Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife

CHAPTER 18

The height of the 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 regret 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 ordinary 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 sufficiency 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.

Lady Elizabeth could only feel that she should be more at ease when she was not always in dread of interrupting a tete-a-tete, 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 cessation 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 consent 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 estrangement 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 he 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. Fotheringham. 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 disappointment; she almost seemed to be glad of her release.

It was a trial when the Review 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 attention—it was so striking and able, keenly and drolly attacking absurdity and affectation, good-humoured and lively, and its praise so cordial and enthusiastic. Every visitor was sure to begin, ‘Have you read the paper on modern poetry?’ ‘Do you know who wrote it?’ or, ‘Is it true it is by Mr. Fotheringham?’

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 was made for taking up Miss Martindale, and with a hasty farewell he disappeared, as Violet thought, unseen. On coming home, Theodora went at once up-stairs; 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, unnoticed, 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 intrude 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 surprised 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 henceforth ready to stand alone, and use her strength for the benefit of the weak. She would be the maiden aunt, the treasure of the family, and Arthur’s house should be the centre of her usefulness 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 valuable 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 suppressing a certain jealousy of Annette that was ready to spring up on discovering how strong was the affection bestowed 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 have felt it blank, indeed, to have no one but Sarah to share her 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 extremely, and caused Arthur and Violet to congratulate themselves that, in their case, Matilda had not been allowed her own way.

‘What a sensible, agreeable person your uncle is,’ said Theodora, 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 set 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 grandmamma’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 something I have been wanting to say to you for a long time. If I should be as ill as I was before, if I should not live, I should like one thing—’

Theodora took her hand between both hers, for she could not answer.

‘I should like to know that his grandmamma would see my Johnnie, if it was only for once. I know poor Arthur could not bear to hear me talk of this, and he is anxious enough already, but you would tell him. You will manage for mamma to see my boy, won’t 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, Violet, you must not talk so!’ cried Theodora, in a half-choked voice.

‘No; 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; 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.

CHAPTER 19

‘She is ready to see you,’ said Arthur, meeting Theodora, as 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 gladness, and of hopes that Violet was comfortable.

‘Yes, thank you, quite. I am so thankful! 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!’ Then, seeing the cloud return, ‘Presently, dear aunt, when she wakes. Is not she a beauty?’

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 the 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 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 morning! I had been up to tell you, and could not think where you were.’

‘Why was I not allowed to be of use?’

‘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?’

‘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 of 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 herself, the wayward wilful spirit began to rise.

She paced the dull walk in the square gardens in the summer twilight, and thought of the life before her, uncherished at home, an intruder in the family where she had expected to earn fond gratitude, rejected by him who had loved her from childhood!

There was an alternative! One look of encouragement, and Lord St. Erme was at her disposal, ready to rejoice at acceptance, even if she should tell him that she had no heart to bestow. 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 himself, 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 unwonted 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 household 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 all but kindly thoughts, as Theodora sat down with the living 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? I had to exercise a little self-will in getting you here. How good we must be to make him forgive us!’

Next. ‘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 Violet, 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.

‘No, no; that will bring her no good. It is Aunt Nesbit’s name.’

‘It is one I love the sound of.’

‘You won’t 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 affection and sense of right. She longed to recall 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. But what would Violet think!

Violet suddenly awoke with a terrified gaze. ‘Arthur! Arthur! O, where is he!’

‘Down-stairs, dearest; he will come.’ But to her extreme alarm, the words had no effect.

‘Arthur! O, when will he come? Why did he go away?’

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 Violet was worse—was delirious; Mr. Harding must be sent for—

When Arthur had hurried up-stairs, 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 difficulty that Arthur could soothe and 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, endeavouring 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 remonstrance when ordered off by her brother, and even felt unworthy of Violet’s kiss.

That little scene of trivialities had been her first true humiliation. 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 bitterness.

Her heart was very heavy, but less hard. Slowly had the power of Violet’s meekness and lowliness been stealing into her 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; and Arthur, after his experience of yesterday, 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; 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. 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, newspapers, with which he had been playing bo-peep, drawing materials, 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 dread of a cry, while 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 disapproving, 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 something.

‘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?’

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 down-stairs perhaps we might; but I am engaged 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!’

‘Nay,’ said Theodora, touched by the injustice; ‘Lord St. Erme is no man not to know how to dispose of his time.’

‘Whew!’ whistled Arthur; ‘is the wind gone round to that quarter? Well, I thought better of you than that you would like a fellow that can do nothing but draw, never shoots over his 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!’

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 a hat in the hall, and asking whether Mr. Harding was there, was told no, but that Mr. Gardner was with Captain Martindale. 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 won’t, 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 sufficiently 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 Rhine.’

‘Do not you go with them?’

‘I have not decided. It depends upon circumstances. Did not I hear something of your family visiting Germany?’

‘Perhaps they may,’ said Theodora, dryly. 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 could not see it as I did, and her alterations only made it worse, till 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 your artist eye, you must know what it is not to be able to keep your hands off.’

‘Not I,’ said Theodora, smiling. ‘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 measure without the subject?’

‘He is in the carriage, with his nurse;’ and 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; and she was pleased by a remark of Lord St. Erme, that showed that his 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, 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 Rookh 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; so that at last she observed, ‘It is strange how like this is to my mother.’

‘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; 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 thinking herself neglectful of a good little girl, she offered to take the desired walk at once. While Lady Lucy was preparing, however, the brother came home, and oh! the inconvenient satisfaction 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 Theodora contrasted this warm solicitude for his young sister with the indifference of her own eldest brother. There was evidently 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.’

‘Fogs 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!’ 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 to express a wish or opinion—’

She saw it was time to cut him short. ‘Every one’s opinion must be the same,’ she said.

‘O,’ 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 “chateau en Espagne” indeed, my little sister. Wrangerton is a most forlorn place, an old den of the worst period of architecture, set down just beyond the pretty country, but in the programme of all the 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.’

‘Knights of old liked something impracticable.’ She was almost ready to check herself; but there was something inspiriting 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 20

Mrs. Nesbit was recommended to spend some months at Baden Baden; and Theodora formed a design, which highly pleased Arthur and Violet, of spending this time, while the family were absent, and while Arthur was in Scotland, as hostess at Martindale to Violet 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 brought a German book, to show her a poem of which their conversation had reminded him.

‘I 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 untranslatable 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 ahead, and spied something about a “hochbeseeltes madchen” 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 trembled; 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, resplendent 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 my 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.’

‘Yes,’ said Albert. ‘I could not but gratify my Louisa’s anxiety 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 Theodora. ‘Were you pleased?’

‘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?’ 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?’

‘Not 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?’

‘About the tenth or eleventh,’ said Theodora.

‘Thank you. Then I must wish you good-bye—’

‘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. Remember 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!’

Albert could not recover from his vexation at having missed such a chance, and was nearly setting off in pursuit of his lordship. Theodora was glad to escape for a moment, on the plea of seeing whether Violet could receive a 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, my love. Bless me! 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?’

‘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 Martindale to reconsider her verdict.

‘I must not relent; 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. Nothing can stop me!’ and she stepped forward, laughing affectedly, and trying to look arch.

‘I cannot permit this. It might do serious harm,’ said Theodora, obliged to stand in her path, and to put on such a look of haughty command, that she was positively subdued and frightened, 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 dignified 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 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 Theodora, more coldly than ever.

Hateful woman! Poor Violet! 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 connections! Then I can despise him. Foolish man! why could he not say what he wanted? I should have got 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 submitted with anything like patience, admired and loved her more than ever.

The gentleness and quietness of her demeanour were a refreshment 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 admiration, 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 a Wrangerton woman should not forget.’

‘Lord St. Erme! You ARE laughing at me, Theodora. He never even saw Johnnie!’

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 be three years ago? They are very pretty.’

‘I do not think you like them the better for being his,’ said Theodora.

‘I ought,’ said Violet; ‘no other great man ever seems to me so grand as our own Earl.’

‘I want your real feeling.’

‘You know,’ said Violet, 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 poetizing to Germany; and under your wing at home, I will get into no more mischief.’

That was a pleasant prospect, and Violet reposed on the thought of the enjoyment of Martindale without its formidable inhabitants; 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, Violet, 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.’

‘Ah!’ said Violet, 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 Violet, ‘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.’

Violet 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?’

‘Don’t be angry with me,’ implored Violet, with a quivering voice, and tears of weakness in her eyes. ‘I cannot help it. I 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 when Lady Martindale 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 and better able to manage—’

‘No such thing!’ exclaimed Theodora; ‘you are the only person who ever exercised any control over me.’

‘O, hush! 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 convinced 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.

‘I should not like baby to say so by and by,’ she whispered.

‘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 them as if they had brought them up properly.’

‘That is a sad thought,’ pensively said the 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 think 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 pursuing his own diversions.”’

Theodora was glad to see that this did rouse Violet’s indignation.

‘Oh! he does not know. Do tell him it was all your kindness! Tell 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 surprised 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 sufficient to decide me on not leaving you with her at present. We shall be in London on Monday, the 11th, and I wish you to be in readiness to join us when we embark for Ostend on the following 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?’

‘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 seemed to be wanting in sympathy.

‘No, indeed! You never think what would become of you left alone, with two babies that cannot walk!’

‘Never mind me, I shall manage very well, I don’t like to 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! Now let me tell you. I know I have been much to blame; you made me feel it. You are taming me; 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 Violet, ‘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!’

‘It is very hard,’ said Violet; ‘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?’

‘And lose my hope of peaceful guidance!’

‘I do believe,’ said Violet, ‘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?’

‘Give you up! dear, dear sister;’ and Violet rose and threw her arms round Theodora. ‘No, 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 Violet to her regrets and fears. It was a great sacrifice of herself, 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 unexpected 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 Theodora’s life, 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 embodiment 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 fierce 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.