Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife

CHAPTER 21

Arthur quitted London the day after his little girl’s 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 proper’, but 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 inefficiency needed pardon, and therefore could bear the saying, and allow it to turn her defiant shame into humility.

Mrs. Nesbit came in, supported between Lord and Lady Martindale, 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 moments, 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, blushing and disconcerted, by that harsh, dry cough of Mrs. Nesbit’s, and still more, by seeing Lord Martindale look concerned. 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; 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 sort 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 well;’ but 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.’

‘O, Theodora has been so very kind to me.’

‘I rejoice to hear it; but tell me, will this evening or to-morrow morning suit you best?’

‘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 but slightly, listened in surprise; and having now come to her own door, she bade them farewell, and entered the house.

Theodora came back much later than Violet had expected, with a flush on her cheek, and hurry and uncertainty in her manner. She had previously made a great point of their spending this last evening alone together, but her mood was silent. She declared herself bent on finishing the volume of Miss Strickland’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?’

‘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?’

‘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 Theodora, 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! 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 Martindale 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 justice to Percival; and finding some relief in taking blame to herself for not having remonstrated against that unfortunate expedition to the races.

‘No, my 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?’

‘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?’

‘No; he said something about not presuming, and of having been interrupted. I could only tell him that it must rest with 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? I cannot make out. I told her that she was at liberty to do as she pleased; I only warned her neither to trifle with him, nor to rush into an engagement without deliberation, 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 him or not.’

‘I do not think she will.’

‘I cannot say. No one knows, without a trial, what the notion of a coronet will do with a girl. After all her pretensions 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 him, it is everything desirable in the way of connection, and probably he is an amiable good sort of man. What do you know of him! Are you intimate with him?’

Violet explained the extent of their acquaintance. ‘I do not see my way through it,’ said Lord Martindale. ‘I wish I 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!’ 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 whenever 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 Martindale. Theodora was busy, packing up, and could not accompany her; unfortunately for her, since Mrs. Nesbit took the opportunity of examining her on the same subject, though far from doing it in the same manner; commenting with short sarcastic laughs, censuring Mr. Fotheringham for trying to domineer, but finding much amusement in making out the grounds of his 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 imprudent person; and when Lady Martindale ventured to suggest something about her not knowing, and Mrs. Finch having formerly 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 misfortune 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 insulted, and rose to take leave, but did not escape without further taunts. ‘So you are to be in London alone for the next month?’

‘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 Martindale, but it is out of the question. Theodora’s absence has been much felt by the curate, and our past experience has prepared us for anything. I hope you will take care of yourself.’

Mrs. Nesbit, 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 insolent.

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 imagine, 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!’ 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 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 consideration. 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 disappointment, and opened to Violet a fresh insight into Lady Martindale’s nature; that there was a warm current beneath, only stifled by Mrs. Nesbit’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 sorry for it himself, but that Violet had assured him it would not be for long; and Lady Martindale (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 discovered 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, as she said, but proceeding slowly; for there was a severe struggle of feelings, and she could not bear that it should be 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 cannot—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?’

After what Lord Martindale had said, Violet could guess at her meaning. ‘Certainly, dear Theodora. You would not do it if it was wrong?’

‘You know what I mean?’

‘I think I do.’

‘And you are not infinitely shocked?’

‘No; for you would not do it unless you could rightly.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘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?’

‘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 walketh in darkness, and hath no light? Let him trust in the name of the Lord and stay upon his God.’

‘Thank you, Violet,’ said Theodora, looking on to the next verse. ‘I will try to be patient; I will try not to kindle a fire for myself. But if they tease me much, if I am very weary—’

The summons cut her short—Lord Martindale 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—left behind in dreary summer London. 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 creature, after all, and awoke to weariness and headache, but to no repining; for she had attained to a spirit of thankfulness and content. She lay dreamily, figuring to herself Arthur enjoying himself on the moors and mountains, till Helvellyn’s own purple cap came to brighten her dreams.

CHAPTER 22

‘So, you say Miss Martindale has left town?’

‘Yes; Violet 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; and she says so little of herself. 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; ‘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; and she had suffered too much anxiety on her daughter’s account, not to rejoice in the prospect of a trustworthy 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, willing to discard her kindred; 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 companionship 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 19th.

‘Well, dearest mamma, I am writing from Violet’s house. Yes, she is her own sweet self, our precious flower still—nobody 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! Poor dear girl! When she saw us, 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, she composed herself, 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 tantalizing 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 stiffness 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, Annette, come and see,” said Violet, and took me up-stairs 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 believes Sarah disapproves of poor Helen altogether, as an intruder upon Johnnie’s comfort; and she is quite savage at admiration 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 without 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?” 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 officers. 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?” 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 introducing 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 person. Now I see that Violet is altered, and grown older—he seems to have such respect for, and confidence in her; and she so 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 perfection, I should think; so graceful and dignified, so engaging and quiet. I wish Louisa had seen her. What are they talking of now?

‘Violet.—How did you find Pallas Athene?

‘Unknown.—Alas, poor Pallas! With the judgment of the cockney who buttered his horse’s hay, the ragged boy skinned her mice and plucked her sparrows in my absence. The consequence 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 Pallas! then the poor boy has lost his employment?

‘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 be 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 Royal 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 nice-looking, lady-like girl, of the same refined tone of mind and manners; and having had a longer space of young ladyhood, she had more cultivation in accomplishments and book 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 superiority of her beloved sister. Selfish jealousies or petty vanities were far from her; it was like a romance to hear Violet describe 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 communicative.

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 understood art better than her sister, who rejoiced in bringing out her 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 complacency, but the glare of the eye and curl of the tail manifesting that its gentleness was temporary.

‘It may be the grander animal,’ muttered he; ‘but less satisfactory for domestic purposes.’

‘What did you say?’ 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 affection, 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 back to talk to Annette, till it ended in his promising to come to-morrow, to take them to the Ellesmere gallery.

‘That’s the right style of woman,’ soliloquized Percy, as he saw the carriage drive off. ‘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 retouching her copy of her nephew’s likeness, though Violet 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 Violet entered, and Annette had to hurry away for her bonnet. Percy stood looking at the drawing.

‘So, Johnnie has a new admirer,’ he said. Violet 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 will, 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.’

Violet raised her eyes pleadingly, and said, in a low, mournful tone: ‘I do not like to hear you speak so bitterly.’

‘No,’ 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 see that it was an egregious error to think that she could be led.’

He spoke quietly, but Violet could not divest herself of the impression that there was more acute personal feeling than he was aware of. In the Ellesmere gallery, 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 gilding the backs of the cows, while the placid old couple look on at the milking, the hooded lady shading her face with her fan.

‘There’s my notion of felicity,’ said he.

‘Rather 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! They can marry at once! 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 his 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 her family’s perfections; John would rejoice in whatever was 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 opportunity of beginning the subject. ‘We used to expect a closer connection 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 connection. He was engaged to Theodora.’

Violet was satisfied that the responding interjection 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! Oh! no one can know her without a sort of admiring love and pity.’

‘I do not understand. To me she seems inexcusable.’

‘No, 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:—

‘My Dear Mrs. Martindale,—Trust me. I have discovered 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. F.’

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 warmhearted note had made her wishes his earnest partisans, and all her pulses throbbed with the desire that Annette might decide in favour of him; but she thought it wrong to try to influence 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 Violet, and held it to her. ‘Oh, Violet! 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=VM, and VM=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, Violet!’

‘How exactly like him!’

‘How highly he does esteem you!’ 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! Violet, do tell me what to do.’

‘I don’t think any one can advise in a matter like this.’

‘Oh! don’t say so, Violet; you know the people, and I don’t. Pray say something.’

‘He is a most excellent, admirable person,’ said Violet, in an unmeaning tone.

‘Yes, I know that, but—’

‘Really, I think nothing but your own feeling should decide.’

‘Ah! you did not hesitate when you were asked!’ said Annette, sighing; and Violet at once blushed, smiled, and sighed, as she spoke her quick conscious ‘No, no!’

‘Such a romance cannot always be expected,’ said Annette, a little mournfully. ‘He is everything estimable, in spite of his oddness. But then, this affair—so recent! Violet’ (impatiently), ‘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 Violet, 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 Martindale! Now, Violet, will you not tell me what you think? Take pity on me.’

‘Annette,’ said Violet, 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 any one’s fault there might be worries and vexations—’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Annette, in a voice that reassured 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, Violet, 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 Violet. ‘I am afraid he will be vexed.’

‘And it is a great compliment, though that is to you. He takes me on trust from you.’

‘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, shrinking. ‘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 drooping. ‘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 thinking 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. Fotheringham?’

‘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 stern 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 until 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 notion of the marriage for expediency, and describing the 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. Fotheringham 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 “Polite 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 ordinary language did not befit the dignity of the occasion nor Matilda’s pupil; and Violet, as much overruled 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. Fotheringham,—I wish with all my 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!’ 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 affectation, 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.

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 intrust 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 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 the 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 learnt 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; but 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 here?’

Had she been displeasing him the whole time? She only breathed a faint ‘Yes.’

‘Is Fotheringham in town?’

‘No; 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. Martindale!’

‘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 girl!’ exclaimed Arthur, in indignant surprise. ‘But Percy! I could not have believed it. Why would she not have him?’

‘Chiefly from thinking it not right to accept him. I hope I 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! So soon, too!’

‘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 Worthbourne till old Sir Antony disinherits Percy. No more than he deserves!’

She might well be 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 complimented 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 Wrangerton. 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 her 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 unsatisfactory 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 fellowship 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, ‘Won’t you come?’ had made him smile, and say he was not so good as she, then sigh, and half promise, ‘Next time, when he had considered.’ 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.