CHAPTER 23

Arthur guessed rightly. Miss Gardner’s first leisure was spent in writing her tidings to Theodora.

It was on a strange state of mind that they fell. Theodora had gone abroad, softened and conscious of her faults, but her indomitable will boiling up at each attempt to conquer them; knowing that her fate hung in the balance, but helpless in the power of her own pride and temper. Miserable, and expecting to be more wretched, her outward demeanour, no longer checked by Violet, was more than ever harsh, capricious, and undutiful, especially under her present deprivation of the occupations that had hitherto been channels of kindly feeling.

She was less patient than formerly with her aunt, who was in truth more trying. Quickly gathering the state of affairs with regard to Lord St. Erme, she was very angry with Lord Martindale for not having consulted her, and at the same time caressed her great-niece beyond endurance. Besides, it was unbearable to hear sweet Violet scoffed at. Theodora spoke hastily in her defence; was laughed at for having been gained over; replied vehemently, and then repented of losing temper with one so aged and infirm. Her attention to Mrs. Nesbit had been one of her grounds of self-complacency; but this had now failed her—distance was the only means of keeping the peace and Theodora left her chiefly to her companion, Mrs. Garth, a hard-looking, military dame, who seemed so well able to take care of herself, that there was none of the compassion that had caused Theodora to relieve poor little Miss Piper.

It was not long before Lord St. Erme persuaded his aunt that her tour in Germany would not be complete without a visit to Baden-Baden. Mrs. Delaval and Lady Martindale immediately began to be as intimate as was possible with the latter. Theodora intended to stand aloof, and to be guarded and scornful; but Lady Lucy was such an engaging, affectionate, honest-hearted little thing, regarding Miss Martindale with all her brother’s enthusiastic devotion, and so grateful for the slightest notice, that it really was impossible to treat her with the requisite cold dignity.

And to admit Lady Lucy to her friendship was much the same thing as admitting the brother. ‘St. Erme’ was the one engrossing subject of the young girl’s thoughts and discourse, and it was soon plain that not a conversation passed but was reported to him. If Theodora expressed an opinion, ‘St. Erme’s’ remarks on it were certain to be brought to her the next day; if a liking or a wish, he was instantly taking measures for its gratification. She might try to keep him at a distance, but where was the use of it when, if his moustached self was safely poetizing in the Black Forest, his double in blue muslin was ever at her elbow?

By and by it was no longer a moustached self. The ornaments were shaved off, and she heartily wished them on again. What could be said when Lucy timidly begged to know how she liked the change in St. Erme’s face, and whether she shared her regrets for his dear little moustache? Alas! such a sacrifice gave him a claim, and she felt as if each departed hair was a mesh in the net to ensnare her liberty.

And what could she say when Lucy WOULD talk over his poems, and try to obtain her sympathy in the matter of that cruel review which had cut the poor little sister to the heart? It had been so sore a subject in London, that she could not then bear to speak of it, and now, treating it like a personal attack on his character, she told how ‘beautifully St. Erme bore it,’ and wanted Miss Martindale to say how unjust and shocking it was. Yet Miss Martindale actually, with a look incomprehensible to poor Lucy, declared that there was a great deal of truth in it.

However, in process of time, Lucy came back reporting that her brother thought so too, and that he had gathered many useful hints from it; but that he did not mean to attend to poetry so much, he thought it time to begin practical life; and she eagerly related his schemes for being useful and distinguishing himself.

It was not easy to help replying and commenting on, or laughing at, plans which showed complete ignorance of English life, and then Theodora found herself drawn into discussions with Lord St. Erme himself, who took her suggestions, and built his projects with a reference to her, as his understood directress and assistant; till she grew quite frightened at what she had let him take for granted, and treated him with a fresh fit of coldness and indifference, soon thawed by his sister. She could not make up her mind to the humiliating confession by which alone she could have dismissed him, and the dominion she should enjoy with him appeared more and more tempting as she learnt to know him better, and viewed him as a means of escape from her present life. If it had not been for recollections of Violet, she would have precipitated the step, in order to end her suspense, but that perfect trust that she would not accept him unless she could do so with a clear conscience always held her back.

It was at this juncture that, one day when walking with her father, there was a sudden stop at the sight of another elderly gentleman. ‘Ha! Hugh!’ ‘What, you here, Martindale!’ were mutually exclaimed, there was an ardent shaking of hands, and she found herself introduced to a cousin, whom she had not seen since she was a child.

He and her father had been like brothers in their boyhood, but the lines they had since taken had diverged far and wide. The hard-working clergyman had found himself out of his element in visits to Martindale, had discontinued them, and almost even his correspondence, so that Lord Martindale had heard nothing of his cousin since his wife’s death, two years ago, till now, when he met him on the promenade at Baden, sent abroad to recruit his worn-out health and eyesight.

All have either felt or beheld, how two such relations, on the verge of old age, meet and refresh themselves with looking back, beyond the tract of middle life, to the days shared together in youth! Lord Martindale had not looked so bright, nor talked and laughed so much for years, as over his boyish reminiscences, and his wanderings up and down the promenade with his cousin seemed as if nothing could terminate them.

Clergymen and school-loving young ladies have a natural affinity, and Theodora found a refuge from the Delavals and an opportunity for usefulness. She offered to read to Cousin Hugh, she talked over parish matters, and after relieving her mind with a conversation on the question of how much the march of intellect ought to penetrate into country schools, it was wonderful how much more equable and comfortable she became. The return to the true bent of her nature softened her on every side; and without the least attempt to show off, she was so free from the morose dignity with which she had treated her own family since going abroad, that Mr. Hugh Martindale could hardly believe the account of her strange ungovernable character, as it was laid before him by her father, in his wish for counsel.

He watched her anxiously, but made no attempt to force her confidence, and let her talk to him of books, school discipline, parish stories, and abstruse questions as much as she pleased, always replying in a practical, sobering tone, that told upon her, and soothed her almost like Violet’s mild influence, and to her great delight, she made him quite believe in Violet’s goodness, and wish to be acquainted with her.

But all the time, Lord St. Erme was treated as her acknowledged suitor. Perhaps Mr. Martindale thought it might be better if she were safely married; or, at any rate, only knowing her personally as a high-minded person of much serious thought, he believed her to be conscientiously waiting to overcome all doubts, and honoured her scruples: while it might be, that the desire for his good opinion bound Theodora the more to Lord St. Erme, for with all her sincerity, she could not bear the idea of his discovering the part she was playing, at the very time she was holding such conversations on serious subjects. The true history of her present conduct was that she could not endure to be known as the rejected and forsaken of Mr. Fotheringham, and thus, though outwardly tamer, she was more melancholy at heart, fast falling into a state of dull resignation; if such a name can be applied to mere endurance of the consequences of her own pride and self-will.

Now came Jane Gardner’s letter. Theodora read it through, then, with calm contempt, she tore it up, lighted a taper, and burnt it to ashes.

‘There, Jane!’ said she, as it shrivelled, black and crackling, ‘there is all the heed I take. Violet would no more allow me to be supplanted than Percy could be inconstant.’

Inconstant! Where was her right so to term him? Was he not released, not merely by the cold ‘Very well,’ which seemed to blister her lips in the remembrance, but by her whole subsequent course? That thought came like the stroke of a knife, and she stood motionless and stunned. Love of Percival Fotheringham was a part of herself! Certain from her confidence in Violet that Jane’s news was untrue, the only effect of hearing it was to reveal to her like a flash that her whole heart was his. He had loved her in spite of her faults. Suppose he should do so still! Her spirits leapt up at this glimpse of forfeited unattainable joy; but she beheld a forlorn hope. At least she would restore herself to a condition in which she might meet him without despairing shame. The impulse was given, and eager to obey it, while it still buoyed her above the dislike to self-abasement, she looked round for the speediest measure, caring little what it might be.

Her father was reading his letters in the next room, when, with flushed cheek, and voice striving for firmness, she stood before him, saying, ‘It is time to put an end to this. Will you let Lord St. Erme know that it cannot be!’

‘Now, Theodora!’ exclaimed the much-astonished Lord Martindale, ‘what is the meaning of this?’

‘It cannot be,’ repeated Theodora. ‘It must be put a stop to.’

‘What has happened! Have you heard anything to change your mind?’

‘My mind is not changed, but I cannot have this going on.’

‘How is this? You have been encouraging him all this time, letting him come here—’

‘I never asked him to come here,’ said Theodora, temper coming in, as usual.

‘Theodora! Theodora! did I not entreat you to tell me what you wished, when I first heard of this in London? Could I get a reasonable answer from you?’

Theodora was silent.

‘Do you know what the world thinks of young ladies who go on in this manner?’

‘Let it think as it may, I cannot accept him, and you must tell him so, papa—’

‘No, indeed. I will not be responsible for such usage! It must be your own doing,’ said Lord Martindale, thoroughly displeased. ‘I should be ashamed to look him in the face!’

Theodora turned to leave the room.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked her father.

‘I am going to write to Lord St. Erme.’

‘Come back, Theodora. I must know that you are not going to carry further this ill-usage of a most excellent man, more sincerely attached to you than you deserve. I insist on knowing what you intend to say to him.’

To insist was not the way to succeed with Theodora.

‘I do not exactly know,’ said she.

‘I wish I knew what to do with you!’ sighed Lord Martindale, in anger, grief, and perplexity. ‘You seem to think that people’s affections are made to serve for your vanity and sport, and when you have tormented them long enough, you cast them off!’

Theodora drew her head up higher, and swelled at the injustice. It was at that moment that Lord St. Erme entered the room. She went forward to meet him, and spoke at once. ‘I am glad you are here,’ said she, proudly pleased that her father should see her vindication from the charge of trifling. ‘You are come to hear what I had been desiring my father to tell you. I have used you very ill, and it is time to put a stop to it.’

Lord St. Erme looked from her to her father in wonder and dismay.

‘First understand,’ said Lord Martindale, ‘that this is no doing of mine; I am heartily grieved, but I will leave you. Perhaps you may prevail on this wilful girl—’

Theodora began a protest, and desired him to remain; but he would not, and she found herself alone with her bewildered lover.

‘What is this? what have I done?’ he began.

‘You have done nothing,’ said she. ‘It is all my own fault. The truth will be a cure for your regrets, and I owe you an explanation. I was engaged to one whom I had known from childhood, but we disputed—my temper was headstrong. He rejected me, and I thought I scorned him, and we parted. You came in my way while I was angry, before I knew that I can never lose my feelings towards him. I know I have seemed to trifle with you; but false shame hindered me from confessing how matters really stood. You ought to rejoice in being freed from such as I am.’

‘But with time!’ exclaimed Lord St. Erme, in broken words. ‘May I not hope that time and earnest endeavours—?’

‘Hope nothing,’ said Theodora. ‘Every one would tell you you have had a happy escape.’

‘And is this all? My inspiration!—you who were awakening me to a sense of the greatness of real life—you who would have led me and aided me to a nobler course—’

‘That is open to you, without the evils I should have entailed on you. I could never have returned your feelings, and it would have been misery for both. You will see it, when you come to your senses, and rejoice.’

‘Rejoice! If you knew how the thought of you is entwined in every aspiration, and for life!’

‘Do not talk so,’ said Theodora. ‘It only grieves me to see the pain I have given; but it would be worse not to break off at once.’

‘Must it be so?’ said he, lingering before his fleeting vision.

‘It must. The kindest thing by both of us is to cut this as short as possible.’

‘In that, as in all else, I obey. I know that a vain loiterer, like myself, had little right to hope for notice from one whose mind was bent on the noblest tasks of mankind. You have opened new views to me, and I had dared to hope you would guide me in them; but with you or without you, my life shall be spent in them.’

‘That will be some consolation for the way I have treated you,’ said Theodora.

His face lighted up. ‘My better angel!’ he said, ‘I will be content to toil as the knights of old, hopelessly, save that if you hear of me no longer as the idle amateur, but as exerting myself for something serviceable, you will know it is for your sake.’

‘It had better be for something else,’ said Theodora, impatiently. ‘Do not think of me, nor delude yourself with imagining you can win me by any probation.’

‘I may earn your approval—’

‘You will earn every one’s,’ she interrupted. ‘Put mine out of your head. Think of life and duty, and their reward, as they really are, and they will inspirit you better than any empty dream of me.’

‘It is vain to tell me so!’ said the Earl, looking at her glancing eye and earnest countenance. ‘You will ever seem to beckon me forwards.’

‘Something better will beckon you by and by, if you will only begin. Life is horrid work—only endurable by looking after other people, and so you will find it. Now, let us have done with this. Wish your sister good-bye for me, and tell her that I beg her to forgive me for the pain I have given you. I am glad you have her. She will make you happy—I have only tormented those I loved best; so you are better off with her. Good-bye. Shake hands, to show that you forgive me.’

‘I will not harass you by pertinacity,’ said poor Lord St. Erme, submissively. ‘It has been a happy dream while I was bold enough to indulge in it. Farewell to it, though not, I trust, to its effects.’

Lingering as he held her hand, he let it go; then, returning to the grasp, bent and kissed it, turned away, as if alarmed at his own presumption, and hastened from the room.

She flung herself into her father’s chair to consider of seeing Lady Lucy, of writing to Violet, of breaking the tidings to her aunt, of speaking to her Cousin Hugh; but no connected reflection could be summoned up—nothing but visions of an Athenian owl, and green cotton umbrella. At length the sound of the opening door made her start up.

‘Have I interrupted you?’ asked her cousin. ‘I thought I should find your father here.’

‘I do not know where he is,’ said Theodora. ‘Can I do anything for you? Oh! I beg your pardon; I had forgotten it was time to read to you.’

‘You know I always hoped that you would not make it a burden.’

‘If you knew the relief it is to be of any sort of use,’ returned she, hastily setting his chair, and fetching the books.

Perhaps her attention wandered while she read, for they had hardly finished before she looked up and said, ‘That always puts me in mind of Arthur’s wife. The ornament of a meek and quiet spirit is so entirely her adorning—her beauty only an accessory.’

‘Yes; I wish I knew her,’ said Mr. Martindale.

‘Oh! how I wish she was here!’ sighed Theodora.

‘For any special reason?’

‘Yes; I want her to soften and help me. She seems to draw and smooth away the evil, and to keep me from myself. Nothing is so dreary where she is.’

‘I should not have expected to hear you, at your age, and with your prospects, talk of dreariness.’

‘That is all over,’ said Theodora. ‘I have told him that it cannot be. I am glad, for one reason, that I shall not seem to deceive you any more. Has papa told you what he thinks my history!’

‘He has told me of your previous affair.’

‘I wonder what is his view?’

‘His view is one of deep regret; he thinks your tempers were incompatible.’

Theodora laughed. ‘He has a sort of termagant notion of me.’

‘I am afraid you do no justice to your father’s affection and anxiety.’

‘It is he who does me no justice,’ said Theodora.

‘Indeed, I do not think that can be your sister’s teaching,’ said Mr. Martindale.

‘I wish she was here!’ said Theodora, again. ‘But now you have heard my father’s story, you shall hear mine;’ and with tolerable fairness, she related the history of the last few months. The clergyman was much interested in the narrative of this high-toned mind,—‘like sweet bells jangled,’ and listened with earnest and sorrowful attention. There was comfort in the outpouring; and as she spoke, the better spirit so far prevailed, that she increasingly took more blame to herself, and threw less on others. She closed her confession by saying, ‘You see, I may well speak of dreariness.’

‘Of dreariness for the present,’ was the answer; ‘but of hope. You put me in mind of some vision which I have read of, where safety and peace were to be attained by bowing to the dust, to creep beneath a gateway, the entrance to the glorious place. You seem to me in the way of learning that lesson.’

‘I have bent to make the avowal I thought I never could have spoken,’ said Theodora.

‘And there is my hope of you. Now for the next step.’

‘The next! what is it?’

‘Thankfully and meekly to accept the consequences of these sad errors.’

‘You mean this lonely, unsatisfactory life?’

‘And this displeasure of your father.’

‘But, indeed, he misjudges me.’

‘Have you ever given him the means of forming a different judgment?’

‘He has seen all. If I am distrusted, I cannot descend to justify myself.’

‘I am disappointed in you, Theodora. Where is your humility?’

With these words Mr. Martindale quitted her. He had divined that her feelings would work more when left to themselves, than when pressed, and so it proved.

The witness within her spoke more clearly, and dislike and loathing of her proceedings during the last year grew more strongly upon her. The sense of her faults had been latent in her mind for months past, but the struggle of her external life had kept it down, until now it came forth with an overpowering force of grief and self-condemnation. It was not merely her sins against Mr. Fotheringham and Lord St. Erme that oppressed her, it was the perception of the wilful and rebellious life she had led, while making so high a profession.

Silently and sadly she wore through the rest of the day, unmolested by any remark from the rest of the family, but absorbed in her own thoughts, and the night passed in acute mental distress; with longings after Violet to soothe her, and to open to her hopes of the good and right way of peace.

With morning light came the recollection that, after all, Violet would rejoice in what she had just done. Violet would call it a step in the right direction; and she had promised her further help from above and within, when once she should have had patience to take the right move, even in darkness. ‘She told me, if I put my trust aright, and tried to act in obedience, I should find a guide!’

And, worn out and wearied with the tossings of her mind, Theodora resolved to have recourse to the kind clergyman who had listened to her confidence. Perhaps he was the guide who would aid her to conquer the serpents that had worked her so much misery; and, after so much self-will, she felt that there would be rest in submitting to direction.

She sought him out, and joined his early walk.

‘Help me,’ she said; ‘I repent, indeed I do. Teach me to begin afresh, and to be what I ought. I would do anything.’

‘Anything that is not required of you, Theodora, or anything that is?’

‘Whatever you or Violet required of me,’ said she, ‘that I would do readily and gladly, cost me what it might.’

‘It is not for me to require anything,’ said Mr. Martindale. ‘What I advise you is to test the sincerity of your repentance by humbling yourself to ask your father’s forgiveness.’

He watched her face anxiously, for his hopes of her almost might be said to depend upon this. It was one of those efforts which she made with apparent calmness. ‘You and Violet ask the same thing,’ she said; ‘I will.’

‘I am glad to hear you say this. I could not think you going on right while you denied him the full explanation of your conduct.’

‘Did you mean that I should tell him all?’ exclaimed Theodora.

‘It would be a great relief to his mind. Few fathers would have left you such complete liberty of action, consented to your engagement, and then acted so kindly and cautiously in not forcing on you this, for which he had begun to wish ardently. You have grieved him extremely, and you owe it to him to show that this has not all been caprice.’

I have promised,’ repeated Theodora.

‘Your second effort,’ said Mr. Martindale, encouragingly. They were nearly opposite an hotel, where a carriage was being packed. Theodora turned, he understood her, and they walked back; but before they could quit the main road, the travellers rolled past them. Lord St. Erme bowed. Theodora did not look up; but when past asked if any one was with him.

‘Yes; his sister.’

‘I am glad of it,’ said Theodora. ‘She is an excellent little thing, the very reverse of me.’

Without failure of resolution, Theodora returned to breakfast, her mind made up to the effort, which was more considerable than can be appreciated, without remembering her distaste to all that bore the semblance of authority, and the species of proud reserve that had prevented her from avowing to her father her sentiments respecting Mr. Fotheringham, even in the first days of their engagement; and she was honest enough to feel that the manner, as well as the subject of conversation, must show the sincerity of her change. She would not let herself be affronted into perverseness or sullenness, but would try to imagine Violet looking on; and with this determination she lingered in the breakfast-room after her mother and cousin had left it.

‘Papa,’ said she, as he was leaving the room, ‘will you listen to me?’

‘What now, Theodora?’ said poor Lord Martindale, expecting some of those fresh perplexities that made him feel the whole family to blame.

It was not encouraging, but she had made up her mind. ‘I have behaved very ill about all this, papa; I want you to forgive me.’

He came nearer to her, and studied her face, in dread lest there should be something behind. ‘I am always ready to forgive and listen to you,’ he said sadly.

She perceived that she had, indeed, given him much pain, and was softened, and anxious for him to be comforted by seeing that her fault, at least, was not the vanity and heartlessness that he supposed.

‘It was very wrong of me to answer you as I did yesterday,’ she said. ‘I know it was my own fault that Lord St. Erme was allowed to follow us.’

‘And why did you consent!’

‘I don’t know. Yes, I do, though; but that makes it worse. It was because my perverse temper was vexed at your warning me,’ said Theodora, looking down, much ashamed.

‘Then you never meant to accept him!’ exclaimed her father.

‘No, not exactly that; I thought I might,’ said she, slowly, and with difficulty.

‘Then what has produced this alteration?’

‘I will tell you,’ said she, recalling her resolution. ‘I did not know how much I cared for Percy Fotheringham. Yesterday there came a foolish report about his forming another attachment. I know it was not true; but the misery it gave me showed me that it would be sin and madness to engage myself to another.’

Lord Martindale breathed more freely. ‘Forgive me for putting the question, it is a strange one to ask now: were you really attached to Percy Fotheringham?’

‘With my whole heart,’ answered Theodora, deliberately.

‘Then why, or how—’

‘Because my pride and stubbornness were beyond what any man could bear,’ she answered. ‘He did quite right: it would not have been manly to submit to my conduct. I did not know how bad it was till afterwards, nor how impossible it is that my feelings towards him should cease.’

‘And this is the true history of your treatment of Lord St. Erme!’

‘Yes. He came at an unlucky moment of anger, when Violet was ill, and could not breathe her saving influence over me, and I fancied—It was very wrong, and I was ashamed to confess what I have told you now.’

‘Have you given him this explanation?’

‘I have.’

‘Well, I am better satisfied. He is a most generous person, and told me he had no reason to complain of you.’

‘Yes, he has a noble character. I am very sorry for the manner in which I have treated him, but there was nothing to be done but to put an end to it. I wish I had never begun it.’

‘I wish so too!’ said Lord Martindale. ‘He is grievously disappointed, and bears it with such generous admiration of you and such humility on his own part, that it went to my heart to talk to him, especially while feeling myself a party to using him so ill.’

‘He is much too good for me,’ said Theodora, ‘but I could not accept him while I contrasted him with what I have thrown away. I can only repent of having behaved so badly.’

‘Well! after all, I am glad to hear you speak in this manner,’ said her father.

‘I know I have been much to blame,’ said Theodora, still with her head bent down and half turned away. ‘Ever since I was a child, I have been undutiful and rebellious. Being with Violet has gradually brought me to a sense of it. I do wish to make a fresh beginning, and to ask you to forgive and bear with me.’

‘My dear child!’ And Lord Martindale stepped to her side, took her hand, and kissed her.

No more was needed to bring the drops that had long been swelling in her eyes; she laid her head on his shoulder, and felt how much she had hitherto lost by the perverseness that had made her choose to believe her father cold and unjust.

There was another trial for the day. The departure of Lord St. Erme and his sister revealed the state of affairs to the rest of the world; Mrs. Delaval came to make Lady Martindale a parting visit, and to lament over their disappointment, telling how well Lord St. Erme bore it, and how she had unwillingly consented to his taking his sister with him to comfort him at that dull old place, Wrangerton.

Lady Martindale, as usual, took it very quietly. She never put herself into collision with her daughter, and did not seem to care about her freaks otherwise than as they affected her aunt. Mrs. Nesbit, who had thought herself on the point of the accomplishment of her favourite designs, was beyond measure vexed and incensed. She would not be satisfied without seeing Theodora, reproaching her, and insisting on hearing the grounds of her unreasonable conduct.

Theodora was silent.

Was it as her mother reported, but as Mrs. Nesbit would not believe, that she had so little spirit as to be still pining after that domineering, presuming man, who had thrown her off after she had condescended to accept him?

‘I glory in saying it is for his sake,’ replied Theodora.

Mrs. Nesbit wearied herself with invectives against the Fotheringhams as the bane of the family, and assured Theodora that it was time to lay aside folly; her rank and beauty would not avail, and she would never be married.

‘I do not mean to marry,’ said Theodora.

‘Then remember this. You may think it very well to be Miss Martindale, with everything you can desire; but how shall you like it when your father dies, and you have to turn out and live on your own paltry five thousand pounds! for not a farthing of mine shall come to you unless I see you married as I desire.’

‘I can do without it, thank you,’ said Theodora.

Mrs. Nesbit burst into a passion of tears at the ingratitude of her nephews and nieces. Weeping was so unusual with her that Lady Martindale was much terrified, sent Theodora away and did her utmost to soothe and caress her; but her strength and spirits were broken, and that night she had another stroke. She was not in actual danger, but was a long time in recovering even sufficiently to be moved to England; and during this period Theodora had little occupation, except companionship to her father, and the attempt to reduce her temper and tame her self-will. Mr. Hugh Martindale went to take possession of the living of Brogden, and she remained a prisoner at Baden, striving to view the weariness and enforced uselessness of her life, as he had taught her, in the light of salutary chastisement and discipline.

PART III

CHAPTER 1

The avenue of Martindale budded with tender green, and in it walked Theodora, watching for the arrival of the sister-in-law, scarcely seen for nearly four years.

Theodora’s dress was of the same rigid simplicity as of old, her figure as upright, her countenance as noble, but a change had passed over her; her bearing was less haughty; her step, still vigorous and firm, had lost its wilfulness, the proud expression of lip had altered to one of thought and sadness, and her eyes had become softer and more melancholy. She leaned against the tree where the curate had brought her the first tidings of Arthur’s marriage, and she sighed, but not as erst with jealousy and repining.

There was, indeed, an alteration—its beginning may not be traced, for the seed had been sown almost at her birth, and though little fostered, had never ceased to spring. The first visible shoot had been drawn forth by Helen Fotheringham; but the growth, though rapid, had been one-sided; the branches, like those of a tree in a sea-wind, all one way, blown aside by gusts of passion and self-will. In its next stage, the attempt to lop and force them back had rendered them more crooked and knotty, till the enterprise had been abandoned as vain. But there was a soft hand that had caressed the rugged boughs, softened them with the dews of gratitude and affection, fanned them with gales from heaven, and gently turned them to seek training and culture, till the most gnarled and hardened had learnt patiently to endure the straightening hand and pruning knife.

Under such tranquil uneventful discipline, Theodora had spent the last four years, working with all her might at her labours in the parish, under Mr. Hugh Martindale, and what was a far more real effort, patiently submitting when family duties thwarted her best intentions. Parish work was her solace, in a somewhat weary life, isolated from intimate companionship.

She had, indeed, Mr. Hugh Martindale for a guide and adviser, and to her father she was a valuable assistant and companion; but her mother was more than ever engrossed by the care of Mrs. Nesbit; her eldest brother was still in the West Indies and Arthur only seen in fleeting visits, so short that it had never been convenient for his family to accompany him, nor had Theodora even been spared to attend Violet, when a little girl, now nearly two years old, had been added to her nursery.

Letters ill supplied the lack of personal intercourse: Theodora did not write with ease, and Violet could not pour herself out without reciprocity; so that though there was a correspondence, it languished, and their intimacy seemed to be standing still. Another great and heavy care to Theodora was a mistrust of Arthur’s proceedings. She heard of him on the turf, she knew that he kept racers; neither his looks nor talk were satisfactory; there were various tokens of extravagance; and Lord Martindale never went to London without bringing back some uncomfortable report.

Very anxious and sad at heart, she hoped to be better satisfied by judging for herself; and after long wearying for a meeting, her wishes were at length in the way of fulfilment—Arthur’s long leave was to be spent at home.

The carriage turned in at the lodge gates. She looked up—how differently from the would-be careless air with which she had once watched! But there was disappointment—she saw no brother! In a moment Violet had descended from the carriage, and warmly returned her embrace; and she was kissing the little shy faces that looked up to her, as all got out to walk up the avenue.

‘But where is Arthur?’

‘He is soon coming,’ said the soft sweet voice. ‘He would not let us wait for him.’

‘What! Has he not got his leave?’

‘Yes; but he is going to stay with some of his friends. Mr. Herries came yesterday and insisted.’

Theodora thought there was a mournful intonation, and looked anxiously at her face. The form and expression were lovely as ever; but the bright colouring had entirely faded, the cheeks were thin, and the pensive gentleness almost mournful. A careworn look was round the eyes and mouth, even while she smiled, as Theodora gave a second and more particular greeting to the children.

Johnnie was so little changed that she exclaimed at finding the same baby face. His little delicate features and pure fair skin were as white as ever; for not a spring had gone by without his falling under the grasp of his old enemy the croup; and his small slight frame was the more slender from his recent encounter with it. But he was now a very pretty boy, his curls of silken flax fringing his face under his broad-leafed black hat, and contrasting with his soft dark eyes, their gentle and intelligent expression showing, indeed, what a friend and companion he was to his mother; and it was with a shy smile, exactly like hers, that he received his aunt’s notice.

‘And Helen, my godchild, I have not looked at her! Where are you?’

But the tread of country turf seemed to have put wildness into little Helen. She had darted off, and hidden behind a tree, peeping out with saucy laughter flashing in her glorious black eyes, and dimpling in the plump roseate cheeks round which floated thick glossy curls of rich dark chestnut. Theodora flew to catch her; but she scampered round another tree, shouting with fun, till she was seized and pressed fast in her aunt’s arms and called a mischievous puss, while Theodora exulted in the splendour of her childish beauty, exuberant with health and spirits. The moment she was released, with another outcry of glee, she dashed off to renew the frolic, with the ecstasy of a young fawn, while the round fat-faced Annie tumbled after her like a little ball, and their aunt entered into the spirit of the romp, and pursued them with blitheness for the moment like their own. Johnnie, recovering his mamma’s hand, walked soberly beside her, and when invited to join in the sport, looked as if he implored to be excused. Violet, rather anxiously, called them to order as they came near the house, consigned Annie to Sarah, and herself took Helen’s hand, observing, gravely, that they must be very good.

‘One thing,’ she half-whispered; ‘I once had a hint from Miss Piper that Mrs. Nesbit did not like Lady Martindale to be called grandmamma. What do you think?’

‘What nonsense! Mamma ought to be proud of her grandchildren, and my aunt will probably never see them or hear them at all. She never comes out of the room.’

‘Indeed! Is she so much more infirm?’

‘Yes, very much aged. Her mind has never been quite itself since the last stroke, though I can hardly tell the difference, but I think it has softened her.’

‘I suppose Lady Martindale is very much with her!’

‘Almost always. She seems to cling to our presence, and I am never quite secure that Mrs. Garth does not domineer over her in our absence, but with all my watching I cannot discover. My aunt says nothing against her, but I sometimes fancy she is afraid of her.’

‘Poor Mrs. Nesbit. She must be altered indeed!’

‘She is altered, but I never am clear how far it is any real change, or only weakness. One comfort is, that she seems rather to like Cousin Hugh’s coming to read to her twice a week. How he will delight in these creatures of yours.’

‘Ah! we know him,’ said Violet. ‘You know he comes to us if he is in London. How pleasant it must be for you.’

‘Ah, very unlike the days when poor Mr. Wingfield used to come to ask me how to manage the parish,’ said Theodora, between a laugh and a sigh. ‘When did you hear from John?’

‘His godson had a letter from him on his birthday.’

‘O, Johnnie! that was an honour! Could you write and answer him?’

‘Mamma helped me,’ whispered the boy, while eyes and mouth lengthened into a bright blushing smile.

‘Steady, Helen, my child! Quiet!’ exclaimed Violet, as the little girl’s delight grew beyond bounds at the sight of the peacock sunning himself on the sphinx’s head, and Johnnie was charmed with the flowers in the parterre; and with ‘look but not touch’ cautions, the two were trusted to walk together hand-in-hand through the gravelled paths.

‘The spirits will break out in little skips!’ said Theodora, watching Helen. ‘She preserves her right to be called a splendid specimen! What a pair they are!’

‘Poor Helen! I shall be in dread of an outbreak all the time we are here,’ said Violet; ‘but she means to be good, and every one cannot be like Johnnie.’

‘Ah! Johnnie one speaks of with respect.’

‘I don’t know what I should do but for him,’ said Violet, with her sad smile; ‘he is so entirely my companion, and I suppose he seems more forward in mind from being so much in the drawing-room.’

‘Well! he is come to a time of life to merit his papa’s notice.’

‘More than the rest,’ said Violet; ‘but unluckily he is a little bit of a coward, and is afraid when papa plays with him. We make resolutions, but I really believe it is a matter of nerves, and that poor Johnnie cannot help it.’

‘What! Arthur is rough and teasing?’

‘He does not understand this sort of timidity; he is afraid of Johnnie’s not being manly; but I believe that would come if his health would but be stronger. It is very unlucky,’ said Violet, ‘for it vexes papa, and I think it hurts Johnnie, though I am always forced to blame him for being so silly. One comfort is, that it does not in the least interfere with Johnnie’s affection—he admires him almost as he used when he was a baby.’

They were at the foot of the steps, where Charles Layton, now a brisk page, was helping to unpack the carriage, more intelligently than many a youth with the full aid of his senses.

Lord Martindale met them with his grave kind welcome, which awed even Helen into quiet and decorum, though perhaps, from the corners of her eyes, she was spying the Scagliola columns as places for hide-and-seek. She opened them to their roundest extent as her grandmamma came down-stairs, and she tried to take shelter behind her brother from the ceremonious kiss, while Johnnie tightly squeezed his aunt’s hand, and Lady Martindale was quite as much afraid of them as they could be of her.

So began the visit—a very different one from any Violet had hitherto paid at Martindale. Theodora’s room was now her chief resort in the morning, and there Johnnie went through his lessons with almost too precocious ease and delight, and Helen was daily conquered over Mrs. Barbauld. There they were sure to be welcome, though they were seldom seen downstairs. Johnnie used to appear in the space before dinner, very demure and well-behaved, and there seemed to be a fellow-feeling arising between him and his grandfather, who would take possession of him if he met him out-of-doors, and conduct him to any sight suited to his capacity; but who was so much distressed at his forwardness in intellect and his backwardness in strength, that Violet hardly dared to hold a conversation about him for fear of a remonstrance on letting him touch a book.

One day Mrs. Nesbit suddenly said to Theodora, ‘Arthur’s wife and children are here, are not they?’

‘Yes; Violet would have come to see you, but we doubted if you were equal to it.’

‘I have nothing to say to Mr. Moss’s daughter, but bring that eldest boy here, I want to see him.’

Theodora stepped out into the gallery, where Johnnie was often to be found curled up in the end window, poring over and singing to himself the “White Doe of Rylstone”, which he had found among his uncle’s books.

She led him in, exhorting him not to be shy, and to speak out boldly in answer to Aunt Nesbit; but perhaps this only frightened him more. Very quiet and silent, he stood under his aunt’s wing with eyes cast down, answering with a trembling effort the questions asked in that sharp searching tone.

‘His mother all over!’ she said, motioning him away; but, the next day, she sent for him again. Poor Johnnie did not like it at all; he could hardly help shuddering at her touch, and at night begged his mamma not to send him to Aunt Nesbit; for he could not bear it without her. She had to represent that Aunt Nesbit was old and ill, and that it would be unkind not to go to her: but then came the difficult question, ‘Why don’t you go, mamma?’ However, when his compassionate feelings were aroused, he bore it better; and though he never got beyond standing silently by her chair for ten minutes, replying when spoken to, and once or twice reading a few sentences, or repeating some verses, when Theodora thought it would please her, it was evident that his visit had become the chief event of her day. One day she gave him a sovereign, and asked what he would do with it. He blushed and hesitated, and she suggested, ‘Keep it, that will be the wisest.’

‘No,’ came with an effort, and an imploring glance at Aunt Theodora.

‘Well, then, what? Speak out like a man!’ Still reluctant, but it was brought out at last: ‘Cousin Hugh told us about the poor sick Irish children that have no potatoes. May I give it to him to send them?’

‘Never mind the Irish children. This is for yourself.’

‘Myself?’ Johnnie looked up, bewildered, but with a sudden thought, ‘Oh! I know, Aunt Theodora, won’t it buy that pretty work-basket to give mamma on her birthday? She said she could not afford it. And Helen wanted the great donkey in the shop-window. Oh! I can get Helen the great donkey; thank you, Aunt Nesbit!’

The next day Aunt Nesbit received Johnnie by giving him five sovereigns to take to Cousin Hugh for the Irish, desiring him to say it was his own gift; and while Johnnie scrupulously explained that he should say that she gave it to him to give, she began to instruct him that he would be a rich man by and by, and must make a handsome and yet careful use of his money. ‘Shall I?’ said Johnnie, looking up, puzzled, at his younger aunt.

‘Yes, that you will,’ replied Mrs. Nesbit. ‘What shall you do then?’

‘Oh! then I shall buy mamma and my sisters everything they want, and mamma shall go out in the carriage every day.

‘She can do that now,’ said Theodora, who had expected less commonplace visions from her nephew.

‘No,’ said Johnnie, ‘we have not got the carriage now. I mean, we have no horses that will draw it.’

It was another of those revelations that made Theodora uneasy; one of those indications that Arthur allowed his wife to pinch herself, while he pursued a course of self-indulgence. She never went out in the evening, it appeared, and he was hardly ever at home; her dress, though graceful and suitable, had lost that air of research and choiceness that it had when everything was his gift, or worn to please his eye; and as day after day passed on without bringing him, Theodora perceived that the delay was no such extraordinary event as to alarm her; she was evidently grieved, but it was nothing new. It was too plain that Arthur gave her little of his company, and his children none of his attention, and that her calmness was the serenity of patience, not of happiness.

This was all by chance betrayed; she spoke not of herself, and the nightly talks between the two sisters were chiefly of the children. Not till more than a week had passed to renew their intimacy, did Theodora advert to any subject connected with the events of her memorable stay in London, and then she began by asking, ‘What did I overhear you telling papa about Lord St. Erme?’

‘I was speaking of his doings at Wrangerton.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Oh! they are admirable. You know he went there with that good little Lady Lucy, and they set to work at once, doing everything for the parish—’

‘Do your sisters know Lady Lucy?’

‘Very little; it is only formal visiting now and then. She leads a very retired life, and they know her best from meeting her at the schools and cottages.’

‘Good little girl! I knew there was something in her!’

‘She is always with her brother, walking and riding and writing for him, carrying out all his views.’

‘I saw how he came forward about those poor colliery children. Such a speech, as that, was turning his talents to good account, and I am glad to hear it is not all speechifying.’

‘No, indeed, it is real self-denial. The first thing he did was to take his affairs into his own hands, so that my father has comparatively nothing to do with them. He found them in a bad state, which papa could not help, with him living abroad, and attending to nothing, only sending for money, whatever papa could say. So there was a great outlay wanted for church and schools for the collieries at Coalworth, and nothing to meet it, and that was the way he came to sell off all the statues and pictures.’

‘Did he? Well done, Lord St. Erme!’ cried Theodora. ‘That was something like a sacrifice.’

‘O yes! My sisters say they could have cried to see the cases go by the windows, and I cannot help grieving to think of those rooms being dismantled. I am glad they have kept the little Ghirlandajo, that is the only one remaining.’

‘I honour them,’ said Theodora.

‘And it was for the sake of such a set,’ proceeded Violet; ‘there is a bad Chartist spirit among those colliers, and they oppose him in every way; but he says it is his own fault for having neglected them so long, and goes on doing everything for them, though they are as surly and sullen as possible.

Theodora looked thoughtful. ‘Poor Lord St. Erme! Yes, he has found a crusade! I wish—! Well, I ought to be thankful that good has been brought out of evil. I deserved no such thing. Violet, I wish he would marry one of your sisters!’

‘O no, don’t wish that. I am glad there is no chance of it. Ranks had better not be confounded,’ said Violet, with a sad seriousness of manner.

‘You have just had a wedding in the family. A satisfactory one, I hope?’

‘Yes, I think so. Mamma and Annette like Mr. Hunt very much. They say there is such a straightforward goodness about him, that they are sure dear Olivia will be happy.’

‘Was there any difficulty about it!’

‘Why—Matilda and Albert seemed to think we should not think it grand enough,’ said Violet, half-smiling. ‘He is a sort of great farmer on his own estate, a most beautiful place. He is quite a gentleman in manners, and very well off, so that my father made no difficulty, and I am very glad of it. Olivia is the very person to enjoy that free country life.’ Violet sighed as if town life was oppressive.

‘To be sure! If one could be a farmer’s daughter without the pretension and vulgarity, what a life it would be! That was my favourite notion when I used to make schemes with poor Georgina Gardner. Do you ever hear what she is doing, Violet? They have quite left off writing to me.’

‘Last time I heard of them they were in Italy.’

‘Going on in the old way, I fear. Poor Georgina! she was sadly thrown away. But, at least, that Mark is not with them.’

‘O no,’ said Violet, sighing more deeply this time; ‘he is always about in London.’

‘Ah! you see more of him than you wish, I fear?’

‘I see very little of him. Arthur would not ask him to our house at Chichester for the Goodwood races, and it was such an escape!’

‘I am glad at least Arthur does not trouble you with him.’

Violet sat with her forehead resting on her hand, and there was a short space of thoughtful silence. It resulted in Theodora’s saying, in a sad, low, humble tone, her eyes looking straight into the red fire, ‘Do you ever hear of Mr. Fotheringham?’

‘I believe he is still at Paris,’ said Violet. ‘I only hear of him through John, who said he had been thinking of going to Italy. When he came through London, after Lady Fotheringham’s death, he left his card, but we were at Chichester. Have you seen that last article of his?’

‘What, that on modern novels? I was almost sure it was his, and yet I doubted. It was like and yet not like him.’

‘It was his,’ said Violet. ‘He always has his things sent to me. I am glad you observed the difference. I thought it so much kinder and less satirical than his writings used to be.’

‘It was so,’ exclaimed Theodora. ‘There were places where I said to myself, “This cannot be his; I know what he would have said,” and yet it was too forcible and sensible to have been written by any one else.’

‘The strength is there, but not the sort of triumph in sarcasm that sometimes made one sorry,’ said Violet; ‘and were you not struck by his choice of extracts! I have fancied a different strain in his writings of late.’

Theodora squeezed Violet’s hand. ‘I feared I had hardened him,’ she said. ‘Thank you, good night.’