife and little children entirely depending
on you ! You have allowed that scoundrel, whose baseness you
knew, to dupe you to your own destruction !' said Percy, with
slowness and severity.
Too ill and wretched to resent the reproach, Arthur sank his
head with a heavy groan that almost disarmed Percy; then
looking up, with sparkling eyes, he exclaimed, ' No ! I did not
know his baseness ; I thought him a careless 'scape-grace, but
not much worse than he has made me. I would as soon have
believed myself capable of the treachery, the unfeeling revenge
Again he was unable to say more, and struggling for
utterance, he stamped his foot against the floor, and groaned
aloud with rage and pain.
, Percy persuaded him to lie down again, and could not refrain
from forcible expressions of indignation, as he recollected the
43G
HEARTSEASE;
saeering exultation of Gardner's tone of triumph oyer one so,
open-hearted and confiding.
It was a moment when sympathy unlocked the heart, and
shame was lost in the sense of injury. Nothing more was
needed to call from Arthur the history of his wrongs, as well
as he was able to tell it, eking out with his papers the inco¬
herent sentences which he was unable to finish, so that Percy
succeeded in collecting, from his broken narration, an idea of
the state of affairs.
The horses, kept jointly at his expense and that of Gardner,
had been the occasion of serious debts; and on Gardner's leav¬
ing England, there had been a pressure on Colonel Martindale
that rendered him anxious to free himself, even at the cost of
his commission. Gardner, on the other hand, had, it appeared,
been desirous to have him at Boulogne, perhaps, at first, merely
as a means of subsistence during the. year of probation, and on
the failure of the first attempt at bringing him thither, had
written to invite him, holding out as an inducement, that he
was himself desirous of being disembarrassed, in order that Miss
Brandon might find him clear of this entanglement, and repre¬
senting that he had still property enough to clear off his portion
of the liability.
With this view Arthur had gone out to Boulogne to meet
him, but had found him dilatory in entering on business, and
was drawn into taking part in the amusements of the place;
living in a state of fevered excitement, which aggravated his
indisposition and confused his perceptions, so that he fell more
completely than ever into the power of his false friend, and was
argued into relinquishing his project of selling the horses, and
into taking up larger sums for keeping them on. In fact, the
sensation that a severe cold was impending, and disgust at the
notion of being laid up in such company rendered him doubly
facile; and, in restless impatience to get away and avoid discus¬
sion, he acceded to everything, and signed whatever Gardner,
pleased. Not till he w^as on the point of embarking, after
having gambled away most of his ready money, did he discover
that the property of which he had heard so much was only a
shadow, which had served to delude many another creditor;
and that they had made themselves responsible for a monstrous
amount, for which he was left alone to answer, while the first
demand would be the signal for a multitude of other claims.
As they parted, Gardner had finally thrown off the mask, and
let him know that this was the recompenoe of his wife's stories
to the Brandons. She might say what she pleased now, it mat-
tetodnob; Mark was on his way to the rich widow of Mr.
on, the brother's wife.
431
Finch, and had wanted nothing of Arthur but to obtain the
means of going to her,^ and to be revenged on him.
So Arthur half-expressed, and his friend understood. Save
for this bodily condition, Percy could hardly have borne with
him. His reckless self-indulgence and blind folly deserved to
be left to reap their own fruit; yet, when he beheld their
victim, miserable, prostrated by illness and despair, and cast
aside with scornful cruelty, he could not, without being as cold-
. hearted as Gardner himself, refrain from kind words and sug¬
gestions of consolation. * Might not his father assist him V
' He cannot if he would. Everything is entailed, and you
know how my aunt served us. There is no ready money to be
had, not even the five thousand pounds that is the whole depend¬
ence for the poor things at home in case of my death, which
may come soon enough for aught I care. I wish it was ! I
wish we were all going to the bottom together, and I was to
see none of their faces again. It would be better for Yiolet
than this.'
Percy could say little ; but, though blunt of speech, he was
tender of heart. He did all in his power for Arthur's comfort,
and when he helped him on shore at Folkestone, recommended
him to go to bed at once, and offered to fetch Mrs. Martindale.
* She cannot come,' sighed Arthur; ' she has only been con¬
fined three weeks.'
More shame for you, had Percy almost said; but he no
longer opposed Arthur's homeward instinct, and, finding a train
ready to start, left their luggage to its fate, and resolved not to
lose sight of him till he was safely deposited at his own house.
Such care was in truth needed; the journey was a dreadful
on6, the suffering increased every hour; and when at length,
in the dusk of the evening, they arrived in Cadogan-place, he
could hardly mount the stairs, even with Percy's assistance.
It was the first time that Yiolet had left her chamber; and,
as the drawing-room door opened, she was seen sitting, pale and
delicate, in her low chair % the fire, her babe on her lap, and
the other three at her feet, Johnnie presiding over his sisters,
as they looked at a book of prints.
She started up in alarm as Arthur entered, leaning on Mr,
• Fotheringham, and at once seized by a paroxysm of severe
cough. Percy tried to assume a re-assuring tone. ' Here, you
Bee, I have brought him home with one of his bad colds. He
will speak for himself presently.'
In a second she had placed the infant on the sofa, signed to
Johnnie to watch him, and drawn the arm-chair to the
Arthur sank into it, throwing his arm round her for support,
*
432
HEARTSEASE ;
and resting his weary head against her, as if he had found his
refuge. Percy relieved her from the two little girls, unclasping
their frightened grasp on her dress so gently and firmly, that,
stranger though he was, Anna did not cry on being taken in
his arms; nor Helen resist his leading her out of the room, and .
desiring her to take her sister upstairs and to call their nurse.
Returning, he found that necessity had brought strength and
presence of mind to their mother. She did not even tremble,
though Arthur's only words were, ' We are undone. If I die,
forgive me.' Indeed, she hardly took in the sense of what he
said j she only caressed, and tried to relieve him, assisted by
Percy, who did not leave them till he had seen Arthur safely
in charge of Mr. Harding.
He then walked away to his old lodgings in Piccadilly,
where he was recognised with ecstasy by the quondam ragged-
school boy, and was gladly welcomed by his landlady, who
could not rejoice enough at the sight*of his good-humoured
face.
He divided his time between friendly gossip on her family
affairs as she bustled in and out, in civility to the cat, and in rail¬
ing at himself for thinking twice of such a selfish, ne'er-do-weel
as Arthur Martindale. The image of that pale young mother
and her little ones pursued him, and with it the thought of the
complicated distresses awaiting her; the knowledge of the debts
that would almost beggar her, coming in the midst of her hus¬
band's dangerous illness.
Percy muttered to himself lines of * Who comes here — a
Grenadier,* made a face, stretched himself, and called on himself
to look on reasonableness and justice. Arthur deserved no
favour, because he had encumbered himself with a helpless
family, and then cruelly disregarded them.
' What does a man deserve who leaves his wife with a child
of a week old, to run after a swindler in foreign parts—eh, pussf
said he aloud, viciously tweaking the old cat's whiskers; then,
as she shook her ears and drew back, too dignified to be offended,
' Ay, ay, while wheat and tares grow together, the innocent
must suffer for the guilty. The better for both. One is refined,
the other softened. I am the innocent sufferer now,' added he;
' condole with me, pussy! That essay would have been worth
eighty pounds if it was worth a sixpence; and there's a loss for
a striving young man ! I cannot go on to Worthbourne without
recovering it; and who knows how Jane will interpret my
delay? While I live, I'll never carry another manuscript any¬
where but in my pocket, and then we should all go to the bottom
together, according to poor Arthur's friendly wish. Ila 1 that's
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
48B
not it sticking out of my great-coat pocket ? No such good
luck—only those absurd papers of poor Arthur's. I remember
I loaded my coat on him when we were going to land. What
a business it is ! Let us overhaul them a bit.*
He became absorbed in the contemplation, only now and
then giving vent to some vituperative epithet, till he suddenly
dashed his hand on the table with a force that startled the cat
from her doze.
' Never mind, puss; you know of old
So now, good night, and there's an end of the matter.'
The first thing he did, next morning, was to walk to Cadogan-
place, to return the papers. He had long to wait before the
door was opened; and when James at length came, it was
almost crying that he said that Colonel Martindale was very
ill; he had ruptured a blood-vessel that morning, and was in
the most imminent danger.
Mr. Fotheringham could see no one—could not be of any
service. He walked across the street, looked up at the win¬
dows, mused, then exclaimed, ' That being the case, I had better
go at once to Folkestone, and rescue, my bag from the jaws of
the Custom-house.'
She left the gleam-lit fire-place,
She came to the bedside.
Her look was like a sad embrace.
The gaze of one who can divine
A grief, and sympathize.
Sweet flower, thy children's eyes
Are not more innocent than thine.
Tristram and Yseulle.—M. Arnold.
T last there was a respite. The choking, stifling flow of
blood, that, with brief intervals, had for the last two hours
threatened momentary death, had been at length checked; the
eyes were closed that had roamed in helpless afiiright and agony
from Yiolet to the doctors; and the sufferer was lying, in what
his wife would fain have deemed a slumber, but the gasping
respiration and looks of distress made it but too evident that it
was the stillness of exhaustion, enhanced by dread of renewing
the bleeding by word or motion.
There could be no concealment of the exceeding danger.
His lungs had never been strong; and the slight cough, which,
contrary to his usual habits, he had neglected all the summer,
I care for nobody, and nobody cares for me.
CHAPTER IX.
F F
434
HEARTSEASE;
had been the token of mischief, which his recent expedition
had aggravated to a fearful extent. Even the violent bleeding
had not relieved the inflammation on the chest, and Violet had
collected from the physician's looks and words that it could
be hardly expected that he should survive the day.
Yet, through that dreadful morning, she had not failed in
resolution or composure: never once had her husband seen in
her look, or heard in her tone, aught but what might cheer and
sustain him—^never had her fortitude or steadiness given way.
She had not time to think of consolation and support; but her
habit of prayer and trust came to her aid, and brought strength
and support around her 'in these great waterfloods' of trouble.
She was not forsaken in her hour of need. Hitherto there had
been no space for reflection; now his quiescent state, though
for the present so great a relief, brought the opportunity of
realizing his situation; but therewith arose thankfulness for
the space thus granted, and the power of praying that it might
be blessed to him whether for life or death.
In watchfulness and supplication, she sat beside him, with
her babe, much afraid that it should disturb him, and be un¬
welcome. However, when some little sound made him aware
of its presence, he opened his eyes, moved his hand, as if to put
back the covering that hid its face from him, and presently
signed to have it placed on the bed by his side. It was a fine
large dark boy, already so like him as to make the contrast the
more striking and painful, between the unconscious serenity
of the babe and the restless misery of the face of the father,
laid low in the strength of manhood, and with a look of
wretched uneasiness, as if the load on the mind was a worse
torment than the weight on the labouring breath. He, who
usually hardly deigned a glance at his infants, now lay gazing
with inexpressible softness and sadness at the little sleeping face;
and Violet, while gratified by that look of afiection, could not
help having it the more home in on her mind, that death must
be very near. Were the well-springs of love, so long closed
up, only opening when he was about to leave his children for
ever ? If she could only have heard him speak!
' Presently, as if there was some sting of reproach in the im¬
passive features, he turned his head away abruptly, with a deep
groan, and hid his face. She took away the child, and there
was another silence, which she ventured to break now and then,
by a few sentences of faith and prayer, but without being able
to perceive whether he attended. Suddenly he started, as if
thrilled in every vein, and glanced arouiid with terrified anxiety,
of which she could not at first perceive the cause, till she found
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. 435
it; was the postman's knock. He held out his hand for the
letters, and cast a hurried look at their directions. Hone were
for him, but there was one in his sister's hand-writing. Yiolet
did not feel herself able to read it, and was laying it aside,
when she saw his looks following it. Her present world was so
entirely in that room that she had forgotten all beyond; and
it only now occurred to her to say, 'Your father? Ho you
wish for liim? I will write.*
' Telegraph.* Even this whisper brought back the cough that
was anguish and terror.
It was already so late in the day, that though thus sum¬
moned, there was no chance of Lord Martindale's arriving till
the following evening; and Yiolet's heart sank at reckoning up
the space that must elapse, more especially when she saw the
perturbed eye, the startings at each sound, the determination to
know the business of every one who came to speak to her—evi¬
dent indications that there was some anxiety on his mind which
she could not comprehend.
Thus passed the day—^between visits from desponding doctors
and vain measures for reducing the inflammation. At night Mr.
Harding would have prevailed on her to go to rest, promising to
keep watch in her stead; but she only shook her head, and said
she could not. She had not seen, and had scarcely thought of,
the elder children all day; but at about eleven o'clock at night
she was startled by a sound of lamentable crying,—Johnnie's
voice in the nursery. The poor little boy's nerves had been so
much shaken by the fire at Martindale, that he had become
subject to night alarms, which sometimes showed their efiect for
the whole subsequent day; and his mother stole away on hearing
his cry, leaving Arthur in Mr. Harding's charge, and hoping
not to be missed.
Sarah was standing over Johnnie, half-coaxing, half-scolding,
while he sat up in his little crib, shivering and sobbing, with
chattering teeth, and terrified exclamations about papa all over
blood, lying dead under the burning windows.
' There now, you have brought your poor mamma up I' said
Sarah, indignantly.
' Mamma, mamma !* and the cold trembling little creature
clasped itself upon her neck and bosom, still repeating the
dreadful words. She carried him to the fire, warmed him on her
lap, caressed and soothed him, as his understanding awoke, tell¬
ing him that papa was safe in his own room,—^he was ill, very
ill, and Johnnie must pray for him; but oh! he was alive, safe
in his own bed. But as J ohnnie nestled to her, repeating, ' Say
it again, mamma, I was so frightened! I can't get it out of my
486
HE^TSEASE j
head. Oh ! is papa safe V there would come the thought that,
with morning, the child might have to hear that he was
fatherless.
This dread, and the desire to efface the impression of the ter¬
rible dream, induced her, when he had obediently struggled for
composure, to tell him that, on condition of perfect stillness, he
might come down with her, and have a little glimpse of papa.
Wrapping him up, she took him in by the open dressing-room
ioor, to which Arthur's back was turned, trusting to escape ob¬
servation ; but nothing eluded those fever-lighted eyes, and they
instantly fell upon the little trembling figure, the quivering face
and earnest gaze.
* I hope we have not disturbed you,' apologized Violet; ' we
hoped you would not hear us. Poor Johnnie woke up crying
so much at your being ill, that I ventured to bring him to have
one look at you, for fear he should not go to sleep again.'
She need not have feared. Even while she spoke Arthur held
out his hands, with a countenance that caused Johnnie, with a
stified exclamation of * Papa ! papa !' to spring on the bed, and
there he lay, folded closely to his father's breast.
It was but for a moment. Violet had to lift the child hastily
away, to be carried off by Sarah, that he might not witness the
terrible suffering caiised by the exertion and emotion; and yet,
when this was passed, she could not repent of what she had
done, for one great grief had thus been spared to herself and
her boy.
She knew that to discover his son's ardent affection must be
a poignant reproach for his neglect and jealousy, and she grieved
at once for him and with him; but she could not under¬
stand half the feelings of bitter anguish that she perceived in
his countenance and gestures. She did not know of his expecta¬
tion that each ring of the bell might bring the creditors' claims
to heap disgrace upon him, nor how painful were the thoughts
of her and of the children, totally unprovided for, without claim
during his father's lifetime, even on his own scanty portion as
a younger son. He could only cast them on the mercy of his
father and brother; and what right had he to expect anything
from them, after his abuse of their kindness and forbearance ^
He thought of his neglect of his patient devoted wife, whom he
was leaving, with her little ones, to struggle with poverty and
dependence; he thought of his children growing up to know
him only as the improvident selfish father, who had doomed
them to difficulties, tind without one tender word or kind look
to grace his memory. Ho wonder he turned, unable to brook
the sight of his unconscious babe; and that, when with morning
OK, THE BKOTHER'S V/IFE. " '4»37
little steps and voices sounded above, such a look of
came over bis face, that Violet hastened to order the children
down to the dining-room, out of hearing.
Ere long, however, from the other room, appropriated to the
baby, a face peeped in, and Johnnie sprang to her side with ear¬
nest whispers: * Mamma, may I not say my prayers with you 1
I will not wake papa, but I can't bear it without!' and the tears
were in his eyes.
Violet's glance convinced her that this would be anything
but disturbing, and she consented. Johnnie thought his father
- asleep; but she saw him watching the boy, as he stood with
clasped hands, and eyes in fixed steadfast gaze, repeating the
Creed, so gravely and distinctly, that not one of the whispering
accents was lost. Looking upwards, as if pursuing some thought
far away, Johnnie said, 'Amen;' and then knelt, breathing
forth his innocent petitions, with their mention of father,
mother, sisters, and little brother; and therewith a large tear¬
drop gathered in the eyes fixed on him—^but she would not
seem to notice, and bent her head over the boy, who, when his
daily form was finished, knelt on, and pressed her arm. ' Mamma,'
he whispered, very low indeed, ' may I say something for papa?'
and on her assent, ' 0 God 1 make dear, dear papa better, if it
be Thy heavenly will, and let it be Thy heavenly will.'
Arthur's face was hidden; she only saw his fingers holding
up the covering with a quivering grasp. Johnnie rose up quite
simply, and letting him continue in the belief that his father
slept, she allowed him to go noiselessly away, after she had held
him fast in her arms, able to feel, even now, the comfort and
blessing of her child.
Some little time had passed before Arthur looked up; then
gazing round, as if seeking something, he said, ' Where is he V
' J ohnnie ? He is gone, he did not know you were awake.
Shall I send for him V
* For all.'
They came; but he was made to feel that he had disregarded
them too long. They had never been familiarized with him;
seldom saw him, and were kept under restraint in his presence;
and there was no intimacy to counteract the fright inspired by
his present appearance. Ghastly pale, with a hectic spot on
each cheek, with eyes unnaturally bright and dilated, and a
quantity of black hair and whiskers, he was indeed a formidable
object to the little girls; and Violet was more grieved than
surprised when Annie screamed with afiriglit, and had to be
carried away instantly; and Helen backed, with her hands be-
hi]p4 licr, resisting all entreaties and remonstranoe, and unheed-
438
HEARTSEASE ;
"ing Lis outstretcLed Land. TLe cLild was of so determined and
wilful a nature, tLat Violet dreaded an outbreak if sLe were too
mucL pressed, and was forced to let her go—tLougb mucL
grieved, LotL for the distress that it gave Arthur, and for
the thought of how his daughter might remember it by
and by.
They supposed that Johnnie had gone with his sisters, but at
the end of half an hour became aware that he had ever since
been standing, almost hidden by the curtain, satisfied with
merely being in the room. The fair face, so delicately tinted,
the dark shady eyes, lovingly and pensively fixed on his father,
and the expression, half mournful, half awe-struck, were a
touching sight in so young a child, and Arthur seemed so to feel
it. He signed to him to come near; and with a flush, between
joy and fear, the little boy was instantly at his side. One hot
hand enfolded the small soft cool one, the other pressed fondly
on the light silken waves of hair. After thus holding him for
some moments, he tried to speak, in whispering breathless gasps
of a word at a time.
* You'll comfort her!' and he looked towards his mother.
' You'll take care of the others—^will you V
' If I can. God takes care of us,' said Johnnie, wistfully, as
if striving to understand, as he felt the pressure redoubled on
hand and head, as if to burn in what was uttered with such dif¬
ficulty and danger.
' Tell your grandfather I trust you all to him. He must for¬
give. Say so to him. You'll be a better son to him than 1.
When you know all, don't remember it against me.'
He could say no more; it had brought on a fit of coughing
and breathlessness, through which he scarcely struggled. Silence
was more than ever enforced; but throughout the day the
oppression was on the increase, especially towards the evening,
when he became excited by the expectation of his father's arrival.
He sat, pillowed high up, each respiration an efibrt that spread
a burning crimson over his face, while eye and ear were ner¬
vously alert.
' Arthur is very ill, and begs to see you,* was the telegraphic
message that filled the cottage at Brogden with consternation.
Lady Martindale was too unwell to leave home, but Theodora
was thankful to her father for deciding that her presence was
. necessary for Violet's sake j indeed, as they travelled in doubt
and suspense, and she was continually reminded of that hurried
journey when her unchastened temper had been the torment of
herself and of her brother, she felt it an undeserved privilege to
be allowed to go to him at all. Instead of schemes of being ini-
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. 439
I
portanb, there was a crushing sense of an impending blow j she
hardly had the power to think or speculate in what form, or
how heavily it might fall. She had only room for anxiety to
get forward.
They arrived; she hurried up the stairs, only catching James's
words, declaring his master no better.
She saw in the twilight a slight bending form, coming down,
holding by the balusters. Violet was in her arms, clasping
her with a trembliug, almost convulsive tightness, without
speaking.
' O, Violet, what is it 1 Is he so very ill V
Lord Martindale hastened up at the same moment, and Violet
recovering, in a few words, spoken very low, but clearly, told
of his condition, adding, ' He has been watching for you all this
time; he heard you come, and wants you directly, but don't let
him speak.'
She hung on Theodora's arm, and guided them up, as if
hardly able to stand. She opened the outer room door, and
there (while the nurse had taken her place) sat Johnnie on the
rug, with the baby lying across his lap, and his arms clasped
tenderly round it. It was restless, and he looked up to his
mother, who bent down and took it in her arms, while Lord
hiartindale passed on. Theodora stood appalled and overawed.
This was beyond even her fears.
* Thank you for coming,' said Violet, who had sunk into a
chair.
* 0, Violet, when?—^how?—*
But a look of horror came over Violet; she started up, almost
threw the infant into Theodora's arms, and vanished into the
other room. *0h! what is it? What is the matter?' exclaimed
Theodora.
* The cough, the blood,* said Johnnie, in a low voice; and
turning away with a suppressed sob he threw himself down,
and hid his face on a chair. She was in an agony to pass
that closed door, but the baby was fretting and kept her
prisoner.
After some minutes had thus passed, her father appeared, and
would have gone on without seeing her, but she detained him
by an imploring cry and grasp, and intreated to hear what had
happened.
* The blood-vessel again—I must send for Harding.*
'Shall I tell James to go?' inquired a little quiet voice, as
J ohnnie lifted up his flushed face.
' Do so, my dear ;* and as the little boy left the room, his
grandfather added, with the calmness of hopelessness, 'Poor
440
HEARTSEASE;
child! it is of no use, it nmst soon he over novand he vraa~
returning, when Theodora again held him fast—' Papa! papa!
I must see him, let me come!'
' Not yet,' said her father; ' the sight of a fresh person might
hasten it. If there is any chance, we must do nothing hazardous.
I will call you when they give up hope.*
Theodora was forced to relinquish her hold, for the baby
screamed outright, and required all her efforts to hush its cries
that they might not add fresh distress to the sick room. It
seemed to make her own misery of suspense beyond measure
unendurable, to be obliged to control herself so as to-quiet
the little creature by gentle movements, and to have its ever-
renewed waitings filling her ears, when her whole soul hung on
the sounds she could catch from the inner room. No one came
to relieve her; only Johnnie returned, listened for a moment at
the door, and dropped into his former position, and presently
Mr. Harding passed rapidly through the room.
Long, long she waited ere the door once more opened.
Her father came forth. Was it the summons? But he
stopped her move towards the room. * Not yet; the bleeding
is checked.'
Then as Mr. Harding followed, they went out of the room in
consultation, and almost the next moment Violet herself glided
in, touched Johnnie's head, and said, * Papa is better, darling;'
then took the baby from Theodora, saying, ' Thank you, you
shall see him soon;' she was again gone, Johnnie creeping after,
whither Theodora would have given worlds to follow.'
After another interval, he returned with a message that
mamma begged a;mt Theodora to be so kind as to go and make
tea for grandpapa; she thought dear papa was breathing a little
more easily, but he must be quite quiet now.
Obeying the sentence of banishment, she found her father
sending off a hasty express to give more positive information
at home. * We must leave them to themselves a little while,'
he said. ' There must be no excitement till he has had time to
rally. I thought he had better not see me at first.'
* Is he worse than John has been!'
*Far worse. I never saw John in this immediate danger.'
' Did this attack begin directly after you came?'
' It was the effort of speaking. He would try to say some¬
thing about racing debts—Gardner, papers in his coat pocket,
and there broke down, coughed, and the bleeding came on.
There is something on his mind, poor—^
Theodora made a sign to remind him of Johnuie's presence^
OB, JHE BROTHER'S^ WIFE. 44-1
but the child came forward. ' Grandpapa, he told me to tell you
something,' and, with eyes bent on the ground, the little fellow
repeated the words like a lesson by rote.
Lord Martindale was much overcome; he took his grandson
on his knee, and pressed him to his breast without being able
to speak; then, as if to recover composure by proceeding to
business, he sent him to ask James for the coat last worn by his
papa, and bring the papers in the pocket. Then with more
agitation he continued, * Yes, yes, that was what poor Arthur's
eyes were saying all the time. I could only promise to settle
everything and take care of her; and there was she, poor thing,
with a face like a martyr, supporting his head, never giving
way, speaking now and then so calmly and soothingly, when I
could not have said a word. I do believe she is almost an
angel!' said Lord Martindale, with a burst of strong emotion.
' Take care of her! She will not want that long! at this rate.
Harding tells me he is very anxious about her: she is not by
any means recovered, yet he was forced to let her sit up all last
night, and she has been on her feet this whole day I What is to
become of her and these poor children? It is enough to break
one's heart!'
Here Johnnie came back. 'Grandpapa, we cannot find
any papers. James has looked in all the clothes papa wore
when he came home, and he did not bring home his port¬
manteau.*
'Come home! Where had he been?'
' I don't know. He was away a long time.'
Lord Martindale started, and repeated the words in amaze.
Theodora better judged of a child's 'long time,' and asked
whether it meant a day or a week. 'Was it since the baby was,
born that he went?'
'Baby was a week old. He was gone one—two Sundays,
and he came back all on a sudden the day before yesterday,
coughing so much that he could not speak, and the gentleman
told mamma all about it.'
'What gentleman, Johnnie?' Was it Mr. Gardner?'
' O no; this was a good-natured gentleman.'
'Mr. Herries, or Captain Fitzhugh?'
'No, it was a long name, and some one I never saw before;
but I think it was the man that belongs to the owl.'
' What can the child mean?' asked Lord Martindale.
Johnnie mounted a chair, and embraced his Uttle stufifed
owl.
' The wan that gave me thisi'
HEARTSEASE;
* Percy's Athenian owl!' cried Theodora.
* Was Fotheringham the namel' said Lord Martindale.
* Yes, it was the name like aunt Helen's,* said Johnnie.
*Has he been here since?'
'He called to inquire yesterday morning. I am not sure,
said the exact little boy, ' but I think he said he met papa in
the steamer.'
It seemed mystery on mystery, and James could only
confirm his young master's statement. After the little boy
had answered all the questions in his power he slid down from
his grandfather's knee, saying that it was bed-time, and wished
them good night in a grave, sorrowful, yet childlike manner,
that went to their hearts. He returned, in a short time, with
a message that mamma thought papa a little better^ and ready
to see them. Theodora went up first; Johnnie led'her to the
door, and then went away, while Violet said, almost inaudibly>
' Here is Theodora come to see you.'
Prepared as Theodora was, she v/as startled by the bloodless-
ness of the face, and the hand that lay without movement on
the coverlet, while the gaze of the great black eyes met her
with an almost spectral effect; and the stillness was only
broken by the painful heaving of the chest, which seemed to
shake even the bed-curtains. But for Violet's looks and gesture,
Theodora would not have dared to go up to him, take his hand,
and, on finding it feebly return her pressure, bend over and kiss
his forehead.
'His breath is certainly relieved, and there is less fever,'
repeated Violet; but to Theodora this seemed to make it only
more shocking. If this was better, what must it not have been?
Her. tongue positively refused to speak, and she only stood
looking from her brother to his wife, who reclined, sunk back
in her chair beside him, looking utterly spent and worn out,
her cheeks perfectly white, her eyes half-closed, her whole frame
as if all strength and energy were gone. That tei'rible hour
had completely exhausted her powers; and when Theodora had
recollected herself, and summoned Lord Martindale, who under¬
took the night watch, Violet had not voice to speak; she only
hoarsely whispered a tew directions, and gave a sickly submis¬
sive smile as her thanks.
For one moment she revived, as she smoothed Arthur's bed,
moistened his lips, and pressed her face to his; then she allowed
Theodora almost to lift her away, and support her into the next
room, where Sarah was waiting. Even thought and anxiety
seemed to be gone; she sat where they placed her, and when
/ OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. '
V —
they began to undress her, put her hand mechanically to her
dress, missed the fastening, and let it drop with a vacant smile
that almost overcame Theodora. They laid her in bed, and she
dropped asleep, like an infant, the instant her head was on the
pillow. Theodora thought it cruel to arouse her to take nourish¬
ment j but Sarah was peremptory, and vigorously administered
the spoonfuls, which she swallowed in the same unconscious
manner. She was only roused a little by a sound from the baby:
' Give him to me, he will be quieter soand Sarah held him to
her, she took him in her arms, and was instantly sunk in the
same dead slumber.
' My pretty lamb 1' mourned the cold stern servant, as she
arranged her coverings; 'this is the sorest brash we have had-
together yet, and I doubt whether ye'll win through with it.
May He temper the blast that sends it.'
Gazing at her for a few seconds, she raised her hand to dry
some large tears; and as if only now conscious of Miss Martin-
dale's presence, curtsied, saying, in her usual manner, ' I beg
your pardon, ma'am. There is the room next the nursery made
ready'for you.'
' I could not go, Sarah, thank you. Go to your children; I
will take care of her. Pray go.'
' I will, thank you, ma'am. We will have need of all our
strength before we have done.'
' How has she been before this V
' About as well as usual at first, ma'am, till he threw her
back with going off into they foreign parts, where he has been
and as good as catched his death, and would have died if Mr.
Potheringham had not brought him home.'
'What! has he been abroad, Sarah
'Yes, ma'am. I was holding the baby when he says to
Missus he was going to Bully, or Boulong—
' Boulogne—'
'Yes, Bullying, or some such place; and bullied him they
have; stripped him even of his very portmanteau, with Iris
eight new shirts in it, that they have ! Well, Missus, she says
his cold would be worse, and he said it only wanted a change,
and she need never fret, for he meant to get quit of the whole
concern. But for that, I would have up and told him he didn't
ought to go, and that he must stay at home and mind her; but
then I thought, if he did get rid of them nasty horses, and that
there Mr. Gardner, with his great nasturtions on his face, it
would be a blessed day. But I ought to have known how it
, would be: he is too innocent for them; and they have never
444
HEARTSEASE;
teen content till they have been and got his very clothes, and
given him his death, and broke the heart of the bestest and most
loving heartedest lady as ever lived. That they have 1*
Having eased her mind by this tirade, Sarah mended the
fire, put every comfort in Miss Martindale's reach, advised her
to lie down by her mistress, and walked off.
Theodora felt giddy and confounded with the shocks of that
day. It was not till she had stretched herself beside Violet
that she could collect her perceptions of the state of affairs;
and oh! what wretchedness! -Her darling brother, round
whom the old passionate ardour of affection now clung again,
lying at death's door; his wife sinking under her exertions;—
these were the least of the sorrows, though each cough seemed
to rend her heart, and that sleeping mother was like a part of
her life. The misery was in that mystery—^nay, in the certainty,
that up to the last moment of health Arthur had been engaged
in his reckless, selfish courses! If he were repentant, there was
neither space nor power to express it, far less for reparation.
/ He was snatched at once from thoughtless pleasure and dis¬
regard of religion—^nay, even of the common charities of home !
And to fasten the guilt to herself were those few half-uttered
words—^races, debts, Gardner!
'If you once loosen the tie of home, he will go back to
courses and companions that have done him harm enough
already.' 'Beware of Mark Gardner!' 'Whatever comes of
these races, it is your doing, not mine.' Those warnings flashed
before her eyes like letters of fire, and she turned her face to
the pillow as it were to hide from them, as well as to stifle the
groans that could not have been wrung from her by bodily
pain. ' Oh, my sin has found me out 1 I thought I had been
punished, but these are the very dregs 1 His blood is on nly
head 1 My brother! my brother 1 whom I loved above all!
He was learning to love his home and children; she was wean¬
ing him from those pursuits 1 What might he not have been ?
I led him away 1 When he shrank from the temptation, I
dragged him to it! I gave him back to the tempter! I, who though t
I loved him—I did the devil's work ! Oh 1 this is the heavier
weight? Why should it crush others with the only guilty one ?
Oh 1 have mercy, have mercy on him I Let me bear all I Take
me instead 1 Let me not have slain his soul 1'
It was anguish beyond the power of words. She could not
lie still; she knelt on the floor, and there the flood of despair
fell on her more overwhelmingly; and crouching, almost cast
on the ground, she poured out incoherent iutreaties for mercy,
for space for his repentance, for his forgiveness. That agony of
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIEE. 445
distracted prayer must have lasted a long time. Some sound
in her brother's room alarmed her, and in starting she shook
the table. Her father came to ask if anything was the matter j
told her that Arthur was quiet, and begged her to lie down.
It was a relief to have something to obey, and she moved back.
The light gleamed on something bright. It was the setting of
Helen's cross! * Ah! I was not worthy to save it; that was
for Johnnie's innocent hand! I may not call this my cross, but my
rod!' Then came one thought: * I came not for the righteous,
but to call sinners to repentance.' Therewith hot tears rose up.
*With him there is infinite mercy and redemption.' Some
power of hope revived, that Mercy might give time to repent,
accept the heartfelt grief that might exist, though not manifested
to man ! The hope, the motive, and comfort in praying, had
gleamed across her again; and not with utter despair could she
beseech that the sins she had almost caused might be so repented
of as to receive the pardon sufficient for all iniquity.
CHAPTEH X
Thus have I seen a temper wild
In yokes of strong affection bound
Unto a spirit meek and mild,
Till chains of good were on him found.
He, struggling in his deep distress,
As in some dream of loneliness,
llath found it was an angel guest.
Thoughts in Fast Years.
Five days had passed, and no material change had taken
place. There was no serious recurrence of bleeding, but
the inflammation did not abate, and the sufiering was grievous,
though Arthur was so much enfeebled that he could not struggle
under it. His extreme debility made his body passive, but it
was painfully evident that his mind was as anxious and ill at
ease as ever. There was the same distrustful watch to see
every letter, and know all that passed; the constant strain of
every faculty, all in absolute silence, so that his nurses, especially
Theodora, felt as if it would be a positive personal relief to them
if those eyes would be closed for one minute.
What would they have given to know what passed in that
sleepless mind 1 But anything that could lead to speaking or
agitation was forbidden; even, to the great grief of Theodora,
the admission of the clergyman of the parish. Lord Martin-
dale agieed with the doctors that it was too great a risk, and
HEARTSEASE;
Violet allowed them to decide, whispering to Theodora that she
thought he heeded Johnnie's prayers more than anything read
with a direct view to himself. The cause of his anxiety re¬
mained in douht. Lord Martindale had consulted Violet, but
she knew nothing of any papers. She was aware that his
accounts were mixed up with Mr. Gardner's, and believed he
had gone to Boulogne to settle them ; and she conjectured that
he had found himself more deeply involved than he had ex¬
pected. She remembered his having said something of being
undone, and his words to Johnnie seemed to bear the same in-'
terpretation.
Mr. Fotheringham's apparition was also a mystery; so strange
was it that, after bringing Arthur home in such a state, he
should offer no further assistance. James was desired to ask
him to come in, if he should call to inquire; but he did not
appear, and the father and sister began to have vague appre¬
hensions, which they would not for the world have avowed to
each other, that there must be worse than folly, for what save
disgrace would have kept Percy from aiding John's brother in
his distress ? Each morning rose on them with dread of what
the day might bring forth, not merely from the disease within,
but from the world without; each postman's knock was listened
to with alarm, caught from poor Arthur.
His wife was of course spared much of this. That worst
fear could not occur to her ; she had no room for any thought
but for him as he was in the sight of Heaven, and each hour
that his life was prolonged was to her a boon and a blessing.
She trusted that there was true sorrow for the past—not merely
dread of the consequences, as she traced the shades upon his
face, while he listened to the hymns that she encouraged Johnnie
to repeat. In that clear, sweet enunciation, and simple, re¬
verent manner, they evidently had a great effect. He listened
for the first time with his heart, and the caresses, at which
J ohnnie glowed with pleasure as a high favour, were, she knew,
given with a species of wondering veneration. It was Johnnie's
presence that most soothed him ; his distressing, careworn ex¬
pression passed away at the first sight of the innocent, pensive
face, and returned not while the child was before him, bending
over a book, or watching the baby, or delighted at having some
small service to perform. Johnnie, on his side, was never so
well satisfied as in the room, and nothing but Violet's fears for
his health prevented the chief part of his time from being spen"#
there.
Her own strength was just sufficient for the day. She could
sit by Arthur's side, comprehend his wishes by his face, and do
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.-447-
nic«re to relieve and sustain hini than all the rest; and, though
she looked wretchedly weak and worn, her power of doing all
that was needed, and looking upon him with comforting refresh¬
ing smiles, did not desert her. The night watch she was forced
to leave to be divided between his father and sister, with the
assistance alternately of Sarah and the regular nurse, and she
was too much exhausted when she went to bed, for Theodora
to venture on disturbing her by an unnecessary word.
Theodora's longing was to be continually with her brother;
but this could only be for a few hours at night; and then the
sight of his suffering, and the difficulty of understanding his
restlessness of mind, made her so wretched, that it took all the
force of her strong resolution to conceal her unhappiness ; and
she marvelled the more at the calmness with which the feeble
frame of Violet endured the same scene. The day was still
more trying to her, for her task was the care of the children,
and little Helen was so entirely a copy of her own untamed
self, as to be a burdensome charge for a desponding heart and
sinking spirits.
On the fifth morning the doctors perceived a shade of im¬
provement ; but to his attendants Arthur appeared worse, from
being less passive and returning more to the struggle and
manifestation of oppression and suffering. He made attempts
at questions, insisting on being assured that no letter nor call
had been kept from him ; he even sent for the cards that had
been left, and examined them, and he wanted to renew the
conversation with his father; but Lord Martindale silenced
him at once, and left the room. He looked so much disap¬
pointed that Violet was grieved, and thought, in spite of the
doctors, that it might have been better to have run the risk of
letting him speak, for the sake of setting his mind at rest.
Lord Martindale, however, saw so much peril in permitting
a word to be uttered, that he deemed it safer to absent himself
and went out to try to trace out Mr. Eotheringham, and ask
whether he could throw any light on Arthur's trouble.
The children were out of doors, and Theodora was profiting
by the interval of quiet to write to her mother, when she heard
James ^announce, *Mr. Fotheringham.'
She looked up, then down. Her first thought was of her
brother; the next brought the whole flood of remembrances,
and she could not meet his eye.
He advanced, but there was no friendly greeting. As to a
stranger, he said, ' I hope Colonel Martindale is better T
Could it bo himself ? She gave a hasty glance. It was; he
shose to disown her; to meet her without even a hand held
448 HEAllTSEASE}
i
out! Kallying lier fortitude, she made answer, 'Thank you;
we hope *
She got no further—^her hand was grasped. ' Theodora ! I
did not know you.*
She had forgotten her altered looks 1 Relieved, she smiled,
and said, 'Yes, I am a strange figure. They think Arthur a
little better to-day, thank you.*
' How has it been 1'
He listened to the details with eagerness, that dismissed from
her mind the sickening apprehension of his knowing of any
hidden evil; then, saying he was pressed for time, begged her
to ask Mrs. Martindale to let him speak to her on a matter ot
such importance that he must venture on disturbing her.
Theodora beckoned to Violet at the door, hoping to elude
Arthur's notice; but any attempt at secrecy made him more
distrustful, and the name had hardly been whispered before she
was startled by hearing—' Bring him here.'
Much frightened, the wife and sister expostulated, thus mak¬
ing him more determined; he almost rose on his elbow to
enforce his wishes, and at last said, 'You do me more harm by
preventing it.*
Violet felt the same; and in fear and trembling begged
Theodora to call Percy. She knew herself to be responsible for
the danger, but saw the impossibility of preventing the inter¬
view without still greater risk. Indeed, while Theodora delayed
Percy with cautions, impatience, and the fear of being disap¬
pointed, were colouring each sunken cheek with a spot of burn¬
ing red, the hands were shaking uncontrollably, and the breath-
was shorter than ever, so that she was on the point of going to
hasten the visitor, when he knocked at the door.
She signed to him at once to turn to Arthur, who held out his
hand, and met his greeting with an anxious, imploring gaze, as
if to ask whether, after all, he brought him hope.
' Well,' said Percy, cheerfully, ' I think it is settled.'
Arthur relaxed that painful tension of feature, and lay back
on his pillows, with a relieved though inquiring look.
' Begging your pardon for being meddlesome,' continued
Percy, ' I thought I saw a way of being even with that scoun¬
drel. Your papers had got into my pocket, and, as I had
nothing else to do, I looked them over after parting with you,
and saw a way out of the difficulty. I was coming in the
morning to return them and propound my plan, but finding
that you could not be seen, I ventured to take it on myself, at
once, for fear he should get out of reach.'
He paused, but Arthur's eyes asked on.
us, THE SSOTHES'S WIFE.
449
* 1 Jiad reason to tliink liim gone to Pari^. T followed Lim
tliither, and found lie was making up to Mrs. Finch. I let him
khow that I was aware of tliis villany, and of a good deal more
of the same kind, and threatened that, unless he came in to my
terms, I would expose the whole to his cousin, and let her
know that he is at this moment engaged to Miss Brandon. She
is ready to swallow a good deal, but that would have been too
much, and he knew it. He yielded, and gave me his authority
to break up the affair.'
As Arthur was still attentive and anxious, Percy went on to
explain that he had next gone to the man who kept the horses,
and by offers of ready money and careful inspection of his bills,
had reduced his charge to a less immoderate amount. The
money had been advanced for a portion of Arthur's share of the
debts, and a purchaser was ready for the horses, whose price
would clear off the rest; so that nothing more was wanted but
Arthur's authority for the completion of the sale, which would
free him from all present danger of pressure upon that score.
' Supposing you do not disavow me,' said Percy, ' I must ask
pardon for going such lengths without permission.'
A clutch of the hand was the answer, and Percy then showed
him the accounts only waiting for his signature.
The money advanced was nearer five thousand pounds than
four; and Arthur, pointing to the amount, inquired, by look
and gesture, * Where does it come from V
* Never mind; it was honestly come by. It is a lot that has
accumulated out of publishing money, and was always bothering
me with railway shares. It will do as well in your keeping.'
' It is throwing it into a gulf.'
* In your father's, then. I will take care of myself, and
s]oeak when I want it. Don't trouble your father about it till
he sees his way.'
' I must give you my bond.'
* As you please, but there is no hurry.'
Arthur, however, was bent on giving his signature at once,
and, as he looked towards his wife and child, said, ' For their
sakes, thank you.*
* I did it for their sakes,* said Percy, gruffly, perhaps to check
Arthur's agitation; but as if repenting of what sounded harsh,
he took the infant in his arms, saying to Yiolet, * You have a
tine fellow here 1 Eyes and forehead—^his father all over !'
Arthur held out his hand eagerly. ' Let him be your god-
Bon—make him like any one but me.'
Percy took two turns in the room before he could answer,
* My godson, by all means, and thank you j but you will have
o o
450
HEAPwISEASE;
the making of him yonrself. You are much better than 1
expected.'
Arthur shook his head; but Violet, with a look, sufficient
reward for anything, said, 'It is you that are making him
better.'
He replied by inquiries about the christening. The baby
was a day less than four weeks old, and Violet was anxious to
have him baptized; so that it was arranged than it should take
place immediately on Percy's return from Worthbourne, whither
he was to proceed that same afternoon, having hitherto been
delayed by Arthur's affairs. This settled, he took leave. Arthur
fervently pressed his hand, and, as Violet adjusted the pillows,
sank his head among them as if courting rest, raising his eyes
once more to his ' friend in need,' and saying, ' I shall sleep
now.'
Violet only hoped that Mr. Fotheringham understood what
inexpressible gratitude was conveyed in those words, only to be
appreciated after watching those six wakeful, straining days and
nights.
Meantime, Theodora waited in fear, too great at first to leave
space for other thoughts; but as time passed, other memories
returned. On coming to summon Percy she had found him
standing before the little stuffed owl, and she could not but
wonder what thoughts it might have excited, until suddenly the
recollection of Jane dissipated her visions with so violent a re¬
vulsion that she was shocked at herself) and perceived that there
was a victory to be achieved.
' It shall be at once,' said she. ' I will mention her. To be
silent would show consciousness. Once done, it is over. It is
easier with my altered looks. I am another woman now.'
She heard him coming down, and almost hoped to be spared
the meeting, but, after a moment's pause, he entered.
' Well,' he said, 'I hope I have done him no harm. I think
better of him now than when I came home. He looks to me
as if the worst was over.'
They were the first words of hope, and spoken in that hearty,
cheery voice, they almost overset her weakened spirits, and the
struggle with tears would not let her answer.
'You have had a most trying time,' said he, in the kind way
that stirred up every old association; but that other thought
made her guarded, and she coldly hurried out the words—
'Yes; this is the first time my father has been out. He
went in search of you, to ask how you met poor Arthur, who
has been able to give no account of himself.'
' We met on board the steamer. He had been obliged to
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. 451
%
leave Boulogne without finishing his business there, and 1 went
back to settle it for him.*
' And the papers he had lost f
' I had them : it is all right.*
' And his mind relieved?'
' I hope it is.*
' Oh! then, we may dare to hope !* cried she, breathing
freely.
'I trust so; but I must go. Perhaps I may meet Lord
Martindale.*
With a great effort, and a 'uow-or-never* feeling, she
abruptly said, ' I hope Jane is well.'
He did not seem to understand; and confused, as if she had
committed an over familiarity of title, she added, 'Mrs.
Fotheringham.*
She was startled and hurt at his unconstrained manner.
' Very well, I believe. I shall see her this evening at Worth-
bourne.*
' Has she been staying there long ?' said Theodora, going on
valiantly after the first plunge.
' Ever since the summer. They went home very soon after
the marriage.*
' A new light broke in on Theodora. She was tingling in
every limb, but she kept her own counsel, and he proceeded,
' I saw them at Paris, and thought it did very well. She is
very kind to him, keeps him in capital order, and has cured him
of some of his ungainly tricks.*
' How did it happen ? I have heard no particulars.*
' After his mother's death poor Pelham was less easily con¬
trolled; he grew restless and discontented, and both he and
my uncle fell under the influence of an underbred idle youth
in the neighbourhood, who contrived at last to get Sir Antony's
consent to his taking Pelham abroad with him as his pupil. At
Florence they met with these ladies, who made much of their
cousin, and cajoled the tutor, till this marriage was effected.*
' She must be nearly double his age.*
' She will manage him the better for it. There was great
excuse for her; The life she was obliged to lead was almost
an apology for any way of escape. If only it had been done
openly, and with my uncle's consent, no one could have had
any right to object, and I honestly believe it is a very good
thing for all parties,*
'Would Sir Antony have consented?*
' I have little doubt of it. He was hurt at first, but he was
always fond of Jan(N She is very attentive to him, and I hope
ao 2
452
fiEAllTSEASE,
makes him quite comfortable. He "wrote to ask me to collie And se6
them at Worthhoume, and I am on my way. I see it is getting
late. Good bye.'
Theodora's heart had been bounding all this time. Her first
impulse was to rush up to tell Yiolet; but as this could not be,
she snatched up a bulky red volume, and throwing over the
leaves till she came to F.—Fotheringham, Sir Antony, of
"Worthbourne, looked down the list of his children's names, and
beheld that the only one not followed by the fatal word died
was Antony Pelham.
What had they all been doing not to have thought of this
before? However, she recollected that it would have seemed as
impossible that the half-witted youth should marry as that he
should be on the Continent. The escape from the certainty
that had so long weighed on her, taught her what the pain had
been j and yet, when she came to analyse her gladness, it seemed
to melt away.
She dwelt on her period of madness—her wilful, repeated re¬
jection of warning; she thought of the unhappy Derby day—of
her own cold Wery well'—her flirtation with Lord St. Erme.
She recollected the passage with Annette Moss: and then, for
her present person, it was changed beyond recognition, as had"
just been proved; nor could she wonder, as turning to the
mirror, she surveyed the figure in black silk and plain cap,
beyond which the hair scarcely yet peeped out—^the clearness
and delicacy of skin destroyed, the face haggard with care and
sorrow, the eyelids swollen by watchful nights. She almost
smiled at the contrast to the brilliant, flashing-eyed, nut-brown
maid in the scarlet-wreathed coronal of raven hair, whom she
had seen the last time she cared to cast a look in that glass.
* I am glad I am altered,' said she, sternly. ' It is well that
I should not remind him of her on whom he wasted his hope
and affection. It is plain that I shall never marry, and this is
a mask under which I can meet him with indifference like his
own. Yes, it was absolute indifference—nothing but his ordi¬
nary kindliness and humanity; neither embarrassment nor con¬
fusion—just as he would have met any old woman at Brogden.
If he remembers that time at all, it is as a past delusion, and
there is nothing in me to recal what he once liked. He did
not know me 1 Nonsense ! I thought I was content only to
know him safe from Jane—still his real self. I am. That is
joy I All the rest is folly and selfishness. That marriage! '
How disgusting—and what crooked ways 1 But what is that
to me % Jane may marry the whole world, so that Percy is
on, the brother's wife.
453
The children were heard on the stairs, and Helen rushed in,
shouting, in spite of the silencing finger, * Aunt, it is the owl
man I' and Johnnie himself, eager and joyous, 'It is the man
who came with papa.'
'He met us,' said Helen. 'He knew my name, and he
asked Annie's, and carried her to our door.'
' He said he had been into papa's room,' said Johnnie, ' and
had seen baby. He is a very good-natured gentleman. Don't
you like him, aunt Theodora V
' And oh! aunt, he asked me whether we ever went to
Brogden; and when he heard that we had been at the par¬
sonage, he said he lived there when he v/as a little boy, and our
nursery was his;' chattered on Helen. 'He asked if we were
in the fire; and you know Johnnie can't bear to hear of that;
so I told him how funny it was when you came and pulled me
out of bed, and we went down the garden with no shoes. And
he asked whether that was the way you had grown so ugly,
aunt Theodora V
'Ho, Helen, he did not say that; for he was a gentleman,'
interposed Johnnie; 'he only said he was afraid our aunt had
been a sufferer, and Sarah told—
' And I told,' again broke in Helen, ' how cousin Hugh said
it was an honour and a glory to be burnt like you; and I
told him how I got the water and should have put out the fire,
if that horrid Simmonds had not carried me away, and I wish
he had not. So long as I had not my curls burnt off,' said
Miss Helen, pulling one of the glossy chestnut rings into her
sight, like a conscious beauty as she was.
'He asked Sarah all about it,' said Johnnie; 'and he said
we had a very good aunt; and, indeed, we have!' climbing
carelessly into her lap. ' Then he met grandpapa, and they are
walking in the square together.'
So Mr. Fotheringham could be in no real haste to be gone,
and had only hurried away to avoid Theodora. However, there
was no more musing time, the children's dinner was ready, and
slie was going down with the little girls, when her father en¬
tered. ' How is Arthur V
It was answered by Johnnie, who was flying downstairs with
joyous though noiseless bounds, his whole person radiant vnth
good tidings. Papa is asleep ! grandpapa. Papa is fast asleep !'
' Have vou been in the room V
' No; mamma came to the door and told me. Baby is gone
up to our nursery, and nobody is to make the least noise, for
papa is gone to sleep so comfortably!'
The boy had caught so ipuch gladness fro^4 hjs mother's look.
154
HEATvTSEASE;
that be almost seemed to imderstand the importance of that first
rest. His grandfather stroked his hair, and in the same breath
with Theodora, exclaimed, ' It is owing to Percy I'
' Has he told you about it V said Theodora.
' So much as that there is a final break with that fellow Gard¬
ner—a comfort at least. Percy said they had got their affairs
into a mess; Arthur had been trying to free himself, but
Gardner had taken advantage of him, and used him shamefully,
and his illness had forced him to come away, leaving things
more complicated than ever. There was a feeling of revenge, it
seems, at Arthur not having consented to some disgraceful
scheme of his; but Percy did not give me the particulars.
Meeting him in the steamer, ill and desperate—poor fellow—
Percy heard the story, took care of him, and saw him home;
then, finding next morning what a state he was in, and thinking
there might be immediate demands—^
' Oh ! that was the terrible dread and anxiety!'
' He did what not one man in a million would have done.
He went off, and on his own responsibility adjusted the matter,
and brought Gardner to consent. He said it had been a great
liberty, and that he was glad to find he had not gone too far,
and that Arthur approved.'
' Do you know what it was V
'Ho; he assured me all was right, and that there was no
occasion to trouble me with the detail. I asked if any advance
was needed, and he said no, which is lucky, for I cannot toll
how I could have raised it. For the rest, I could ask him no
questions. Ho doubt it is the old story, and, as Arthur's friend,
he could not be willing to explain it to me. I am only glad it
is in such safe hands. As to its being a liberty, I told him it
was one which only a brave thorough-going friend would have
taken. I feel as if it might be the saving of his life.'
Theodora bent down to help little Anna, and said, 'You
know it is Sir Antony Fotheringham's son that Miss Gardner ,
married V
' Ay !' said Lord Martindale, so much absorbed in his son as
to forget his daughter's interest in Percival Fotheringham—
' He says Arthur's cough did not seem so painful as when he
saw him before, and that he even spoke several times. I am
frightened to think what the risk has been of letting him in.'
'Arthur insisted,' said Theodora, between disappointment at
the want of sympathy, and shame for having expected it; and
she explained how the interview had been unavoidable.
' Well, it is well over, and no harm done,' said Lord Martin-
dale, not able to absolve the sister from imprudence. After a
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. 455
space, lie added, 'What did you say? The deficient young
Fotheringham maiTied ?'
' Yes, to Jane Gardner.*
' Why, surely some one said it was Percy himself I'
' So Violet was told at Kickworth.*
Lord Martindale here suddenly recollected all, as his daughter
perceived by his beginning to reprove Helen for stirring about
the salt. Presently he said, ' Have you heard that the othei
sister, the widow—what is her name V
'Mrs. Finch—^
' Is going to be foolish enough to marry that Gardner. She
was your friend, was not she V
' Yes, poor thing. Did you hear much about her V
' Percy says that she was kind and attentive to the old man,
as long as he lived, though she went out a great deal while they
lived abroad, and got into a very disreputable style of society
there. Old Finch has left everything in her power; and from
some words overheard on the quay at Boulogne, Percy under¬
stood that Gardner was on his way to pay his court to her at
Paris. There was a former attachment it seems, and she is
actually engaged to him. One can hardly pity her. She must
do it with her eyes open.'
Theodora felt much pity. She had grieved at the entire
cessation of intercourse, even by letter, which had ensued when
the Finches went to the Continent; and she thought Georgina
deserved credit for not having again seen Mark, when, as it now
appeared, there had lurked in her beart affection sufficient to
induce her to bestow herself, and all her wealth, upon him,
spendthrift and profligate as she must know him to be. Miser¬
able must be her future li^ , and Theodora's heart ached as she
thought of wretchedness unaided by that which can alone give
support through the trials of life, and bring light out of dark¬
ness. She could only pray that the once gay companion of her
girlhood, whose thoughtlessness she had encouraged, might yet,
even by affliction, be led into the thorny path which Theodora
was learning to feel was the way of peace.
Arthur was wakened by the recurring cough, and the look of
distress and anxiety returned; but the first word, by which
Violet reminded him of Percy's call, brought back the air of
relief and tranquillity. Mr. Harding, at his evening visit, was
amazed at the amendment; and Johnnie amused his grand¬
father by asking if the ow,' -^an was really a doctor, or whether
Sarah was right when she said he had rescued papa and his
portmanteau out of a den of thieves.
When Violet left the room at night, the patient resignation
456 HEASTSEASE;
of lier face was Lriglitening into thankfulness; and while pre
paring for rest, she could ask questions about the little girls.
Theodora knew that she might tell her tale; and sitting in her
favourite place on Violet's footstool^ with her head bent down,
she explained the error between the two cousins.
'How glad ram!' said the soft voice, ever ready to rejoice
with her. * Somehow, I had never recollected it, he is so like
what he used to be. I am very glad.'
* Don't treat it as if it was to concern me,' said Theodora.
' I care only as he remains the noblest of men.'
' That he is.'
* Don't wish any more, nor think I do,' said Theodora. ' I
never liked stories of young ladies who reform on having the
smalhpox. It is time nonsense should be out of my head when
a man does not know me again.'
' Oh ! surely—did he not V
'Not till I spoke. No wonder, and it is better it should be
so. I am unworthy any way. O, Violet, now will you not let
me ask your forgiveness T
' What do you mean, dearest Y
' Those races.'
Violet did not shrink from the mention; she kissed Theodora's
brow, while the tears, reserved for the time of respite, dropped
fast and bright.
' Poor dear,' she said; ' how much you have suffered Y
There was silence for some moments. Theodora striving to
keep her tears as quiet as her sister's.
'I think,' said Violet, low and simply, 'that we shall be
happy now.'
Then, after another silence, ' Come, if we go on in this way,
we shall not be fit for to-morrow, and you have only half
a night. Dearest, I wish I could save you the sitting up ! If
he is better to-morrow, Johnnie shall take you for a walk.'
He was better, though the doctors, dismayed at yesterday's
imprudence, preached strenuously on his highly precarious state,
and enforced silence and absence of excitement. Indeed, his
condition was still such that the improvement could only be
seen in occasional gleams; and as the relief from mental anxiety
left him more attention to bestow on the suffering from the dis¬
order, he was extremely depressed and desponding, never be¬
lieving himself at all better.
The experiment of a visit from the little girls vras renewed,
but without better success; for the last week had increased the
horrors of his appearance; and Theodora reported that Johnnie
had confided to hcr^ as pl|ockin^ spcret, that the re^sop wJiy
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. 457
Helen could not bear to go near papa was, tbat be looked
exactly like Red Ridingbood's wolf.
Violet was grateful for tbe saying, for it was tbe first tbing
tbat drew a smile from Arthur, and to court tbe cbild became a
sort of interest and occupation tbat distracted bis tbougbts from
bimself. It was touching to see bim watching her, as she ran
in and out, trying to catch her eye, stretching out bis band
invitingly, holding up fruit to allure her, and looking with
fond, proud, yet mournful eyes, on her fresh healthful beauty.
She used to try not to see bim, and would race i>ast at full
speed, and speak to her mamma with her back to bim; but
gradually some mysterious attraction in tbat silent figure won
sidelong glances from her, and she began to pause, each time
with a longer and fuller tiptoe gaze, both bands pressed down
on tbe top of her bead, and a look like a wild fawn, till all at
once, the welir-wolf feeling would seize her, and she would turn
and dash off as if for her life, while bis eager, pleased face
relaxed into disappointment, and her mother still said tbat time
would bring her round.
At last, she took them completely by surprise, suddenly
launching herself on tbe bed, and plunging her face into tbe
midst of tbe black bristles; then, leaping down, and rushing to
tbe door as if expecting to be caught. So violent a proceeding
was almost more than Arthur could bear, and Violet, rising to
smooth tbe coverings, began to preach gentleness; but shaken
as be was, be was too much gratified to permit tbe reproof,
smiled and held up a bunch of grapes to invite tbe little maid
back. But this was an offence; she put her bands behind her,
and, with a dignified gesture, announced, ' I do not give kisses
for gi'apes. I did it because Jobnnie will not let me alone, and
said I was unkind.'
* Theodora all over 1' said her father, much entertained.
It was a great step tbat be bad discovered tbat tbe children
could afford bim diversion, especially now, when nothing else
could have served to wile away tbe tedious hours. He could
bear no reading aloud from any one but Johnnie, whom be
would not refuse; and to whom be listened with pride in a per¬
formance be fancied wonderful, while tbe little books cost no
effort of attention, and yet their simple lessons floated on bis
tbougbts, and perchance sank into bis heart. Or when be lay
panting and wearied out with oppression, tbe babe's movements
would attract bis eye, and tbe prattlings of tbe little girls at
their mamma's side would excite a languid curiosity tbat drew
bim out of bimself. Sometimes tbat childish talk left food for
t)Jxou(jl)t, One dajr when the chnd^ren b^d been sent i^to tb?
458
HEARTSEASE i
next room to share some fmit from the plate by his bed-sitle,
Helen's voice was overheard saying, ' I wish papa would never
get well!'
' Helen ! Helen, how can you 1' pleaded her brother's shocked
voice.
'He is so much more good-natured when he is ill,' was
Helen's defence. 'I like him now; I don't like hiin at all
when he is well, because then he is always cross. Don't you
think so, Johnnie V
' That is not kind of you when he lies there, and it hurts him
so sadly to breathe. You should wish him to be well, Helen.'
' If he would be kind to me.'
'O, you don't know what it feels like to be ill,' said Johnnie.
' I do want to see him strong and able to ride, and go out to his
soldiers again. I hope he will be kind still, and not go away
and make mamma unhappy—'
' If he would ever lead me by the hand, like the little girl's
papa at the house with the parrot, I should like that sort of
papa, if he was not a little thin short ugly man. Should not
you, J ohnnie V
'No ! I never shall like anything so well as my own papa.
I do love him with my whole, whole heart! I am so glad he
will let us love him now! It seems to come over me in the
morning, and make me so glad when I remember it.'
Violet had been on the point of stopping this conversation,
but Arthur would not permit her, and listened with his eyes -
filling with tears.
' What have you done to that boy V he murmured.
' It is his own loving self,' said Violet.
Arthur pressed her hand to his lips. ' My poor children !
If papa ever were to get well—
And Violet regretted that he had heard, for his emotion
threw liim back for the rest of the evening.
CHAPTER XI.
Then weep not o'er the hour of pain,
As those who lose their all;
Gather the fragments that remain,
They'll prove nor few nor small.—M. L. Duncan.
IN the meantime Theodora and her father had been brought
into contact with visitors from the external world. One
morning James brought in a card and message of inquiry
from Lord St. Erme, and Lord Martindale desired that he
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. 45'J
should be admitted. Tlieodora had just time to think how
ridiculous it was of her to consider how she should appear to
another old lover, before he came in, colouring deeply, and
bending his head low, not prepared to shake hands j but when
hers was held out, taking it with an eager yet bashful promp¬
titude.
After a cordial greeting between him and her father, it was
explained that he had not entirely recovered what he called his
accident, and had come to London for advice ; he had brought
a parcel from Wrangerton for Mrs. Martindale, and had pro¬
mised to carry the Moss family the latest news of the Colonel.
While this was passing, and Lord Martindale was talking about
Arthur, Theodora had time to observe him. The foreign dress
and arrangement of hair were entirely done away with, and he
looked like an Englishman, or rather an English boy, for the
youthfulness of feature and figure was the same; the only
difference was that there was a greater briskness of eye, and
firmness of mouth, and that now that the blush on entering
had faded, his complexion showed the traces of recent illness,
and his cheeks and hands were very thin. When Theodora
thought of the heroism he had shown, of her own usage of
him, and of his remembrance of her in the midst of his worst
danger, she could not see him without more emotion than she
desired. He was like a witness against her, and his consciousness
would infect her ! She longed for some of the cool manner that
had come so readily with Percy, and with some difficulty
brought out a composed inquiry for Lady Lucy; but he dis¬
concerted her again by the rapid eager way in which he turned
round at her voice.
* Lucy is very well, thank you ; I left her staying with my
cousins, the Delavals. It is very hard to get her away from -
home, and she threatens not to stay a day after my return.'
He spoke in a hasty confused way, as if trying to spin every¬
thing out of the answer, so as to remain conversing with Theo¬
dora as long as possible.
* How long shall you be in town V she asked, trying to find
something she could say without awkwardness.
' I can hardly tell. I have a good deal to do. Pray'—turn¬
ing to Lord Martindale—' can you tell me which is the best
shop to go to for agricultural implements V
Speed the plough 1 Farming is a happy sedative for English
noblemen of the nineteenth century, thought Theodora, as she
heard them discussing subsoil and rocks, and thought of the
poet turned high farmer, and forgetting even love and embar¬
rassment 1 However, she had the satisfaction of hearins: ^ Ho
O *
460
HEAETSEASE;
we cannot carry it out thorongLly there without blowing up
the rocks, and I cannot have the responsibility of defacing
nature.*
' Then you cannot be a thorough-going farmer.*
' I cannot afford it, and would not if I could. It is only for
the sake of showing the tenants that I am not devoid of the
spirit of the age.*
Country gentlemen being happier in agricultural implement
shops than anywhere else, Lord Martindale offered to accom¬
pany his friend and give his counsel. He would go upstairs to
see how Arthur was, and carry tk parcel to Yiolet..
' Pray tell Mrs. Martindale that her mother and sisters sent
all manner of kind messages. Very pleasing people they are,*
said Lord St. Erme; ' and Mrs. Moss was so very kind to my
poor little sister that we hardly know how to be sufficiently
gi'ateful.*
' I never saw any of the family but the brother,* said Theo¬
dora.
*And he is not the best specimen,* said Lord St. Erme.
' Some of the young ladies are remarkably nice people, very
sensible, and Lucy is continually discovering some kindness of
theirs among the poor people. Ah ! that reminds me, perhaps
you could tell me whether you know anything of a school in
your neighbourhood, from which a master h^s been recommended
to me—St. Mary's, Whiteford.*
* I don't know much of it; I believe the clergyman takes
pains about it.*
' Do you think they would have a superior man there ? Our
funds are low, and we must not look for great attainments at
present. It is easy to cram a man if he is intelligent; I only
want a person who can keep up what is taught, and manage the
reading-room on nights when we are not there.*
' Have you a reading-room V
* Only at Wrangerton as yet: I want to set up another at
Coalworth.*
* Then you find it answer 1 How do you arrange V
' Two nights in the week we read to tliem, teach singing, or
get up a sort of lecture. The other days there are books, prints,
newspapers ; and you will be surprised to see how much they
appreciate them. There's a lad now learning to draw, whose
taste is quite wonderful! And if you could have seen their
faces when I read them Henry IV. 1 I want to have
the same thing at Coalworth for the winter—not in summer.
could not ask them tp spend a piinute, they cap help, out pf
on, THE BUOTllEE^g WIFE
m
llie free air and light; but in winter I cannot see those fine
young men and boys dozing themselves into stolidity.*
Was this the man who contemned the whole English
peasantry, colliers especially ? . Theodora rejoiced that his
hobby had saved her a world of embarrassment, and still more
that their tete-d,-tele was interrupted. Lady Elizabeth Brandon
hesrsred to know whether Miss Martindale could see her.
OO _ _
She was on her way through London j and having just heard
of Colonel Martindale's illness, had come to inquire, and offe.
to be useful. Emma remained at the hotel. After Lord Mai
tindale*s cheerful answer and warm thanks, the gentlemen set
off together, and Theodora sat down with her good old friend
to give the particulars, with all the fulness belonging to the
first relief after imminent peril.
After the first, however. Lady Elizabeth's attention wandered;
and before the retrograding story had gone quite back to the
original Brogden cough, she suddenly asked if Percival Fother-
ingham was in England.
* Yes, at Worthbourne. You know it was his cousin—^
' I know—it was a mistake,' said Lady Elizabeth, hurrying
over the subject, as by no means suited its importance in Theo¬
dora's eyes. ' * Can you tell me whether he has seen or heard
anything of Mr. Mark Gardner V
* Yes,' said Theodora, surprised.
' I suppose you have not heard him say hovr he is conducting
himself V
*TIave you heard that he is going to be married to Mrs.
Finch r
Theodora was astonished at the efiect of this communication
on her sober staid old friend. She started, made an incredu¬
lous outcry, caused it to be repeated, with its authority, then
i-ose up, exclaiming, * The wretch ! My poor Emma ! I never
was more rejoiced. But Emma!'
The sight of Theodora's surprise recalled her to herself.
' Ah 1 you do not know V she said; and having gone so far,
was obliged to explain, with expressions of gratitude to Arthur
and Violet for having so well guarded a secret that now might
continue hidden for ever.
Theodora was slow in comprehending, so monstrous was the
idea of Emma Brandon engaged to Mark Gardner ! She put
her hands before her eyes, and said she must be dreaming—she
could not credit it. When convinced, there was something in
her manner that pleased and comforted Lady Elizabeth by the
kind feeling and high esteem it showed.
462
HEABTSEASE;
' Let me ask you one question, my dear,' ske said, 'just to set
, my mind at rest. I was told that your brother's affairs were
involved with those of that unhappy man. I trust it is no
longer so.'
Theodora explained, as far as she understood, how Percy had
extricated him. 'Ah 1' said Lady Elizabeth, 'I fear we are in
some degree the cause. My poor Emma was imprudent enough
to quote Colonel Martindale; and she has told me that she
was frightened by a pale look of anger that crossed his face,
and something which he muttered between his teeth. But he
made her believe Arthur his seducer !'
' Poor Arthur! If you knew all I' said Theodora ; ' and
who—* then breaking off, ' Percy did tell papa that it was all
Mr. Gardner's revenge for Arthur's not consenting to some
nefarious transaction. Depend upon it, that was it! You
asked Yiolet, you say. Percy said that, among the sentences
he overheard on the quay, there was something about a wife
who had crossed him, and who should suffer for it. He said it
was spoken with a hard-hearted wickedness that, even when he
did not know who it was, made him long to crush him like a
reptile; and when he had seen Yiolet and the children, though
it might be interference, he said he could as soon have left them
in the folds of a serpent 1'
' Ah ! my poor girl!'
' But this frees her. Oh ! she cannot grieve for such a
wretch!'
' I fear her attachment is so strong that she will not see it in
this light.'
' When he gives her up without a word, she ought to be too
angry to grieve.'
' I do not think that is in her nature.'
' So much the better. Anger and comfort cannot go togetner.
Oh, one so good and gentle must be helped! How I wish I
could do anything for her j but she will be better at home. It
is lucky there are no associations with him there.'
' I wish she was at home. Theresa Marstone is staying with
her brother in London, and I left her with Emma at the hotel.'
' Fortunately there cannot be two ways of thinking on this
matter,' said Theodora.
Lady Elizabeth was too anxious to break the tidings to her
daughter to wait at that time to see Yiolet; and went, pro¬
mising to come to-morrow to report how the blow should have
been borne.
Theodora was glad when she had a little space in which to
think over the events of the day.
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
463
Ever since slie had emhraced the lesson of humility, the once
despised Emma Brandon had been rising in her estimation.
The lowliness of her manners, and the heart-whole consistency
of her self-devotion, had far out-weighed her little follies, and,
together with remorse for having depreciated and neglected her
had established her claim to respect and admiration.
And now to find the old prediction verified, and Emma led
away by so absurd a delusion, might have seemed a triumph,
had not Theodora been thoroughly humbled. She only saw- a
humiliating contrast between the true pure heart that blindly
gave its full afiections, and that which could pretend to have
given itself away, and then, out of mere impatience of restraint,
play with and torture the love it had excited, and still worse,
foster an attachment it never meant to requite !
She was the more sensible of this latter delinquency now
that Lord St. Erme had just been brought before her, deserving
all that man could deserve; having more than achieved all to
which she had incited him, and showing a constancy unchecked
by the loss of her personal attractions. His blushing homage
came almost as a compensating contrast after her severe morti¬
fication at Percy's surprise and subsequent cool composure.
"While reproaching herself for this feeling, her father came
home, and with him the Earl. They had been occupied all the
afternoon, and had fallen into conversation on county business.
Lord Martindale, finding his young friend was alone at his hotel,
thought he had better dine with them, since Yiolet need not be
troubled about it. Theodora wondered whether it had occurred
to her father that some one else might be troubled, and that it
might seem like a renewal of encouragement; but the fact was,
that after ten days of the sick room, his society was a positive
treat to Lord Martindale, and in advising him on magistrate's
business, he forgot everything else.
The dinner went off without embarrassment. Lord St. Erme
did indeed blush when he offered his arm to her j but with
consideration that seemed to understand her, he kept up the
conversation chiefly with Lord Martindale on rates, police, and
committees.
She thought of the horror he had been wont to express of
the English squirearchy, ' whose arena is the quarter sessions
and she remembered standing up for them, and declaring there
was far more honest, sturdy, chivalrous maintenance of right
and freedom in their history than in all his beloved Lombardic
republics. And now, what was he but a thorough-going coun¬
try gentleman, full of plans of usefulness, sparing neither
thought, time, nor means; and though some of his vi were
HEAHTSEASE ;
treated by Lord Alartindale as wild and theoretical, yet, at dny
rate, they proved that he had found living men a more interest¬
ing study than the Apollo Belvedere.
Theodora was resolved that Yiolet should see him, and now
that the dinner was eaten and beyond anxiety, went up to dis¬
close his presence, and persuade her to go down to tea and leave
her with the patient. She found it was well she had kept her
counsel; Yiolet took it quietly enough; but Arthur chose to
concern himself as to what wine had been produced, and would
have sent a message to James if his sister had not assured him
that it was too late.
He insisted on Yiolet's going down to the drawing-room, and
would not hear of Theodora's remaining with him. The nurse
was in the outer room, and Johnnie was made supremely happy
by being allowed to sit up an hour longer to be his companion;
and thus with Lord Martindale and Theodora making frequent
eii'peditions to visit him, Yiolet was sufficiently tranquil to
remain as long in the drawing-room as was worth the fatigue of
the transit.
She could enjoy her talk with the Earl; and, indeed, since
Annette's visit, she had heard no tidings so full and satisfactory.
He knew the name of every one at Wrangerton; he seemed to
have learnt to love Helvellyn; he spoke very highly of Olivia's
husband, Mr. Hunt, declaring that he liked nothing better than a
visit to his most beautiful place, Lassonthwayte, a farm fit for the
poets, and had learnt a great deal from him; and of Mrs. Moss
he talked with affectionate gratitude that brought the tears into
Yiolet's eyes,- especially when he promised to go and call on her
immediately on his return, to tell her how Colonel Martindale
was going on, and descrilDe to her her grandchildren. He
repeated to Yiolet how kind her mother had been to his sister,
and how beautifully she had nursed him. Lord Martindale began
to ask questions, which brought out a narration of his adven¬
tures in the coal-pit, given very simply, as if his being there had
been a mere chance.
He allowed that he knew it to be dangerous, but added, that
it was impossible to get things done by deputy, and that he had
no choice but to see about it himself, and he dwelt much on the
behaviour of the men.
* Did you give up hope ?' asked Lord Martindale.
' For myself I did. The confined air oppressed me so much,^
even before the sense of hunger came on, that it seemed to take
away all power of thought and action.'
' Yet you did think?' said Yiolet.
* I was obliged, for the men were more confounded and help-
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. 465
less at first, thougli, when once directed, nothing could be more'
resolute and persevering! Brave fellows! I would not but have
had it happen! One seldom has such a chance of seeing the
Enslishman's gallant heart of obedient endurance. It was curious
to observe the instinctive submission. Some were men who
would not for worlds have touched their hats to me above
ground; yet, as soon as I tried to take the lead, and make them
think what could yet be done, they obeyed instantly, though I
knew almost nothing compared to them, and while they worked
like giants, I could hardly move.'
' \Vas it very acute suffering V
* For the last two days it was, but it was worse for those who
had to work. I was generally faint and drowsy, and could
hardly rouse myself to speak a word of encouragement, which
was what they wanted. They fancied it was vain to work
towards the old shaft j but I was sure none of them could live
to be dug out from above, and that it would be wrong to let
them cease. I think, as well as I recollect, that speaking
was the worst pain of all. But it is no harm to know what the
poor undergo.'
* Hardly to such extremity,' said Violet.
* Well, I know I shall never turn indifferently away again
when I hear, 'We are starving.' A man feels little for what he
has not experienced.'
' I suppose,' said Lord Martindale, ' that it has put an extin¬
guisher on Chartism V
' There are some determined village Hampdens still, but I
think the fellow feeling it has excited has done good. I have
not been able to go among them since, but they have indefa-
tigably come to inquire for me. The first Sunday I was able
to come down stairs, I found the hall door beset with them in
their best, looking like a synod of Methodist preachers. Poor
Lucy shocked my aunt by running about crying, and shaking
hands with their great horny fists. I fancy ' our young lady,'
as they call her, is the strongest anti-chartist argument.'
Though talking in this animated manner he was far from
strong, and went away early, looking thoroughly tired. Theo¬
dora had stitched away throughout the conversation in silence;
but Violet knew, by the very fixity of her eye, that she was
feeling it deeply; and there was consciousness in the absence of
word or look, with which she let the Earl bid her good night. -
It was a strange thing to have been in part the means of form¬
ing so noble a character, and yet to regard her share in it with
nothing but shame.
Self-reproacliful and unhappy, Theodora went to' take hei'
U H
466
HEAHTSEASE j
V
turn of watcMng her brother for the first part of tlie night.
She could not have home to be told, what was in fact the case,
that he was generally more uncomfortable under her care than
that of any one else, chiefly because there was not the restraint
either of consideration for his wife, or of the authority of his
father. Besides, she was too visibly anxious, too grave and sad,
to find anything cheerful with which to divert his attention;
and he was sure to become restless and exacting, or else de¬
pressed, either as to his illness or his affairs.
To-night he had discovered Lady Elizabeth's visit, and was
anxious to know whether Gardner had broken with Miss Bran¬
don. Theodora would not encourage his talking] and this
teased him, only making him say more till she had told all, add¬
ing, ' O Arthur! what a comfort it must be that this is brought
upon you by your having tried to save Emma !'
' hTot much of that. It was Yiolet. I would have stopped
her writing if I could.*
Perhaps this downfall of the heroism with which she had
been endowing his resistance, was one of the most cruel blows
of all.
' If he marries Mrs. Finch, he must at least pay off what he
owes mej' and he began perplexing himself with reckonings.
Theodora saw his brow drawn together, and his lips moving,
and begged him to desist and try to sleep.
' You have interrupted me—I have lost it!' and he tried
again. * No, I can't get it right. There is a lot of papers in
my writing-case. You'll see to it. It will be something for
Yiolet and the children. Mind the claim is sent in;' and
again he strove to explain, while she entreated him to put such
things out of his mind; and it ended in such violent coughing,
that Lord Martindale heard, came in, and with a look that told
her how ill she managed, sent her to bed, where she vexed
herself for hours at Arthur's seeming to dwell only on his
gaming debts, instead of on what she longed to see occupying
nis mind. Her elasticity seemed to have been destroyed by her
illness, and she had lost the vigour which once would have m^e
her rise against depression. The re-appearance of Percy and of
Lord St. Erme seemed only to have wearied and perplexed her;
and she lay awake, feeling worn, confused, and harassed, and
only wishing to hide her head and be at rest.
Arthur had a bad night, and was not so well in the morning;
and while Lord Martindale was wondering why Theodora could
not have been more cautious, the letters came in—one from
Brogden—making it evident that Lady Martindale was so
unwell and dispirited, that she ought not to be left alone any
OR, THE BROTHER^S WIFE.
46?
longer. LotdL Martindale, therefore, decreed that Theodora
should return, taking with her the three eldest children. And
she could make no objection; she ought to submit to he pas¬
sively disposed of; and, grievous as it was to leave her brother
and Violet, there was compensation in avoiding her former
suitors.
Lady Elizabeth came in almost at the same time as Lord
]Martindale went out, after breakfast. She was in great distress.
Poor Emma treated the whole as a calumny; and when shown
the absolute certainty that Mark was at Paris, daily calling on
hirs. Einch, remained persuaded that his cousin had perverted
him from the first, and was now trying to revive her pernicious
influence when he might have been saved; or that perhaps he
was driven to an immediate wealthy marriage by his honourable
feeling and his necessities. It was all her own fault for not
having taken him at once. Lady Elizabeth had hardly been
able to prevent her from writing to revoke the year's probation,
and offer him all that was needed to satisfy his creditors.
Theodora could not help exclaiming, that she thought Emma
would have had more dignity.
* So I told her, my dear; but it seemed to be no consolation.
I do not feel secure that, though she has promised me not to
write, Theresa Marstone may not.'
' Is Miss Marstone still in his favour V
* I can still less understand her view,' said Lady Elizabeth,
with a grave, sad simplicity, almost like satire; * she says it
only convinces her that the Church of England does not know
how to treat penitents.'
Theodora could not help laughing, and Lady Elizabeth nearly
joined her, though sighing and saying that such talk gave her '
other fears for Emma. She dreaded that Miss Marstone was
unsettled in her allegiance to her Church, and that her power
over Emma was infusing into her her own doubts.
' It is very sad—very strange! I cannot understand it,' said
Theodora. *I had always believed that such innocence and
lowliness as Emma and Violet have was a guard against all
snares; yet here is Emma led astray by these very excel¬
lences V
' My dear,* said Lady Elizabeth, ' I think it is the want of
that lowliness that is at the root with my poor child. It is a
dangerous thing for a girl to throw herself into an exclusive
friendship, especially when the disapproval of her own family is
felt. I tried, but I never could like Theresa Marstone; and
now I see that she liked to govern Emma, and depreciated my
judgment;—yery justly, perhaps; but still I was her mother,
' ' hu2
4,68 HEARTSEASE ]
and it was not kind to teack hor to tkink doing as I wisked, 9
condescension.'
* So Emma sold all ker senses to ker friend I' • -
* Yes, and Miss Marstone keeps tkem still. Tkeresa tariglit
ker to tkink kerself wiser tkan all, and tkeir own way of talk¬
ing, tke proof of goodness.* •
' Ay! tkeir passwords.'
* Just so, and I do believe it was tkat kind of vanity that
took from ker ker power of discerning and the instinctive
shrinking from evil.'
* It is very easy to make simplicity silliness,' said Theodora.
' I beg your pardon. Lady Elizabeth, I did not mean to blame
ker, but I was thinking how truly you spoke.'
* And now, may I ask to see Mrs. Martindale; or will it be
too muck for ker V
* She will be glad, but she was tired with coming down to
Lord St. Erme. And now, Arthur's bad night! Oh! Lady
Elizabeth, you come from your griefs to ours. It is a shame to
make you share them !'
* I do not think so,' said Lady Elizabeth. * There is a tract of
Hannah More's showing tkat to bear another's burden lightens
our own j and all old people will tell you that many troubles
together weigh less heavily tkan a single one.'
Theodora could not think so; each of ker cares seemed to
make tke others worse, till tke mere toil and vexation of Helen's
lessons became serious; and yet, when the children were dis¬
missed for their walk, she felt unable to profit by ker leisure,
otherwise than by sighing at the prospect of missing the power
of looking in at Arthur from hour to hour.
She had not roused kerself to occupation, when, to ker dis¬
may, Lord St. Erme was admitted. She began to say her
father was not at home.
' Yes,' he said, * I met him.'
He means mischief! thought Theodora.
' He tells me that you are going away 1'
I believe so,' said Theodora. * My mother is not well, and
we cannot both be spared from homo.'
* Will you forgive me V said the Earl, still standing, and with
downcast eyes, and heightened complexion. ' I know this is no
fit time, but I could not part without one allusion. I would
not harass you for worlds. A word from you, and I drop the
subject.'
* Ok ! pray, then, say no more !' was ker breathless entreaty.
He turned in silence, with a mournful gesture of farewell,
and laid his kfind on the door, Bke perceived ker uoHndnc^f
^ OB. THE BBOTHER'S WIFE.
469
to one wBo had every claim, to lionoTir and, consideration—one
who had remembered her in well nigh the hour of death,
i * Stay,' she said; ' I did not speak as I ought.'
' I know I presumed too far,' said Lord St. Erme, pausing;
* I ask your pardon for disturbing you. It was selfish; but I
could not let you go without once adverting to the subject—
There was a tremor of voice, an eager look, that made her
fear that the crushed hope was reviving, and she hastened
to say, ' The best thing would be that you should think nc»
more about me.'
* Impossible!' he vehemently cried; then, catching himself
np, and speaking in the same deferential tone as at first, ' I owe
you far too much to cease to think of you.'
* It is a great pity,' said Theodora; * I never deserved such
feelings, and they make me wish more and more that all could
be undone.'
*Ko! no r exclaimed Lord St. Erme, his eyes lighting and
his cheek glowing, while his fair young features wore a look
that was all poet and knight. * Would I see what is past
undone ? It was the turning point of my life—^the call to
arms. Hitherto, life had been to me a dream in an enchanted
garden, with the same secret weariness and dissatisfaction! I
dread the thought of the time and means I lavished away,
fancying because it was not vice it was not dissipation. It was
then that I became unworthy of you. It was you who taught
me where lies modern chivalry, and made my folly and conceit
cease to despise the practical j showed me—may I quote Ger¬
man to you once more?—that ' Das Lehen ist keine Lustfahrt,
sondern theils eine kamp/es, tlieils eine Pilger-weise.^ I took up
my staff, at first, I own, in hopes of winning you—
* You did not persevere merely for that reason?'
* Ho; when my eyes were once opened to the festering sin
and misery around, when I saw the evil nourished at my own
door by my neglect, and perceived that those dependent on me
were doomed to degradation and oppression that I might gratify
my craving for art,—then, indeed, I was appalled ! Those
paintings and statues seemed to cry out to me that human souls
had been sacrificed to them ! The toil and devotion of a life
would be too little to atone ! Oh ! that it were more able and
efTective. Means and judgment go but h. little way 1'
* Your heart and happiness are in the work,' said Theodora,
seeing how he was carried away by his feelings.
* Yes. There is a sense like the labourer's at his daily task :
and though there is the mountain of things undone, there is
the hope that all are not wilfully neglected. It is for this that
470
HEArvTSEASE ;
I longed to tliank you. Wlien I was in danger, I knew what
it would have been to wait for death before I thought of—^of
the way of peace. I blessed you in my heart then—I thank
you now.'
* Thank Him who has brought good out of evil,' was all
Theodora could say.
He bowed his head gravely, and continued: ' How, thank
you again for having listened. It has been a great satisfaction
to me to acknowledge my obligations. Do not suppose I came
to London intending to distress you with my pertinacity, or
with any idea of having earned your "favour. I was obliged to
come; and when once near you, I could not bear to separate
without, at least, entreating to know whether the former
obstacle exists.'
' It does,' said Theodora, looking down; ' I believe it always
will. I lament more than I can express, my conduct towards
you; and what you have told me grieves me more in one way,
though in another, it is most consoling. You have the true
secret of peace, and I know all must be well with you. If you
had done otherwise, it would have been far worse for me. Tell
Lucy I have not forgotten her. I am sure she has the true
light-hearted sort of happiness.'
'She has, iudeed,' said Lord St. Erme; and he entered into,
a description of his sister's doings; her perfect content with
their seclusion, and her influence over the dependents. So
eager did he grow in his favourite subject, the welfare of his
people, that he seemed to have forgotten what had brought him
to Cadogan-place, and Theodora was convinced that though the
being brought iuto contact with her had for the time renewed
the former attachment, it was in reality by no means the pro¬
minent thought of his life. His duties and the benefit of his
colliers, were what engrossed his, mind ; and with his sister to
render his home happy, everything else was secondary. When
it did occur to him to think of love, it was for Theodora; but
he had no more time for such thoughts than most other busy
practical men.
He discoursed upon his schools and reading-rooms till the
children came in, and then bade her good bye, quite as if he had
talked himself back into an everyday state of feeling.
Was Theodora mortified 1 She went to her own room to
analyze her sensations; but was almost immediately followed
by J ohnnie, coming to tell her that the owl-man was in the
drawing-room.
' Another who is consoled 1' thought she. ' Humiliating,
indeed, it is to see such complete cures. There is no need to
on, the brother's WIFH
471
be absurd and conscious at tliis meeting! But here I do,
indeed, need forgiveness—^how my heart aches to ask it—lus
mere pardon for my offences! If I could only have it out
with him without compromising womanly proprieties ! That
can't be j I must bear it 1'
On the stairs she heard Helen's voice. ' He came yesterdav,
to the evening dinner ; but I don't like him.'
' "Why not V asked Percy.
' Because he says I am just like aunt Theodora, and I am
not.'
Theodora knew whom she meant. Lord St. Erme had beer
much struck by her little niece's resemblance, and Helen re¬
sented the comparison as an indignity to her beauty. She
felt .extremely annoyed at Percy's hearing this; then recol¬
lected it did not signify to him, and entered just as he was
telling little Miss Vanity that she was the silliest child he had
ever the honour of meeting.
There was some constraint, on her part, in the short conver-.
sation on Arthur's health that ensued, before he went up j and
he only returned to the drawing-room for a moment, to assure
her that he thought Arthur much better than when he had last
seen him.
' He avoids me ! he cannot endure me!' she thought; and
yet she felt doubly averse to the idea of returning to
Brogden.
Lord Martindale came in with a look of expectation on his
face which grieved Theodora, for she,knew her refusal would be
a disappointment to him. lie sent the children away, paused
for her to begin, and at last asked :
Well, my dear, has Lord St. Erme been here T
'Yes, papaand it was plain enough how it had been.
Lord Martindale sighed. The rest being equal, it was not
in human nature not to prefer an Earl to an almost penniless
author. ' I would not urge you on any account,' he said j ' but
I wish it could have been otherwise.'
' So do I, most heartily,' said Theodora.
' It is very different now,' said Lord Martindale. ' Four -
years ago I could hardly have wished it. Now, I think most
highly of him, and I should have been rejoiced to have seen his
constancy rewarded.'
'I am ashamed and grieved,' said'Theodora. 'He did,
indeqd, deserve better things. He is a noble character; and I
camioL honour or esteem him enough, nor sufficiently regret the
way I treated him. But, indeed, papa, it would not be right,
I cannot help it.*
47S
llEAliTSEAgE j
'AYcll, tliere is no more to be said,' sigbed Lord Martindale.
* I know you will do rigbt.'
Sometbing was won since ber former dismissal of tbe Earl!
Iler father gave ber a look full of confidence and affection j
and made bappy by it, sbe rallied ber spirits and said, ' Besides,
wbat a pair it would be ! We should be taken for a pretty
little under-graduate and bis mother !'
' That will not last, my dear,' said Lord Martindale, vexed,'
tbougb-smiling at ber droll manner. *You are younger
than be.'
'Tn years, but not in mind,' said Theodora. 'No, no, papa;
you have me for life, and it is bard you should be so anxious to
get rid of me !'
' I only wish to oDnsult your happiness, my dear child.'
' And that always was in fancying myself necessary,' said
Theodora, gaily, though there was a trembling in her voice;
and when she went up to her own room, she hid her face m
lier hands, and felt as if life was very dreary and uninteresting,
and as if it was a miserable exile to be sent into the country
just now, to have to force cheerful conversation for her mother,
and to be wearied with Helen's wild spirits. ' But have I not
deserved everything? And after ray brother has been spared so
far, how can I rejoinc at any selfish trouble V
lOLET, when called to consult with her father-in-law in the
outer room, felt a sort of blank apprehension and consterna¬
tion at the idea of being separated from her children; and a
moment's reflection satisfied her that in one case at least she
might rightly follow the dictates of her own heart. She said
that she thought Johnnie could not be spared by his papa.
Lord Martindale's eye followed hers, and through the half-
closed door saw Johnnie, sitting on the bed, reading to his
father, who listened with amused, though languid attention.
'I believe you are right,' he said; 'though I wish I had tlie
boy in the country doing no lessons. He puts me more in mind
of his uncle every day.'
' One of the highest compliments Johnnie has ever had,' said
Violet, colouring with pleasure; 'but I am afraid to trust him
on, the brotheh's WIEE. m
away from me and '^Ir. Harding in the winter because of his
Croup.'
' Ah ! then it cannot be,' he answered; 'and I do not thinh
1 would take him from his father now, but his sisters must
come I they would be too much for you without Theodora,'
Violet could only be mournfully thankful, and the project
was in time laid before Arthur.
' Send my little girls away!' said he, looking discomfited,
' Oh! if you wish to keep them'—joyfully exclaimed Violet.
' I thought that if Theodora went home, Violet would hardly
l)e able to manage them,' said Lord Martindale.
' If they are in her way,' said Arthur, and his eyes smiled at
her, knowing what her decision vrould be.
' Oh ! no, no ! It was theii grandpapa's kindness.'
Johnnie and Helen here peeped into the room; Arthur
beckoned to them, and said, ' How should you like to go into
the country with aunt Theodora V
'To see grandmamma and the peacockT said Lord Mar¬
tindale.
Johnnie clung to his mother's hand, piteously whispering,
' Oh ! don't send me away, mamma—I would try to bear it if I
ought.'
Helen climbed the bed, and sturdily seated herself close to
her papa. ' I shall not desert my father and mother,' said she,
witli great dignity, drawing up her head.
' Ho more you shall, my little heroine 1' said Arthur, throwing
his arm round her, while she glanced with saucy triumph at
her grandfather.
In the silence of night, when Arthur was alone with his
father, he said, ' If those little girls go away now, they will
never remember me.'
To this plea there could be no reply; for though the danger
was no longer imminent, it was still extremely doubtful whether
he would ever leave his room again.
• His wish to keep the children made Lord Martindale recon¬
sider of sending Theodora home, and he desired Violet to choose
between her and himself. She thought Theodora the most
efiective, and Arthur seemed to prefer her remaining, so that
she found herself disposed of according to her wishes, her father
only stipulating that she should not neglect rest, air, or ex¬
ercise, of which she stood in evident need.
Every one observed her haggard looks on the day when they
met for the baptism of 'Arthur Eotheringham.' It was a
melancholy christening, without the presence of either parent;
and so all the little party felt it, and yet, if they could have
474
heaetsease;
seen into tlie recesses of tte motlier's heart, they would have
found there were causes which made this baptism day better to
her than any of the former ones.
The godfather came afterwards to see Arthur, who believed
him more than all the doctors when he assured him he was
making progress. Arthur began to speak of the debt; he
wished before his father went to have a settlement of accounts,
take steps for selling his commission, and repaying Percy.
'hTo,' said Percy, 'wait till you are better and can look
about you. Sell your commission indeed, and take the bread
out of your children's mouths ! No, if you did choose to do
that, it must in honour and justice be divided among all your
creditors.
Arthur was forced to give up.
Emma Brandon had not joined the christening party. Miss
Marstone had actually written to Mark Gardner, and had in
reply received an acknowledgment of her ' good olBces, which
had gone far to enable him to justify the bets that before
Christmas he would have a wife with ten thousand pounds a-
year 1' He did not quite venture to insult Miss Brandon, but
sent her a cool message of farewell. The rest of the letter, the
friends declared, was evidently by Mrs. Pinch's dictation. They
shut themselves up together; Lady Elizabeth was not allowed
to help her daughter, and came to Cadogan-place chiefly that
she might talk over her troubles with Theodora, who put her
into communication with Percy, and from him she heard a brief
sketch of Mr. Gardner's life and adventures, still less disposing
her to desire him as a son-in-law.
She was certainly safe from this danger, but her cares were
not thus ended. If Emma would have shared her griefs with
her, and admitted her attempts at consolation, she would have
been more at ease; but as it was, Emma was reserved with .her,
and attached herself solely to Theresa Marstone, whom she even
made a sort of interpreter between her and her mother, so that
Lady Elizabeth only knew as much of her mind as her con¬
fidante chose to communicate.
Not only was this most painful to her feelings as a mother,
but she had serious doubts of the safety of such a companion*
The extreme silliness of Theresa's vanity and exclusiveness had
long been visible, and as it was the young lady's fashion to
imagine the defect anywhere but in her own judgment, there were
symptoms of the mischief having been by her attributed to the
Church of England. As if to console herself for the shock she
had sustained, she was turning to a new fancy, for when a
475
woman once begins to live upon excitement, she vail seek fer¬
tile intoxication anywhere.
This perception made Lady Elizabeth resolve that as long as
she was mistress of Bickworth, she would not again invite Miss
hiarstone thither; while Emma was equally determined not to
go home without her only friend. Thus the mother and
daughter lingered on in London, Theresa often coming to spend
the day with Emma, and Lady Elizabeth having recourse to
tlie Martindale family, and trying to make herself of use by
amusing the children, sitting in Arthur's room, or taking Theo¬
dora for a walk or drive.
One morning she came in to say that Emma waS going to
drive to Islin^on to call upon Miss Marstone, who had gone
two days previously to stay with some friends there, and to beg
that Theodora would accompany her. Aware that it would be
as great a penance to Emma as to herself, Theodora would fain
have been excused, but let herself be over-ruled on Lady Eliza¬
beth's promise to supply her place at home, and assurance that
it would be a positive relief that she should be of the party,
even if she did not get out of I'he carriage, as a check upon the
length of time Emma would sp^nd with her friend.
The two unwilling companions set forth, each in her own
corner of the carriage, Emma leaning back, her thick blue veil
hiding her. face; Theodora, who always repudiated veils, sit¬
ting upright, her face turned so as to catch the breeze on her
hot temples, wishing she could turn herself into Yiolet, and
possess her power of sweet persuasion and consolation. She
could think of nothing to say, and began at last to fear that
her silence might appear unkind. She tried to interest Emma
by speaking of Johnnie, but she only obtained brief replies, and
the conversation had dropped before they left the streets and
entered on suburban scenery. Theodora exclaimed at ^ a gor¬
geous Virginian creeper—
' Almost as fine as the one at the Priory,' said she.
Emma looked and sighed.
* Kickworth must be in high glory. I know nothing prettier
than the many-coloured woods sioping into the meadow, with
the soft mist rising. You will find home beautiful.'
' I cannot bear the thougbt of it,' said Emma, in an under
tone.
' How glad your little orphans will be! How many have
you V
' There are five.'
Theodora saw she hated the subject, but thought it good
478 SEAETSEASE j
for her, and went on to tell her of a case at Whitford, cranio
ming the subject into her ear at first against the stomach of her
sense; but it could not but exact attention, a widow sinking in
a decline after sorrows which, by comparison, made all young
lady troubles shrink into atoms. Emma became interested
and began to ask questions.
'You will go to see the mother? Poor thing, I hope she
may be alive to hear of the prospect for her child. I am sorry
to be unable to go and see her, and should be so glad to know
you near and able to attend to her.'
' We will write to the housekeeper,' said Emma.
' Are you not going back yourself?'
' I don't know; I have no heart to think of it.'
' Emma,* said Theodora, ' we need not go on as if we did not
understand each other. Violet can attend to you now; I wish
you would talk to her. !N"o one can comfort as she can.'
' I do not wish to tease her with my '
' She knows, she longs to help you. Don't you know how
fond of you she always was ? You two appreciated each other
from the first.'
' It is of no use. She never entered into my views. She
does nob understand. It is her situation I blame, not herself.
She is a dear creature, and I once had a strong girlish enthu¬
siasm for her.'
4
' Once r cried Theodora, ' what has she ever done to lessen
enthusiasm for all that is good and lovely ?'
Emma hung her head, alarmed ; and Theodora more gently
insisted, till, by the power which in childhood she had exerted
over Emma, she forced out an answer. ' Forgive me, if I must
tell you. I have thought her too fond of going out. It was
no wonder, so very young as she was. I do not find fault, but
it seemed to dispel an illusion that she was superior to other
people. Don't you remember one party she would go to against
warning, that one where she fainted ? I could never feel the
same for her afterwards.'
Theodora was silent for a few seconds, then exclaimed, ' 0
Violet, is there no end to the injuries I have done you ? Emma,
never judge without seeing behind the curtain. It was my
fault. It was when I was crazed with wilfulness. Your
mother oflbred to chaperon me, I was set on going with Mrs.
Finch, and as the only means of preventing that, Violet sacri¬
ficed herself. I did not know she likewise sacrificed the friend¬
ship of the only person, except John, who had been kind to
her.'
' I WL^h Theresa had known this,' said Ernma.
on, THE BEOTHEIl'S WIFE. 471
'Now you know it, will yon not turn to Violet for advice
and comfort 1 I know what she can be. K you could guess
what she saved me from, you would fly at once to her."
' I cannot begin now, I cannot look anywhere that recals
past happiness T said Emma, murmuring low, as though the
words, in spite of herself, broke from her oppressed heart.
' Would that I could hide my head! Oh ! that I had wings
like a dove f
'Emma, you have them. They may carry you into what
seems to be a wilderness, but go bravely on, and you will be at
rest at last.*
' What do you mean V
' The wings of duty.*
' If I only knew where it was.*
' Your mother, your dependents, your orphans, your beautiful
old plan ^*
Emma only groaned, and held up her hand in deprecation.
' I have felt it,* continued Theodora. ' I know how vain,
and vapid, and weary everything seems, as if the sap of life was
gone, but if we are content to remain in the wilderness, it
begins to blossom at last, indeed it does.'
' I thought you had had no troubles,' said Emma, with more
interest. ' They could not have been such as mine.*
' In one respect they were worse, for they were entirely my
own fault.*
' May I ask, is there no hope for you V
'No,* said Theodora, 'I believe there is none. But a certain
peaceful feeling, independent of that, came after the desolate-
ness, and has never gone utterly away, though I have had to
reap the harvest of the evil that I sowed. Oh ! depend upon
it, there is nothing like resolutely facing the day's work.*
Emma made no answer; they had come to the gate of a
villa, and Theodora thought she might as well have held her
peace, since Theresa would undo the whole.
Miss Marstone was not within, but she had left a note for
Miss Brandon. Emma, after reading it, timidly said that
Theresa had gone to spend the day with a friend, who was
boarding in a convent not far off, and that she wished her to
come and make her visit to her there. Then timidly glancing '
towards her companion, she desired to be driven thither, but
Theodora, leaning forward, said, in an authoritative manner,
• Drive on two miles on the road. We will say where next
when we come back.*
' I beg your pardon,* she said to Emma, ' but this is not a
step to be taken inpoi^siderately.*
478
Emma did not reply; Theodora perceived that her decided ^
manner had terrified her. ' I am sorry if I was rude/ she said;
' I did not mean it, but I thought you were acting" precipitately,
and that you would be glad to have time to reflect before going
to this place without your mother's knowledge/
* It is not precipitately/ said Enima, faintly.
' You don't mean that this was a pre-concerted scheme. If
BO, pray let me out, and I will go home alone.'
*Ko, no, I did not mean exactly—don't use such words,
Theodora. Only sister Mary Angela—Theresa's great friend
—had joined the Eoman communion. Theresa wished me to
see her and the convent, and said that perhaps I might find her
there. If I had told mamma, she would have fancied I should
be kidnapped like young ladies in books. I believe you expect
it yourself,' said Emma, giggling hysterically.
' I think, and she thinks nothing but what is rational,' said
Theodora, coldly, ' that it is a sad thing to see you taught to
resort to subterfuges, and that they can lead into no - safe
course.'
* You do not know Theresa, or you would not accuse her of
what she would detest.'
' I speak from what I see. She has arranged in secret that,
without your mother's knowledge, you should by stealth go tu
a place, where you both know Lady Elizabeth would be shocked
to hear of you.'
'I thought you understood the true Catholic spirit,' said
Emma, ' and were interested in these things.'
*The Catholic spirit is anything but such treatment of a
mother,' said Theodora. ' Once for all, do you mean to go to
this place, or do you not % I see a cab, and if you go I return
home in that.'
' Of course then I must give it up.'
'Now, and for ever, unless with your mother's consent, I
hope/ said Theodora.
Emma did not answer, and they proceeded for some distance,
Theodora wondering what could be her companion's frame of
mind, and what she ought to do next. So far, it was the sort
of compulsion she had been wont to employ in the unscrupulous
hours of childhood; but this was no gain—Emma's reason '
ought to be convinced, and of this she had little hope. Miss
Brandon was the first to break silence. That word subterfuge
rankled, as it must in any honourable mind, and she began—' I
wish you would do Theresa justice. No one can have a greater
contempt than she for anything underhand.'
Theodora tried not to laugh, and could not help pitying the
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
479
fond affections that were blind to every fault in the beloved
object.
' Ah r said Emma, in answer to her silence, ' you think this
bears the appearance of it j but you may be certain that Theresa
is absolutely sure to act conscientiously.*
' Some people follow their conscience—some drive it.*
' Now, do let me explain it,* entreated Emma, and talking
eagerly and rather mistily, she told in many more words than
^ were needful how Theresa had serious doubts as to what she
termed Anglicanism, reckoning against it every laxity in doc¬
trine or in discipline that came to her knowledge, and admiring-
everything in other branches of the Church. Emma, taking
all for granted that Theresa said, was strongly of the same
mind, and while both made high professions of attachment to
their own communion, they were in a course of dwelling on all
the allurements held out in other quarters. By some astonish¬
ing train of reasoning, frequent in persons in a state of excite¬
ment and self-deception, they had persuaded themselves that
Mark Gardner's return to his evil courses had been for want of
a monastery to receive him; and their tendency to romance
about conventual institutions had been exaggerated by the pre¬
sent state of Emma's spirits, which gave her a desire to retire
from the world, as well as a distaste to the projects in which
she had lately given her false lover but too large a share.
' Peace dwells in the cloister,* she sighed.
'You have the essentials of such a life in your power,* said
Theodora.
"' Not the fixed rule—the obedience.*
' Oh! Emma! your mother !'
' I want discipline—Church discipline as in primitive times/
said Emma, impatiently.
' The most primitive discipline of all is, ' honour thy father
and mother,* * returned Theodora.
There was a silence. Theodora resumed—' I know how one
w'ould rather do anything than what is required. Yiolet taught
me theni that we must not choose our cross.*
Another space, then Emma said, 'And you call it a subterfuge?'
' Can you honestly call it otherwise ? Don't bewilder us
with explanations, but simply say what you would have thought
of it six years ago.*
For Emma not to send forth a vapour of words was impos¬
sible, but they did not satisfy even herself. Those short terse
sentences of Theodora*s told upon her, and at last she did not
deny that she should not have thought it right if Theresa had
aot prompted it.
480 HEARTSEASE;
* Is slie more likely to be rigbt, or is the Catechism f
* The Catechism V
'To be true and just in all my dealings.*
' She did not think it wrong,'
' No, of course not, but if it is wrong, and she does not think
it so, does that make her a safe guide V
' You want to set me against her!'
' I want you to cease to give her a power over you, v/hich is
unsafe for any human being.'
' You have been talking to mamma.'
'I have been seeing how unhappy she is about you; but
since I have talked to yourself I have seen far more danger.'
' Poor mamma!'
' May I tell you how your history appears to a looker-on V
I know it will be painful, but I think it will be good for you.'
' Well 1', -
'You began beautifully. It was delightful to see how you
and your mother went on in perfect confidence, ready to work
at everything good together, and she sympathizing in all your
projects, only bringing wise caution to restrain your ardour.'
' Yes, we were very happy then,' sighed Emma; 'but mamma
wished me to go into society.'
' And wisely. Pemember, in the conventual system, a girl
cannot be a novice till she has had six months in which to see
the world. It was right that you should count the cost. Be¬
sides, society in moderation is the best way to keep one's mind
from growing narrow. Well, then, you met Miss Marstone,
and she excited your imagination. She is really cleyer and
good, and I don't wonder at your liking her; but I cannot
think that she has done right in cultivating your exclusive pre¬
ference till she has detached you from your mother.'
^ She did not always think with her.'
' No, but a sound friend would always place the duty to your
mother foremost. You made a Pope of her, believed all she
said, did as she pleased, and she was flattered, and absorbed you
more and more, till really you both came to treating Lady
Elizabeth's opinion as a nonentity. Can you deny it V
'No.'
More would have been said, but Theodora would not hear,
and went on. ' See the consequence. She made a fearful mis¬
take, and but for your mother and your remaining regard to her
authority, where should you have been now ? All this misery
could not have been if you had been safe under Lady Elizabeth's
wing.'
' No!' faintly said Emma.
or,-the brother's wife.
481
'And now, wlien your mother has sa^ed you, and her heart
is aching to comfort you, and take you back to the safe old
nest where aU your duties and schemes lie, hliss Marstone
tries to keep you from her; and fancies she is doing the best
and most conscientious thing by teaching you to elude her, and
go where, to one in your state of mind, is temptation indeed.
Oh! Emma, she may think it right; but are you acting kindly
by the mother who has only you?'
Theodora was very glad to see tears. ' I cannot bear to go
hDmel' presently said Emma.
' Have you thought how badly all the poor people must be
getting on without you?' All your children—it is half a year
since you saw them!'
Emma groaned.
'Yes, it is bad enough at first. You have had a heavy
trial indeed, poor Emma; but what is a trial but something to
try us? Would it not be more manful to face the pain of
going home, and to take up your allotted work? Then you
would be submitting, not to a self-made rule, but to Heaven's
own appointment.*
Was Emma's mind disengaged enough for curiosity, or did she
want to quit the subject? She said—'You have had a trial of
this kind yourself?'
Theodora had a struggle. To tell the whole seemed to her
as uncalled for, as painful; and yet there must be reciprocity if
there is to be confidence, and she could not bear to advise like
one who had never erred. She, therefore, confe^^sed how her
happiness had been wrecked by her own fault, and related the
subsequent misery; how Violet had repelled the disposition to
exalt her rather than her parents, and had well nigr forced her
abroad, and how there in the dreary waste, a well r / peace had
sprung up, and had been with her ever since.
Short as Theodora tried to make the story she so much
dislilced, it lasted till they were almost at home. It had. its
effect. To be thrown over upon Lady Martindale and Mrs.
Nesbit at Baden could not but appear to Emma a worse lot
than to be left to her own mother and Bickworth, which, after
all, she loved so well; and the promise of peace to be won by
following appointed paths was a refreshing sound.
She had, this whole time, never thought of her mother's
feelings, and the real affection she entertained was once more
awake. Besides, to see how Theodora represented their scheme,
not only shook her faith in Theresa, but alarmed her sense of
right Qn her own account. In short, though she eai^ no word,
t
[
482 HEARTSEASE;
there was a warmtli in her meeting with Ladj Eiizaheth, ca
their return, that gave Theodora hopes^
Next morning came a note.
' My dear Theodora,—I have decided to go homo at once.
I could not rest without Theresa's explanation, so I have
written to her, and I had rather have it by letter than in
person. I talked till two o'clock last night with mamma, and
we go home at twelve to-day. Tell Violet we will come in
for a few moments to take leave.
' Your affectionate,
' E. E. B.'
' There is one thing to be thankful for!' said Theodora.
The visit was very short; Emma hardly spoke or raised her
eyes, and Theodora hoped that some of her timidity arose from
repentance for her false judgment of Violet. To Theodora, she
said—*You shall see Theresa's explanation,' and Theodora
deserved credit for not saying it would be a curiosity.
Lady Elizabeth did as she had not done since Theodora was
a little child; she put her arm round her neck and kissed her
affectionately; murmuring, * Thank you, my dear.'
This little scene seemed to brace Theodora for the trial of
the evening. Percy had offered to sit up that night with.
Arthur, and she had to receive him, and wait with him in the
drawing-room till he should be summoned. It was a hard
thing to see him so distant and reserved, and the mere awkward¬
ness was unpleasant enough. She could devise nothing to say
that did not touch on old times, and he sat engrossed with
a book, the reviewal of which was to be his night's employ¬
ment.
CHAPTEK XIII.
Should this new-blossomed hope be coldly nipped,
Then were I desolate indeed.
Philip van Artevelde—II. Tatlob.
The night was apt to be the worst time with Arthur; and
Violet generally found him in the morning in a state of
feverish discomfort and despondency that was not easily soothed.
Anxious to know how he had fared with his new. attendant,
she came in as early as possible, and was rejoiced to find that
he had passed an unusually comfortable night, hajd been in-
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. 483
terested and clieered by Percy's conversation, and had slept
some hours.
Percy's occupation, in the mean time, was shown by Some
sheets of manuscript on the table near the fire.
' I see you have not been losing time,' said Violet.
' I fear—I fear I have,' he answered, as rather nervously he
began to gather up some abortive commencements and throw
them into the fire.
* Take care, that is mine,' exclaimed she, seeing the words
*Mrs. Martindale,* and thinking he had seized upon a letter
which he had written to her from Wprthbourne on Arthur's
business. She held out her hand for it, and he yielded it, but
the next moment she saw it was freshly written; before she
could speak she heard the door closed, and Arthur sleepily
muttered, ' Gone already.' Dreading some new branch of the
Boulogne affair, she sat down, and with a beating heart read by
the firelight:—
* I can bear it no longer! Long ago I committed one great
folly, and should have been guilty of a greater, if you had not
judged more wisely for me than I for myself. You did, indeed,
act * kindly as ever;' and I have thanked you for it a thousand
times, since I came to my senses in the dismal altitude of my
sixieme etage at Paris.
'No disrespect to your sister, to whom I did greater injustice
than I knew, in asking her to seal my mistake. I threw away
a rough diamond because its sharp edges scratched my fingers,
and, in my fit of passion, tried to fill up its place with another
jewel. Happily you and she knew better! Now I see the
diamond sparkling, refined,'transcendant, with such chastened
lustre as even I scarce dared to expect!
' These solitary years of disappointment have brought me to
a sense of the harshness and arrogance of my dealings with the
high nature that had so generously entrusted itself to mo.
There was presumption from the first in undertaking to mould
her, rudeness in my attempts to control her, and precipitate
passion and jealousy in resenting the displeasure I had pro¬
voked j and all was crowned by the absurd notion that pique
with her was love of your sister!
' I see it all now, or rather I have seen it ever since it was
too late; I have brooded over it till I have been half distracted,
night after night! And now I can hardly speak, or raisn my
head in her presence. I must have her pardon, whether I dare
or not to ask one thing more. I never was sure that her heart
was mine; my conduct did not deserve it, whatever my
\
' HEAKTSSASE;
feelings did. If she accepted me from romance, I did enough
to open her eyes! 1 am told she accepts Lord St. Ermo
-—fit retribution on me, who used to look down on him in my
arrogant folly, and have to own that he has merited her,
while I
' But, at least, I trust to your goodness to obtain some word
of forgiveness for me without disturbing her peace of mind.
I would not expose her to one distressing scene! She has gone
through a great deal, and the traces of grief and care on that
noble countenance almost break my heart. I would not give
her the useless pain of having to reject me, and of perceiving the
pain I should not be able to conceal.
' I commit myself to your kindness, then, and entreat of you,
if the feeling for me was a delusion, or if it is extinct, to let me
know in the manner least painful to you; and, when she can
endure the subject, to tell her how bitterly I have repented of
having tried to force humility on her, when I stood in still
greater need of the lesson, and of having flown off in anger
when she revolted at my dictation. One Avord of forgiveness
would be solace in a life of deserved loneliness and disappoint¬
ment.'
Trembling with gladness, Violet could hardly refrain from
roulsing Arthur to hear the good news! She hastily wrote the
word * Try 1' tA^dsted it into a note, and sent it doAYn in case
Mr. Fotheringham should still be in the house. The missive
returned not, and she sat down to enjoy her gladness as a
Sunday morning's gift.
For Violet, though weak, anxious, and overworked, was
capable of receiving and being cheered by each sunbeam that
shone on herself or on her loved ones. Perhaps it was the
reward of her resignation and trust, that even the participation
(as it might almost be called) of her husband's suffering, and
the constantly hearing his despondence, could not deprive her
of her hopefulness. Ever since the first two days she had been
buoyed up by a persuasion of his recovery, which found food in
each token of improvement; and, above all, there was some¬
thing in Arthur that relieved the secret burden that had so long
oppressed her.
She was free to receive solace and rejoice in the joy of others;
and when Theodora met her in the morning, eye and lip wrero
beaming with a suppressed smile of congratulation, that ha. rdly
suited with the thin, white face.
'Arthur's comfortable night has done you both good,' said
Theodora. ' Percy is a better nurse than I.'
' Oh, yes! it is all Percy's doing 1' said Violet, there checkii .g
01^ THi: BrvOTilJlTt'S WIFE
4m
h6i*self; but laugMng and blusMng, so tbat for a moMent $ii8
looked quite girlislily pretty.
No more was heard of Mr. Fotheringham till Johnnie came
home from the afternoon's service, and reported that the owl-
man was in the drawing-room with Aunt Theodora.
At church Johnnie had seen his papa's good-natured friend in
the aisle, and with his hand on the door of the seat and his
engaging face lifted up, had invited him in.
Innocent Johnnie 1 he little knew what tumultuous thoughts
were set whirling through his aunt's mind. The last time Percy
had joined her at church, the whole time of the service had
been spent in the conflict between pride and afiection. Now
there was shame for this fresh swarm of long forgotten sins, and
as the recollection saddened her voice in the confession, foremost
was the sense of sacrilege in having there cherished them, and
turned her prayer into sin. No wonder she had been for a time
yielded up to her pride and self-will!
As silently as usual they walked home from church, and
she would at once have gone up stairs, but he said, in a low,
hoarse voice, as her foot was on the step, ' May I speak to
you?'
She turned. It was so strangely like that former occasion
that she had a curious bewildered feeling of having passed
through the same before j and perhaps she had, in her dreams.
Scarcely conscious, she walked towards the fire.
' Can you forgive me T said the same husky voice.
She raised her eyes to his face. * Oh, Percy!'—but she could
say no more, cut short by rising sobs; and she could only
hide her face, and burst into tears.
He was perfectly overwhelmed. * Theodora, dearest! do not!
I have been too hasty,' he exclaimed, almost beside himself with
distress, and calling her by every afiectionate name.
* Never mind 1 It is only because I have become such a poor
creature!' said she, looking up with a smile, lost the next
moment in the uncontrollable weeping.
' It is my fault!—my want of consideration ! I will go—I
will call Mrs. Martindale.*
' No, no; don't, don't go 1' said Theodora^ eagerly—^lier tears
driven back. ' It was only that I am so foolish now.'
' It was very wrong to be so abrupt
'No! Oh I it was the relief!' said Theodora, throwing off
her shawl, as if to fre^ herself from oppression. Percy took it
from her, placed her in the arm-chair, and rendered her all the
little attentions in his power with a sort of trembling eagerness,
still silent j for she was very much exhausted,—not so much
486
HEARTSEASE;
from present agitation as from tlie previous strain cn mind
and bodj.
It seemed to give a softness and tenderness to their reunion,
such as there never had been between them before, as she leant
back on the cushions he placed for her, and gazed up in his
face as he stood by her, while she rested, as if unwilling to dis¬
turb the peace and tranquillity.
At last she said, 'Did I hear you say you had forgiven me V
' I asked if you could forgive me !'
' I!'—she exclaimed, rousing herself and sitting up,—' I have
nothing to forgive ! What are you thinking of?'
' And is it thus you overlook the presumption and harshness
that '
' Hush !' said Theodora; ' I was unbearable. Ho man of sense
or spirit could be expected to endure such treatment. But,
Percy, I have been very unhappy about it, and I do hope I am
tamer at last, if you will try me again.'
' Theodora!' cried Percy, hardly knowing what he said. ' Can
you mean it ? After all that is past, may I believe what I dared
not feel assured of even in former days ?'
' Did you not ?' said Theodora, sorrowfully. ' Then my pride
must have been even worse than I supposed.'
'Only let me hear the word from you. You do not know
what it would be to me !'
' And did you really think I did not care for you ? I, whose,
affection for you has been a part of my very self! I am more
grieved than ever. I would never have tormented you if I had
not thought you knew my heart was right all the time.'
' It was my fault; my anger and impatience ! And you let
me hope that this—this undeserved feeling has survived even
my usage!'
' Nay, it was that which taught me its power. Your rejection
was the making of me; thanks to Violet, who would not let me
harden myself, and ruin all.'
'Violet! I could almost call her our presiding spirit, sent to
save us from ourselves !'
' Dear Violet! how glad she will be.
' Then,' said Percy, as if he had only room for one thought,
' are we indeed to begin anew V
' I will try to be less unbearable,* was the stifled answer.
'We have both had lessons enough to teach us to be more
humble and forbearing,' said Percy, now first venturing to take
her hand. 'Let us hope that since this blessing has been
granted us, that we shall be aided in our endeavours to ,help
each other.'
OR, THE. brother'S WIFE. . 437
There was a grave and chastened tone abont the meeting of these
two lovers: Theodora almost terrified at realizing that the bliss
she had once forfeited was restored to her, and Percy peculiarly
respectful—almost diffident in manner, feeling even more guilty
towards her than she did towards him. Neither could be con¬
tent without a full confession of their wrongs towards each
other, and the imjust impressions that had actuated them; and
in the retrospect time passed so quickly away, that they were
taken by surprise when the candles came in.
* I need not go V entreated Percy.
' No, indeed; but you have had no dinner.*
' Never mind—I want nothing.'
Theodora ran upstairs. Yiolet understood the suppressed call
in the dressing-room, and met her with outstretched arms.
The children never forgot that evening, so delightful did the
owl-man make himself. Helen even oflfered him a kiss, and
wislied him good night, saucily calling him Percy ; and Johnnie
set his aunt's cheeks in a glow by saying, * It ought to be Uncle
Percy, if he belonged to Aunt Helen.'
' Wliat do you know of Aunt Helen T said Percy, lifting him
on his knee, with a sudden change of manner.
Johnnie's face was deeply tinged; he bent dowh'^ liis head and
did not answer, till, when »the inquiry was' "repeated, he whis¬
pered, * Mamma said Aunt Helen was so, very good. Mamma
read to me about the dew-drops, in her written book. She told
me about her when I had the blister on, because, she said, her
thoughts helped one to be patient and good.'
Percy put his arm round him, and his sigh or movement
surprised Johnnie, who uneasily looked at his aunt. * Ought I
not to have said it V
* Yes, indeed, J ohnnie, boy. There is nothing so pleasant to
me to hear,* said Percy. * Good night; I shall like you all the
better for caring for my dear sister Helen.'
* Being deud, she yet speaketh,' murmured he, as the children
went, * Strange how one such tranquil, hidden life, which
seemed lost and wasted, has told and is telling on so many !'
Even the peace and happiness of that. evening could not
remove the effects of over-fatigue; and Percy insisted on Theo¬
dora's going early to rest, undertaking again to watch by
Arthur. She objected, that he had been up all last night.
* I cannot go home to bed. If you sent me away, I should
wander in the Square, apostrophizing the gas-lamps, and be
found to-morrow in the station, as a disorderly character. You
had better make my superfluous energies available in Arthur's
service. Ask if I may come in.'
486 HEAIl'tSEASJlj
Tteodora tliouglit the sick room had acquired quite a heur
aspect. A Sunday air pervaded the whole, seeming to radiate
from Yiolet, as she sat by the fire; the baby asleep, in his little
pink-lined cradle, by her side. The patient himself partook of
the freshened appearance, as the bright glow of firelight played
^ over his white pillows, his hair smooth and shining, and his face
where repose and cheerfulness had taken the place of the worn,
harassed expression of suflering.
Of the welcome there could be no doubt. Arthur's hands
were both held out, and did not let her go, after they had drawn
her down to kiss him and sit beside him on the bed.
* Well done ! Theodora,' he said; * I am glad it is made up.
He is the best fellow living, and well you deserve
' O, don't say so !'
*Hot that he is the best V said Arthur, squeezing hard both
her hands, as he used to do in fond, teasing schoolboy days. * I
shall not say one without the other. Such a pair is not to be
found in a hurry. You only wanted breaking-in to be first-rate,
and now you have doner it.'
* No, it was your own dear little wife !' was whispered in -his
ear. He pinched her again, and, still holding her fast, said,
' Is Percy there 1 Coihe inand, as he entered, * Percy, I once
warned you to kill the cat on the wedding-day. I testify that
she is dead. This sister of mine is a good girl now. Ask
Yiolet.'
* Violet—or, rather, our Heartsease'—said Percy, as his grasp
nearly crushed Violet's soft fingers: * thank you; yours was
the most admirable note ever composed ! Never was more per¬
fect eloquence du billet P
' Eh! what was it V
Percy held up the little note before Arthur's eyes; he laughed.
' Ay I Violet is the only woman I ever knew who never said
more than was to the purpose. But now, Mrs. Heartsease, if
that is your name, go and put Theodora to bed; Percy will stay
with me.'
' The baby,' objected Violet.
' Never mind, I want you very much,' said Theodora; ' and
as Percy says he has so much superfl.uous energy, he can take care
of two Arthurs at once. I am only afraid of his making the great
one talk.'
* The great one' was at first as silent as the little one; his
countenance became very grave and thoughtful; and at last he
said, ' Now, Percy, you must consent to my selling out and
paying you.'
or, tiir rrother's wire. 4B9
' you do, it must be sliare and sbare alike witli tbe rest of
tbe creditors.*
< And tbat would be no good,' said Arthur, 'with all the
harpies to sbare. I wish .you would consent, Percy. Tbink
wbat it is to me to lie bere, feeling tbat I bave ruined not only
myself, but all my sister's bopes of happiness 1'
' Nay, you bave been tbe means of br'jsgiiig us together again.
And as to your wife
' I must not bave her good deeds reckoned to me,* said Arthur,
sadly. ' But wbat can you do ? My father cannot pay down
Theodora's fortune.*
*We must wait,* interrupted Percy, cheerfully.
Arthur proceeded. 'Wait! wbat fori Now you are cut out
of Wortbboume, and my aunt's money might as well be at tbe
bottom of tbe sea, and
*I can bear no croaking on such a day as this,* broke in
Percy. 'As to Wortbboume, it is ill waiting for dead men's
sboon. I always thought Pelbam's as good a life as my own,
and I never fancied Mrs. Nesbit's boards. If I made three
thousand pounds in five years, why may I not do so again 1 I'll
turn rapacious—give away no more articles to benighted editors
on their last legs. I can finish off my Byzantine history, and
coin it into bezants.*
' And these were your hard-earned savings, that should have
forwarded your marriage!'
' They have,' said Percy, smiling. 'They will come back some
way or other. I shall work with a will now! I am twice the
man I was yesterday. It was heartless work before. Now,
' some achieve greatness,' you know.'
Arthur would have said more, but Percy stopped him. ' If
you gave it me to-morrow, we could not marry on it. Let
things alone till you are about again, and John comes home.
Meantime, trust her and me for being happy. A fico for the
world and worldlings base.'
lie attained his object in making Arthur smile; and Yiolet
presently returning, they sat on opposite sides of the fire, and
hold one of the happiest conversations of their lives. Yiolet told
the whole story of the fire, which seemed as nev/ to Arthur as
to Percy.
' Why did I never hear this before V he asked.
' You heard it at the time,' said Yiolet.
Becollections came across Arthur, and he turned away his
head, self-convicted of having thought the women made a tedious
history, and that he could not be bored by attending. Percy's
490
HEARTSEASE;
way of listening, meanwliile, was with his foot on the fender,
his elbow on his knee, his chin resting on his hand, his bright
grey eyes fixed full on Violet, with a beaming look of gladness,
and now and then a nod of assent, as if no heroism on Theo¬
dora's part could surpass his expectations, for he could ha"ve
told it all beforehand. However, his turn came, when Violet
described her last expedition after the chess-board, and the in¬
jury it had entailed.
'Now, now; you don't say so!' said he, stammering with
eagerness, and starting up.
' Poor dear, she hardly knew what she did,' said Violet.
'I remember,' said Arthur. ' That was the time of the. de¬
lusion that Percy had taken up with his present cousin-in-law.'
Violet blushed. She was too much ashamed of ever having
had the idea to bear to recal it; and when Arthur explained,
Percy shuddered, and exclaimed, 'No, I thank you. Violet !
you knew enough against me j but you need not have thought
me quite come to that!'
On the morrow, Percy came in as the children's lessons were
concluded. He stuiiied Theodora's face tenderly, and hoped
that she had rested. She laughed, and called herself perfectly
well • and, indeed, her eyes were as large and as bright as they
ought to be, and she had discovered, that morning, that her
black locks would make a much more respectable show if pro¬
perly managed. He would not have mistaken her if she had
looked as she did now three weeks ago.
After they had talked for some time, Theodora said,
'We must not talk away the whole morning; I must write
to papa.'
' Yes,' said Percy, ' I came to speak of that. Theodora,
perhaps it was wrong to say what I did last night.'
'HowP said she, frightened.
'You ought to have been told how much worse my position
is than before.'
' Oh! is that allf
' It is a very serious all,' he answered. ^ ' When I spoke !>(>
fore, and was cool enough to treat it as if t was conferring a
favour on you, it was wonderful that your father consented.
Now, you see, Worthbourne is gone '
' How can you care for that V
' I did not, till I began to look at it from your father's point
of view. Besides, I ought to tell you, that there is no chance
even of a legacy. I fitid that Mrs. Fotheringham rules the
house, and has tried to prejudice my uncle against me. On the
marriage, there were fresh arrangements; my uncle was to alter
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
491
his "will, and it was on that occasion that Sir Antony sent foi
me to keep up the balance, and save him from her influence.
Mrs. Martindale was right about her. AVhat'a mischief-maker
she is! My delay gave great ofience.*
'Your delay on Arthur's account?'
'Yes; she managed to turn it against me. Imagine her
having persuaded them that I reckoned on Pelham's being set
aside to make room for me. She says it was named in this
house r
' Yes, by Jane herself.'
' She represented me as so disgusted at the marriage that I
would pay no attention to Sir Antony. I saw how it was
when she received me, purring and coaxing, and seeming to be
making my peace with my uncle. By and bye, Pelham, when
we grew intimate again, blundered out the whole,—that his
father wished to have settled something on me; but that Jane
had persuaded him that the whole might be wanted as a pro¬
vision for their family. I cared not one rush then, but it
makes a difierence now. As for my former line, I am forgotten
or worse. I have said blunt things that there was no call for
mc to say. No one chooses to have me for an underling, and
there is no more chance of my getting an appointment than of
being made Khan of Tartary. Authorship is all that is left to
me.'
' You have done great things in that way,' said Theodora.
' I had made something, but I was obliged to advance it the
other day to get Arthur out of this scrape, and there is no
chance of his being able to pay it, poor fellow !'
' Oh, Percy ! tliank you more for this than for all. If the
pressure had come, I believe it would have killed him. If you
had seen the misery of those days!'
' And now,' continued Percy, ' poor Arthur is most anxious
it should be paid; but I ought not to consent. If he were to
sell out now, he would be almost destitute. I have persuaded
him to let all rest in silence till John comes.'
' I am glad you have,' said Theodora. ' I am afraid papa is
a good deal pressed for money. The rents have had to be re¬
duced ; and J ohn wants all the Barbuda income to spend on
the estate there. Even before the fire, papa talked of bringing
J ohn home to cut off the entail, and sell some land; and the
house was insured far short of its value. He wants to get rid
of Armstrong and all the finery of the garden; but he is afraid
of vexing mamma, and in the meantime he is very glad that we
arc living more cheaply in the cottage. I really do not think
ho could conveniently pay such a sum; and just at present, too,
49^ SEAllTSEASEj
I had rather poor Arthur's faults were not Ibrouglit; be ford
him.' " ■
' It comes to this, then;—Is it for your happiness to enter
apon an indefinite engagement, and wait for the chance of my
working myself up into such a competency as may make our
marriage not too imprudent 1 It cannot, as far as I can see, be
for years; it may be never.'
' When I thought you would not have me, I meant to be an
old maid,' said Theodora; *and Percy, this time you shall not
think I do not care for you. If we have to wait for our whole
lives, let it be with the knowledge that we belong to each other.
I could not give up that now, and'—as he pressed her hand—
' mind, I am old enough to be trusted to choose poverty. I
know I can live on a little: I trust to you to tell me whenever
there is enough.'
'And your father V
' He will not object—he will rejoice. The way I regarded
that dear father was one of the worst sins of that time ! It is
better it should be as it is. Mamma could not well do withput
me now; I should be in doubt about leaving her, even if the
rest were plain. So that is trouble saved,' she added with a
smile.
' If they will see it in the same light! If they will forgive
as readily as you do one of the greatest injuries to a young
lady.'
'Hush—nonsense. Papa always considered that it served
me right. And really this is such perfect content, that I do
not know how to understand it. You had always the power of
reconciliation in your hands; but, you know, I had not; and,
apart from all other feelings, the mere craving for pardon was
so painful! It was only yesterday morning that I was thinking
it might, at least, come in the other world.'
' The pardon I was begging Yiolet to seek for me !—I trusted
to obtain that, though I little hoped—^
' But indeed, Percy, we must write our letters, or the children
will be upon us again.'
Her letter was more easily written than Percy's. He wrote,
and tore up, and considered, and talked to her, and wished John
vfas at home, and said that Lord Martindale would be perfectly
justified in withdrawing his consent, and declaring him a pre¬
sumptuous wretch.
'What! when you have rescued his son? Ho, indeed, papa
knows you • too well! I have no fears: for though he is not
aware of the cost of what you did for Arthur, he is most grate¬
ful for what he does know of; he thinks you saved his life, and
OR, THR RROTHER'S WIFE.
493
even without that, he is too kind to me to do what—could
not hear.'
' I will try to believe you.'
' I was thinking that this is just retribution on me, that
whereas I led Arthur into temptation, this debt should be the
obstacle.'
Perhaps nothing gratified him more than to hear her speak
of the loan as if she participated in the loss, not as if she viewed
it from the Martindale side of the question, and felt it too
much of an obligation.
His letter was not written till just in time for the post, and
it travelled in the same cover with hers. Till the answer
arrived he was very anxious, came little to the house, and only
put on his cheerful air before Arthur, whose spirits could not
afibrd to be lowered. Theodora was secure. She knew that
she deserved that there should be difficulties; but at the same
time she had the sense that the tide had turned. Pardon had
come, and with it hope; and though she tried to school herself
to submit to disappointment, she could not expect it. She
knew she might trust to her father's kind unworldly temper
and sense of justice, now that he was left to himself. And
when the letter came, Percy brought it in triumph under the
shade of the old green umbrella, which hitherto he had not
dared to produce.
Lord Martindale said everything affectionate and cordial.
If he grieved at the unpromising prospect, he was wise enough
to know it was too late to try to thwart an attachment which
had survived such shocks; and he only dwelt on his rejoicing
that, after all her trials, his daughter should have merited the
restoration of the affection of one whom he esteemed so highly.
He fully forgave the former rejection, and declared that it
was with far more hope and confidence of their happiness that
he now accorded his sanction than when last it had been asked;
and the terms in which he spoke of his "daughter seemed to
deepen her humility by the strength of their commendation.
Happy days succeeded; the lodgings in Piccadilly were nearly
deserted. Percy was always either nursing Arthur, playing
with the children, or bringing sheets of Byzantine history for
revision; and he was much slower in looking over Theodora's
copies of them than in writing them himself. There was much
grave ouiet talk between the lovers when alone together. They
were much altered since the time when their chief satisfaction
seemed to lie in teasing and triumphing over one another; past
troubles and vague prospects had a sobering influence; and
they felt that while they enjoyed their present union as. an un-
494
HEARTSEASE;
looked-for blessing, it might be only a resting point before a
long period of trial, separation, and disappointment. It gave a
resigned tone to their happiness, even while its uncertainty
rendered it more precious.
All mirthfulness, except what the children called forth, was
reserved for Arthur's room; but he thought Percy as gay and i
light-hearted as ever, and his sister not much less so. Percy
would not bring their anxieties to depress the fluctuating
Spirits, which, wearied with the sameness of a sick room, varied
with every change of weather, every sensation of the hour.
' Theodora almost w^ondered at Percy's talking away every,
desponding fit of Arthur's, whether about his health, his
money matters, or their hopes. She said, though it was most
trying to hear him talk of never commg down again, of not
living to see the children grow up, and never allowing tliat he
felt better, that she thought, considering how much depended
on the impression now made, it might be false kindness to talk
away his low spirits. Were they not repentance 1 Perhaps
Percy was right, but she should not have dared to do so.
* Theodora, you do not know the difference between reflection
and dejection. Arthur's repentance is too deep a thing for sur¬
face talk. It does not depend on my making him laugh or not.'
' If anxiety about himself keeps it up—'
' If I let him believe that I do not think he will recover, for
the sake of encouraging his repentance, I should be leaving him
in. a delusion, and that I have no right to do. Better let him
feel himself repenting as having to redeem what is past, than
merely out of terror, thinking the temptations have given him
up, not that he gives them up. Why, when he told me to sell
his saddle horses the other day, and that he should never ride
again, it was nothing, and I only roused him up to hope to be
out in the spring. Then he began to lament over his beautiful
mare,—^but when it came to his saying he had sacrificed Violet's
drives for her, and that he had been a selfish wretch, who never
deserved to mount a horse again, and ending with a deep sigh,
and ' Let her go, I ought to give her up,' there was reality and
sincerity, and I acted on it. No, if Arthur comes out of his
room a changed character, it must be by strengthening his reso¬
lution, not by weakening his mind, by letting him give way to
the mere depression of illness.'
' You believe the change real 1 Oh, you don't know what
the doubt is to me! after my share in the evil, the anxiety is
doubly intense ! and I cannot see much demonstration except
in his sadness, which you call bodily weakness.'
* We cannot pry into hidden things,' Percy answered. ' Watch
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
495
liis wife, and yon will see that slie is satisfied. You may trust
him to her, and to Him in ^yllose hands he is. Of this I am
sui'C, that tli^re is a patient "consideration for others, and readi¬
ness to make sacrifices that are not like what he used to be.
You are not satisfied 1 It is not as you would repent; but
you must remember that Arthur's is after all a boy's character \
he has felt his errors as acutely as I think he can feel them,
and if he is turning from them, that is all we can justly expect.
They were more weakness than wilfulness.*
*Not like mine!' said Theodora j *but one thing more, Percy
—Can it be right for him to see no clergyman V
' Wait,* said Percy again. ' Yiolet can judge and influence
him better than you or I. Depend upon it, she wiU do the
right thing at the right time. Letting him alone to learn from
his children seems to me the safest course.*
Theodora acquiesced, somewhat comforted by the conversa¬
tion, though it was one of those matters, in which the most
loving heart must submit to uncertainty, in patient hope and
prayer.
Just before Christmas, Theodora was summoned home; for
her mother was too unwell and dispirited to do without her any
longer. Her father offered to come and take her place, but
Arthur and Violet decided that it would be a pity to unsettle
him from home again. Arthur was now able to sit up for some
hours each day, and Percy undertook to be always at hand.
He was invited to Brogden for Christmas j but it was agreed
between him and Theodora that they must deny themselves the
pleasure of spending it together j they thought it unfit to leave
Yiolet even for a few days entirely unassisted.
Mr. Hugh Martindale came to fetch Theodora home. He.
brought a more satisfactory account of poor Emma, who had
never forwarded the promised explanation to Theodora. Lady
Elizabeth had applied to him to clear Emma's mind from some
of the doubts and difficulties inspired by her friend, and at
present, though her spirits were very low, they considered that
one great step had been gained, for she had ceased every day to
write to Miss Mai'stone.
Theodora had fixed many hopes on her cousin's interview
with Arthur, but they only talked of Brogden news ; however,
she heard afterwards that Hugh was well satisfied with what
ho had seen of him, and that he thought Percy's view the
safest. It was better to force nothing upon him. It was a sad
struggle to resolve to depart, but it was made in thankfulness,
when Theodora remembered the feelings with which she had
eutei'c^ tha-t house. She went up in the early morning to
406 ' HEARTSEASE;
"wisli Artlnir good bye. He raised bimself and embraced h.er
fondly.
* Thank you, Theodora,' he said; 'you have been a good
sister to me.'
* Oh, Arthur, Arthur 1' as the dark remembrance came, but
he did not perceive it.
* I have been an ungrateful wretch, but I never understood
it till lately,' said he again. * The fire,—those children—•'
* Hush, hush ! you are hurting yourself,' for he was choked
v/ith excess of feeling.
* I can't say more ;—^but, oh ! if I could help keeping you
from happiness 1' and he was here overpowered by cough and
emotion so much as to alarm her, and she was forced to keep
silence, and only kiss him again. He returned it with a squeeze
of the hand and a look of affection. He had never given her
such an one in the days when she deemed his love a thing ex¬
clusively her own j she had now gained something far better
than his heart had then to offer. The best spot in it then had
nothing half so deep, fond, and unselfish as what he gave her
now.
She had ceased her wilful struggle, and besides all the rest,
even this was added unto her.
CHAPTER XIV.
A calm stream flowing with a muddy on^
Till, in its onward current, it absorbs
"With swifter movement and in purer light
The vexed eddies of its wayward brother,
A leaning and upbearing parasite.
Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite.
Shadow forth thee; the world hath not another
Of such refined and chastened purity. TennYson.
PATIENCE and prayer brought their fruit in due season.
^ Violet, you will not be able to go to church on Christ¬
mas-day.'
* No, I am not strong enough, even if you could spar«i mo.'
• Do you think Mr. Rivers could come to us V
' O, thank you !'
Those were the words, but the flush that gave colour to
Arthur's face showed the effort which they cost, and his wife's
brief answer was cut short by the sweetest tears she had e ver
shed.
She wrote a note to the clergyman, which was answered by
oil, THE BllOTHER'S WIFE.
497
Sl call tlie same afternoon. It took Arthur hf surprise ; hut
his mind was made up, and colouring deeply, he desired that
hlr. Hivers should be shown up. Violet left them alone to¬
gether, her heart throbbing with grateful hope and suppli¬
cation.
Arthur's honest though faltering avowal, 'I have never
thought enough of these things,' was his whole history.
It had been grace missed and neglected, rather than wilfully
abused. There had of course been opportunities, but there had
been little culture or guidance in his early days; his confirma¬
tion had taken place as a matter of form, and he had never
been a communicant; withheld at once by ignorance and dread
of strictness, as well as by a species of awe. Even his better
and more conscientious feelings had been aroused merely by
his affections instead of by the higher sense of duty; and now
it was through these that the true voice had at length reached
him.
He had leamt more from his little boy's devotions than all
the years of his life had taught him. The ever present influ-
eisce under which his wife and that child lived and acted, im¬
pressed itself on him as a truth and reality, and the conscious¬
ness of his full responsibility dawned upon him. In the early
part of his illness, his despair had been at the thought of his
failures as husband, father, and son. How there came on him
the perception that not merely in his human relations had he
transgressed, but that far ihore had he slighted the Almighty
and Long-suffering Father. He looked back on his life of dis¬
regard, his dire offences—
Thus awakened, he watched each word from his little uncon¬
scious teacher, to gather from them clearer hopes of mercy and
pardon. Happily, Johnnie, in his daily lessons, was going
through the ground-work, and those words of mighty significa¬
tion conveyed meanings to the father, which the innocent child
had as yet no need to unfold. The long silent hours gave time
for thought, and often when the watchers deemed that the
stifled groan or restless movement arose from pain or oppression,
it was in fact drawn forth by the weight on his mind.
So it had gone on; while mingled feelings of shame, reserve,
and reluctance to show himself in a new light, kept his lips
closed, and days and weeks passed before he brought himself to
speak the word even to his wife. "When it was spoken, her
silent intense gladness was at once a reward and a rebuke.
Though she scarcely spoke, he knew her well enough to perceive
more perfect joy than even at the moment when she first- made
him smile on their first-born son.
KK
498
HEARTSEASE;
He raised liis eyes to meet that look again, when, after hia
interview with the clergyman, she came back to join in fixing.
the hour. Contrition, dread, shame, penitence, all seemed to be
soothed, and yet rendered deeper, by meeting those eyes of
serene and perfect content and thankfiness.
That evening Johnnie was turning over prints by his side. ,
' There is the Good Shepherd, papa. Do you sen the poor
sheep, who wandered out of the fold, away into the wilderness
among the rocks and deserts—^that is doing wrong, you know,
papa. And it lost its way, and the wolf was watching to tear
it to pieces, that is Satan; but, the Good Shepherd,' and the
child bent his head reverently, ' He went after it. Mamma
said that means that He touches our hearts and makes us
sorry, and it looked up and was ready—as we pray to be made
good again. So then He laid it on His shoulders, and carried
it safe home to be happy In the fold again. Is He not very
good, papa? And only think! There is joy among the
Holy Angels in Heaven when one sinner grieves and comes
back.'
Johnnie was wont to go on in this dreamy way without
expecting an answer; but he was startled to see his father's
face hidden by the shadowy fingers that propped his forehead.
' Has it made your head ache, papa ? Must I go away f
' Say that again, Johnnie.'
' I cannot say it quite right,' answered the boy; ' I only
know it says that the Angels in Heaven rejoice and are glad
over one sinner that repenteth. I thought about it that night
after I had been naughty.'
*You, Johnnie?' Arthur could hardly believe that child
capable of a fault. ,
*Yes,' said Johnnie, with a trembling Up; 'I was cross at
doing my lessons with Aunt Theodora instead of mamma, and
I was so sorry. But at night, something seemed to bring
that verse, and I thought the Angels must have faces like
mamma.'
Certainly his father thought so too.
, Theodora's Christmas morning was cheered by a letter from
Percy, to tell her that he was to be with Arthur and Violet on
this occasion. It was greater happiness to her than it would
even have been to have had him at Brogden.
It was a very quiet day in Cadogan-place. The. full freshness
of awe and reverence was upon Arthur, and though he hardly
spoke, and made almost no demonstration, the strength of his
feeling was attested by the fatigue that ensued, partly, perhaps,
from the unwonted effort of fixing his attention. All the rest
OE, THE BEOTHER'S WIFE.
499
of the day he lay on. the sofa, silent and dozing, till in the
evening, when left alone with Johnnie, he only roused himself
to ask to have a Bible placed within his reach, and there losing
his way in searching for the parable of the strayed sheep, he
wandered about in the sayings of St. John's Gospel.
Johnnie's delight had been the dressing the cathedral cup
with a spray of holly sent to him from Brogden by his aunt,
and now he sat conning the hymns he had heard in church, and
musing over his prints in silence, till his brow caught an ex¬
pression that strangely blended with those dreamy impressions
of his father.
'Boor children 1 they have had a dull Christmas-day!' said
Arthur, as they came to bid him good night.
'No, no, papa; the owl-man has had such a game at play
with us in the dining-room 1' 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 Jolinnie 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 f 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 1 If you will let me take charge of 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 afiairs^
K K 2
500
SEAlltSEASE i
. and Jolinnie liad been several times at tbe rooms ovef 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 in¬
creased 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 com¬
plete 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 men¬
tioned 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. 1
little understood him then I'
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. '501
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 j but that is what I caift 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
thinlc what is to become of you.'
' Oh, don't, dear Arthur ! Why look forward 1 There has
been great mercy so far. Let us rest in it.'
'You may; it was not your fault,' said Ai'thur; 'but how
can II 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 V
He was almost angry that she did not partake his apprehen¬
sion for her welfare.
' This is only a casual drawback. Dr. L said so 1'
'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 V
' I am sure you need not be afraid for us. Is it not unkind
to doubt your father and John V
' Suppose they should die before Johnnie comes of age—sup¬
pose John should marry 1'
' 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.'
'Hot of poverty, even for the children?'
'Ho !' said Yiolet. ' 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 b^ the nine Arabic figures as thos^ of Yiolet'9 con-
502
HEARTSEASE ;
valescence had once been, only where hers were units, his were
hundi'eds.
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 Johnnic
sprang into the room loaded with treasures from a Christmas
ti;ge. 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; aud 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, thronghout which Johnnie had pre¬
served his gravity, only once volunteering a whisper, that he
wished Helen was there; but Percy thought that when unmo¬
lested by attention, he had seemed quietly amused. When
admitted to the Christmas tree in its glory, lie had been slightly
afraid of it at flrst, as of an unexpected phenomenon, and had
squeezed his friend's liand 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
OE, THE BEOTHER'S WIFE.
503
to liis little brother. This settled, Johimie's happiness had been
eomplete, 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 unselhsh
boy, what will you think of your father?' and then stifle a
groan.
The next afternoon, Johnnie, having as a preliminary, in¬
scribed 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 chim-
Hey-piece, and reaching pen and writing-case from Violet's
table.
*Ohl papal' 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, sup¬
posing 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 cculd read his writing or not, he could nob
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 efibrt, 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 hav<» 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;
504.
HEARTSEASE ;
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 tmst
to your kindness,' he wrote. ' If I could see you, I could die
m 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
wpuld 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 bo'r to think of a cloud on his remembrance
of me.'
CHAPTER XV.
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. Heebert.
' i RTHIJR, 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
difSdent >vay 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 i/ spending it at Wrangerton?'
She 'poked up in hii? f^-ce ns if tp spe if , hp li'eally tneant it,
s
ob, the brother's wife. 505
then, the glad flush darted into her cheeks, and with a cry of
joy like a child, she almost sobbed out, *0h, Arthur, Arthur!
thank you.*
He looked at her, amused, and enjoying her ecstasy. * So
you approve, Mrs. IMartindalef
*0, to go to mamma! to show mamma the children? An¬
nette! 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 remorse¬
ful; '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 liim, 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 Martin-
dale had sent the whole party to recruit by the sea-side, at
their own dear Ventnor, and there the last six weeks had been
gpent ill tlio (^aily jo^ of watching Arthur's progress in re-
506
HEARTSEASE;
covery;—^until now a sligRt degree of Wakness and laogaor,
an occasional cougli, 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 engagins:
• - O o o
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 tiU 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,—terri¬
fied 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
OE, THE BEOTHER^S WIFE.
507
from storms, it was tlie 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 im¬
proved according to her opportunities ?
She could hardly reply when Arthur recognised 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 tc
her, the joy was to see a baby of hers at last in her mother's arms.
She could hardly see any one but the slight worn-looking
mother, whose low, sad-toned voice awoke such endless recollec¬
tions, and made her realize that she was once more beside
* mamma. To look at her sisters almost disturbed her j and it
-well-nigh struck her as unnatural to find the children hanging
on her.
Still more unnatural was it to be conducted upstairs, like
company, to the best room, and to find her mother in distress
and solieitude 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
503
HEARTSEASE;
aa 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 arm-,
chair, and she uupacked, 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 Yiolet; 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 dh^tress her.'
* Old ! altered !' said Arthm. * Hov/' dare you talk of such
things!'
* I can't help it,' said Yiolet, 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 V
' Oh, is not she pretty f
* Whish 1 don't praise yourself; she is the image of you at
sixteen. How that I have seen her, I see you are changed;
but somehow—^the word that always suited you best was
lovely j and you have more of that style of thing than even
when your cheeks were pink. Hot your oval face and white
skin, you know, but that—^that look that is my Yiolet—my
heart's-ease, that used to keep my heart up last winter. Ay!
you are more to my mind 1'
That little episode was the especial charm of Yiolet'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 over¬
whelming him with a torrent of affected nonsense—or at least
what Yiolet 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
MatildP- V)Quld know all I^ord St. l^i^me's and Lady Lucy's
on, Tn£ bugther^s wife. SCO
views and tabits. 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
hlatilda at any cost, and succeeded in setting her down to the
piano j and to secure his quiet, though feeling it a very pre¬
sumptuous 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 at¬
tention, 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 f He lay on the
grass in the sunshine, playing with the children, and fast mak¬
ing 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 coul^ 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 fashion- ~
able 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
510
HEA"RTSEASE 5
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 ofithe 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 especial 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 Arthui',
solemnly, ' to let them grope in the dirt. I never rested tdl I
had seen my boy up to the ears in mud.—But ha! what a mag¬
nificent 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 1'
Matilda and Mrs. Albert Moss looked at each other,' shocked.
' What will Mr. Hunt make her do next V
' Poor Olivia 1' said Mrs. Albert. ' We regret the connexion;
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 dis¬
dained by Matilda, while the gentle Mrs. Moss and Annette
hardly ventured to say a good word for him. Violet's appre¬
hensions had chiefly centered 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 pre¬
tension, 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.
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. ^
511
The haby occupied the ladies, the horse their hnsbands; 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 s^at. ^
With Arthur off her mind, Violet was free to enjoy, and soon
found that the only flaw in Olivia's felicity was the Wrangertoft
fashion of sneering at r 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 cen¬
sures at nought; but when she found Yiolet of his way of
thinking, she joyfully declared that she would never allow her¬
self to be again tormented by Matilda's proprieties. How glad
she was that George had insisted; for, as she confided to Yiolet
and Annette, she knew that bringing the baby without a maid,
would be .thought so vulgar that she would have stayed a*
home, in spite of her desire to see Yiolet; 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 bf Mark Gardner and his set, not to
be very solicitous of the acquaintauce 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 Sis whole establish¬
ment; and Yiolet 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 Yiolet 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 Yiolet to a fqll§r
comprehension of her own family. .r,
Her mother was what she herself might have become but
for John. She was an excellent person, very sensible, and
512
liSATlTSEASE *,
completely a lady; but ber spirit bad beeu brokett by a catisiic,
sbarp - tempered, neglectful busband, and she bad dragged
through the world bending under ber trials, not rising above
them. Her eldest daughter bad been sent to a fashionable
school, and bad ever since domineered over the whole family,
while the mother sank into a sort of bonne to the nttle ones,
and a slave to ber husband. There was much love for her
among ber fine handsome girls, but little honour for the patient
devotion and the unfailing good sense that judged aright, but
could not act.
Annette, ber chief comfort, tried to bring up ber pupil
Octavia to the same esteem for ber; 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 ber mother, was looked on as one of his rusticities. Poor
Mrs. Moss was so unused to be treated as a person of impor¬
tance, that she could hardly understand the attention paid ber,
not only by Violet, but by the Colonel; while the two young
sisters, who regarded Violet and her busband as the first of
human beings, began to discover that' O, it is only mamma!'
was not the most appropriate way of speaking of ber; and that
when they let ber go on errands, and wait on • every one, Violet
usually took the ofiice on herself.
So busy was Mrs. Moss, that Violet had very few minutes of
conversation with ber, but she saw more of Annette, in whom
the same meek character was repeated, with flie tendency to
plaintiveness that prevented its real superiority from taking
eflect. She drooped under the general disregard, saw things
amiss, but was hopeless of mending them j and for want of the
spirit of cheerfulness, bad 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 bow much happier
I have been since I knew it was wrong to be faint-hearted.'
Before the end of the day she bad seen ber mother and Annette
look so much more cheerful, that the wish crossed ber that she
could often be at hand.
By and bye Arthur came home in the highest spirits, tossing
Annie in the air, as he met ber in the passage, and declaring
himself so far from tired that be bad not felt so well for a year,
and that the mountain breezes bad taken the weight off-bis
chest for good and all. He was in perfect raptures with
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
51?
Lassontliwayte and with its master, had made an engag^ent
to bring Yiolet, her mother, and the children, to stay there a
week, and—* What more do you think V 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
viUage of Lassonthwayte, to be let for a mere nothing, just big
enough to hold us, and the gardtjn all over roses, and that style
of thing. How, 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 I 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 V
' It is too delightful I 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.'
ASSONTHWAYTE 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
CHAPTER XYI.
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—Woedswoeth.
I L
514
nEAHTSEASE;
did every tMng accord vrith tlie liearty yeoman, and Lis pretty,
sLepLerdess-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 lookiug like a prize animal boast¬
ing of its own size and beauty—and a dreadful terror to Johnnie.
He, poor little boy, was the only person to whom Lasson-
thwayte was not a paradise. Helen and Annie had no fears, and
were wild with glee, embracing the dogs, climbing into dan¬
gerous 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 miser¬
able 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 tor¬
mented. 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 Yiolet and Mrs. Moss' planning the
improvements that Mr. Hunt was to make in 'it, and helping
Yiolet 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.
Yiolet did not quite like this, but Arthur argued, * They ai©
my own concerns, not his, and if I can extricate myself without
help, why should he be further plagued about me V ^
She did not contest the point; it would be time enough
when they were at Brogden, but it made her rather uneasy;
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
515
tho 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 Oolonei 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 Martin-
dale 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.'
' 0 mamma, that could make no difference.'
' Hot, perhaps, while they were young, but by-and-bye 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 I'
* 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.'
' 0, mamma 1 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 1'
'I understand better now,* said Mrs. Moss. 'Perhaps it
would have been more advisable if there had been no inter¬
mingling 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 1' 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 vour heart on it, mamma?'
ll2
516
HEARTSEASE;
' I have left off setting my lieart on anything, my dear child/
said Mrs. Moss, with a sigh, telling of many and many a dis¬
appointment. Sincerely religions 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 5 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 connexion 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 fUed the children, and
Violet accomplished her wish of showing Johnnie the little
Madonna of Ghirlandajo.
The first sight of the rooms made Violet somewhat melan¬
choly, 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 sole
ornament of the library, than when it was vis-d-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 manv 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
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
517
exercised; and it "was curious to see Ris masterly dra'wings
hung round the schools and reading-room, and his ready pencil
illustrating his instruction*?, 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 plea¬
sure 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 re¬
membered 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
518 HEAIlTSEASli: ;
that I first saw Mr. rothcringiiam/ and he proceeded to ash
many questions ahout Percy's former appointment at Constanti¬
nople, his length of service, and reason for giving it up, which
she much enjoyed telling. He spoke too of his hooks, 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
lionour of being dissected.
' Poor Lucy has hardly yet forgiven it,* he said; ' but it was
one of the best things that ever befel 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 criti-
^cism I had met with. Nobody had cared for me enough to
take me to task for my absurdities. I am obliged to Mr.
Potheringham.'
Violet treasured this up for Percy's benefit.
This festivity was their last in the north. Their visit at
Tassonthwayte had been lengthened from a week to a fortnight,.
•and Lady Martiiidale 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 meet¬
ing, 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 Lassonthway te 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 v/as 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 mutterirgs 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
grey twilight, could not help being glad that only three months
OK, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
519
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 thought¬
ful for some time after Johnnie had gone to bed, when he sud¬
denly looked up and said, ' Violet, would it be a great vexation
to you if we gave up this scheme V
' 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 com¬
mission.'
*Ho !—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 v/ish
- 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 V
'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 V said he, looking
with a rather sad though arch smile into her face.
' Dear Arthur, you know
' I know I wont trust myself,' he answered, trying to laugh
it off. 'And you'll be a good child, and not cry for the
cottage V
' 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
520
Hr&ARTSliJASlL;
air, and Annette and Octavia sTiall come and stay with us. 1
should like to show Octavia a little of the world.'
* Then, we shall go on as we are
* Yes j 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.*
'JSTo 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
fco 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 XVII.
On Sunday, Heaven's gate stands ope,
Blessings are plentiful and rife,
More plentiful than hope. G. Herbsbt.
Five years 1 How little can letters convey the true state
of aflairs 1 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 ? 1
wish I could have gone through London to see Arthur and
Violet. There again is the anxious question, whether his re¬
pentance 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 I Foolish it is to cling to the hope of
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
521
meeting her again, as that vision of loveliness—^that creature of
affection and simplicity, that first awoke me to a return of
cheerfulness! The hoy, 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 j 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 1 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 1* settled all doubts.
Arthur! is it you V 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 V 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 V
* All well. Have you not been at home yet V
' jSTo ; 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 V
' 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 I Was it not won¬
derful sagacity in me to know you Y
* Greater than mine,* said 0 ohn. ' My instinct was failing as
I came near. Are you really well Y
' Never better. Johnnie and his mamma nursed me well
again, and Helvellyn breezes blew away the remainder. When
did you land ?*
f;22
HEAETSEASE;
* This morning. We put in at Liverpool, and I came on a§
once. How is my mother ? She had not been well.'
' She was ailing all the winter, but a house full of grandchil¬
dren seems to have cured her completely. You will stare to
see her a perfect slave to—our eldest girl,' said Arthur, check¬
ing 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 Cceur de Lion, whom you have been romancing about al)
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 ac¬
quainted,' 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 v/elcome
were spoken by Percy; but he then fell into the background,
taking charge of Johnnie, while the other three walked on toge¬
ther, 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 1'
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
Gunt Theodora's double.'
OR, THE brother'S WIFE, - 523
TliOse flasliing black eyes were not tbe ideal Jobn 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 fox-gloves, 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 V
Helen stuck her chin into her neck. She vrould tell her sur¬
mise to no one but Johnnie, who had persuaded Mr. Fothering-
ham 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, Theo¬
dora 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 walk¬
ing 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! Pun on, Johnnie,
tell mamma and grandmamma whom we have here.'
The first greeting vras 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
jomplaint, 'And you have shown-him all the children and I
was not there 1'
' Never mind. They will show off much better with you,
you jealous woman. What does John think to hear you
scolding V
' Has he seen all the children V 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
524
HEARTSEASE;
visible enough to prove to bim 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 fathers wishes were that he should pre¬
fer those which most nearly reproduced the original building,
pulled down to please Mrs. Kesbit. Lady Martindale had sur¬
prised 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 recognise 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 1
* "When ways and means are found,' said Lord Martindale.
' We must talk over that another time, John.'
J ohn, 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 ti
forgive! How right you were, and how wrong I was 1'
*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 j
OR, THE brother'S WIFE.
625
* but we m ust not stop to battle the point, or Mr. Hugh Mar-
tindale'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 V
' 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 1 You don't mean it V
' The history of these years is this,' said Percy, making an
emphatic mark on the gravel with his stick. ' Every one else
lias acted, more or less, idiotically. She has gone about soften¬
ing, 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 1 Ho one has spoken of her power.'
' It is too feminine to be recognised. 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 i-ebuke 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 afiection. 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. Martin-
dale 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 Martin-
dale 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.'
526
HEARTSEASE ;
' Then yon are satisfied abont Arthur?
' Better than I ever thought to be.'
' And, Percy, what is this that he tells me of your bavins
rescued him at your own expense V
' Has he told you all that V 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 con¬
dition 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 V
* 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 J)eus ex Machind
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. Hot 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 j 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 sing¬
ing 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,
J ohn 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 con-
lidence, at which I see you guess.'
OK, THE BROTIIEIl'S WIFE,
527
* 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 Yiolet. * 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 con¬
nected with him; but, tell me, is not this the sister about whom
Percy made a slight mistake
' Oh ! do you know that story 1 Yes, it was dear Annette I
Otherwise I should never have known about Mr. Eanshawe.
It was only a vague preference, but it was very fortunate that
it pretented 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 em¬
ployment.'
'I understand. And did you never wish that you had
influenced her otherwise V
' 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 softi.
She stepped in at the French window, threw a light shawl over
hinr, 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 V
Violet shook her head. ' Hq is as well as could be hoped
after such an illness,' she said j ' 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
I/assonthwayte entirely took away his cough, and it has not
628
HEARTSEASE;
returned, thougli 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 V
* 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 with¬
out a carriage horse V
^ 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 teach¬
ing 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 V
She took off the chain and placed it in his hand. ' Thanks
OR, THE brother'S WIFE. - 5S9
for it, more than ever T she said. ' My friend and preacher in
time of need it has often been, and J ohnnie's too.'
* Johnnie V
'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 afraiil
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 hov/
it was saved by J ohnnie'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 T
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 r said Arthur; ' did you not wonder how anything so
good can belong to me f
John smiled, and said, 'His goodness belongs to nothing
here.'
' Hay, 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
AT M
530
HEAllTSEASE ;
I ______ —
gathering them up again at Ventnor, and was always telling
s me of them. Slie 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 lio teaching, and
a few hints here and there do not desei-ve 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 Yiolet be my scholar, she has far surpassed
her teacher! Strange that so much should have arisen appa¬
rently from my attempt to help and cheer the poor dispirited
girl, in that one visit to Yentnor, 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, v/ith one voice,
are ready to 'rise up and call her blessed!' Hay, are not
these what Helen would have most wished to efiect, and is it
not her memorials that have been the instruments of infusing
that spirit into Yiolet? These are among the works that
follow her, or, as they sung this evening—
' For seeds are sown of glorious ligut
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
church-yard 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. ;
OK. THE BCOIIIEE'S WIfE. ' fcSl
CHAPTER XVIIL
That W e, whose work commenced in
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 cxxvi. N&ijo
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 apologising 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
[)roducing the letter written at Christmas. Lord Martindale
was touched by the commencement, blit was presently lost in
surprise on discovering Percy's advance.
.'Why could he not have written to mel Did he think I was
not ready to help my own sonT
' 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, ho
was unwilling you or she should know the extent of the
obligation.'
'It is well I do know it. I thought it unsatisfactory to liear
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!'
^ M 2
582
HEARTSEASE ;
' I hope -he may soon double it," said JcJin, 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 ^
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 Wjrelands. 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 Yiolet 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,
an 1 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 Yiolet 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 dis¬
cipline 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—' '
' A.nd I firmly believe that if you had had anything to do
- OR, THE brother'S WIFE. - 5S3
but nurse your cougli, you would Iiave 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 foot-"
men] !N"o, 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 un¬
deserved 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
farther retrenchments in the stable and garden arrangements j
but, as he told John, he knew not how to reduce the enormous
expense of the latter without giving more pain to Lady Martin-
dale 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.
J ohn 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—^
V' 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
534
HEARTSEASE;
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, whetlier it would grieve you if we gave the care of the
gardens to somewhat less of a first-rate genius V
'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.*
Jolin perceived that his mother was happier than she had
ever been, in waiting upon the children,-and enjoying the com¬
pany of Yiolet, 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 Yiolet 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 Ido sensible of his reductions. Theodora
was continually surprised to see how much more successful than
herself Yiolet 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 ob¬
served, 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 1' exclaimed Percy. ' I was thinking
of emigration; but your sister could not go in the present 6tate
of things here; and she will not hear of my going and return¬
ing when I have built a nest for her.*
OR, THE EROTIIER'-S WIFE. ' ~ 535
' No, indeed!' said Jolin. ' Your powers v^ere not given for
the hewing down of forests.'
* Were not they?' said Percy, stretching and clenching a hai^d
muscular wrist and hand.
'A man's a man for a' that!'
I tell you, John, I am wearying for want of v/crk—hard, down¬
right, substantial work T
' Well, you have it, have you not ?'
* Pshaw ! Pegasus wont 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 j
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 Avrote what I thought Avas Avanted. I sent it forth as
my Avay of trying Avhat service I could do in my generation.
But noAV, when I call it my profession, when I think avoAA^edly
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 your¬
selves treasures upon earth—' •
* A fine way you found of laying them up 1'
' It proved the Avay 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 Avithout positive inten¬
tion on my part j I mean that I had of course taken my due,
and not found occasion to spend it. It is the Av^riting solely for
gain, Avith 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 j my ideas do not flow even on matters Avont to interest me
most. It was all very Avell Avhen waiting on Arthur Avas an
object; but after he Avas 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 revieAv and history-mongering 1 I have
been teaching a ragged-school, helping at any charities that
needed a hand; but it seems amateur Avork, and I want to bo
in the stream of life again I'
' I Avill not say what most Avould—it Avas 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 ha^-ty judgments to myself, 1
HEARTSEASE;
should not have been laid on the snelf, 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 super¬
intendent's place, only I thought it might no*. be congruous
with an Honourable for a wife.'
* You don't mean to give up writing"?*
'Ho, 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 em¬
ployment -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
say.
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 qf
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 pur¬
suits, she began to think it her duty to persuade him to go;
and to this she had on this very night, with a great efibrt,
made up her mind.
' There is space in his composition for more happiness than
depends on me,' said she to Yiolet. '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
OR. THE brother'S WIFE.
537
have been for years. Percy has suffered enough through ma
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 Wran-
gerton to tell you it is settled. I wonder if you will go to the
wedding. Oh! Violet, if you had had one particle of selfish¬
ness or pettiness, how many unhappy people you wo {fid have
made!'
Violet's last letter from home had announced that Mr. Fan-
shawe 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 morn¬
ing, 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 serviceand 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 1 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 V
Arthur had come down in the midst, and leant over his re¬
joicing 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 ycur 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 1* said Arthur, looking at the signature. ' Did not he
marry some of the Delaval cotmexion V
538 .
HEARTSEASE;
' Yes/ said Violet; 'Lady Mary—Lord St. Erme's aunt. Ho
was Lord St. Erme's guardian.*
' Then that is what it is/ said Arthur, sententiously. ' Did
you not tell nae that St. Erma 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
^vith 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 vfith 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 1' as she read, ' this is the very thing ! What 1
Is it not a good appointment ? Why do you hesitate V
'It is an excellent appointment, but this is the doubt. Do;
you see that name 1 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. jSTo 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. Befuse 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
foi'ward.'
' You take it, then ?'
t
ok, the brother's wife.
* Yes, standing reproved, and I might almost say punislied,.
for my past disdain of this generous man.'
* If you say so, what must IV
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 r said he, as they drove off, 'he is a very fine fellow,,
affer all! I don't know what is to be done for him ! I wish
wo 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
A-i'thuf.
' 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
foreigi;! 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.
'How 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^
HEARTSEASE;
But there is a nobilitj of mind in him above small resent¬
ments and jealousies. Ay! there never mil be anybody fit for
him but Helen!'
' And Helen brought up to be much better than her aunt/
said Theodora.
' It wont 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 knee's, stooping under the table to personate an old cow in'
the stall.'
*0h! Arthur! Arthur, how could you?' exclaimed Yiolet.
'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 Yiolet interferes with any
of her vagaries. The other day, when Yiolet 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 Yiolet'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 himsell
to her comfort, as the means of setting free those who still had
a fair prospect.
OK, THE BKOTHEK^S WIFE.
541
As usual, Lady jMartindale's reluctance had been over-rated.
. John found that she had never calcidated on anything but
Theodora's marrying at once; she only observed that she sup¬
posed 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 J ohn. * Peally, 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.
613
HEARTSEASE;
'It is a subject for consideration/ began Lord Martindale.
' 1 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 afibrd 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 Lave 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 liis 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.'
' Light! 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 net 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 feci about the children. If we are
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE. * 543
to be here, it must be on conditioii 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 vv^illing.
I know it is what I do not deserve, and I am more obliged than
I can say j but all must depend upon Violet.'
He was going in quest of her, when the Hickworth 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 posi¬
tively 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
fxerself.
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. Pinch's affection had
514^ HEARTSEASE;
placed en^-ely in his power, there was little probability that
he wonld 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 unkind-
ness; and her sister, ]\Irs. 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 f^'Om 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
Yiolet, 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 disenchant¬
ment. 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 t-o
OR, THE BROTHER'S WIFE.
submit to another five years' probation; but to her surpri&s,
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 fimily 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 inhabi¬
tants of the house were fast outstripping their space in the
parish church, and might soon be numerous enough to necessi¬
tate the restoration of the ruin for their lodging. An architect
nad 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 E-ickworth 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 or
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 recal, 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 dreari¬
ness for Annette 1'
' 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 wayl' «iid Violet, archly.
N N
HEAETSEASE;
* That is what provokes me I 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 1' exclaimed Violet. ' What does Arthur say V
'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 sol'
' 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
» ' i
OR, THE brother'S WIEE. * 545?
caressing words. Artliur's step approaclied. His motlier
opened the door and met him. 'She consents I Dear, dear
Violet consents! Now we shall he 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 1'
' And saying nothing?'
' Because I thought there was nothing else to be done; but
this—*
' Ay 1 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 1 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 I it is
too much 1 it overflows 1' 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 ia
548 HEARTSEASE; OR, THE BROTHER'S WIPE.
me to many you, innocent, unknowing cliild 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 1'
s
THE END.
lOXDOX: B. CLAY, SOXS, AMD TAYLOR, PRINTKBfl.