Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife

CHAPTER 6

Violet experienced the trials to which she knew she was returning. For some time past her husband’s habits had been growing less and less domestic, and his disappointment alienated him still more. It was as if Mrs. Nesbit had left behind her a drop of poison, that perverted and envenomed the pride he used to take in his son, as heir to the family honours, and made him regard the poor child almost in the light of a rival, while he seemed to consider the others as burdens, and their number a hardship and misfortune.

He was so impatient of interruption from them, that Violet kept them carefully out of his way, while he was in the house, and this was seldom for a long space of time. All the fancied trials of the first year of her marriage seemed to have actually come upon her! She hardly saw him from morning to night, and when he did spend an evening at home, he was sullen and discontented, and found fault with everything. She was far from well, but his days of solicitude were gone by, and he was too much wrapped up in his own concerns to perceive her failure in strength, and the effort it cost her to be cheerful. The children were her great solace, but the toil of attending to them was almost beyond her powers, and if it had not been for her boy, she felt as if she must have been quite overwhelmed. Quiet, gentle, and thoughtful, he was a positive assistance in the care of his sisters; and to read with him, hear his remarks, watch his sweet obedience, and know herself the object of his earnest affection, was her chief enjoyment, though even here there was anxiety. His innocence and lovingness had something unearthly, and there was a precocious understanding, a grave serious turn of mind, and a want of childish mirth, which added to the fears caused by his fragile health. Play was not nearly so pleasant to him as to sit by her, reading or talking, or to act as her little messenger; and it was plain that he missed fondness from his father almost as much as she did for him. To be in the room with papa was his most earnest desire, and it saddened her to see that little slight figure silent in the corner, the open book on his lap, but his pale face, soft dark eyes, and parted lips, intent on every movement of his father, till the instant a want was expressed, or the least occasion for a service offered, there was a bound to execute it, and the inattentive indifferent ‘thank you’ was enough to summon up the rosy hue of delight. Would Arthur only have looked, how could he have helped being touched? But he continued neglectful and unheeding, while the child’s affection seemed to thrive the more under disregard.

Violet’s only satisfaction was in the absence of Mr. Gardner. She heard constantly from Lady Elizabeth Brandon; but there was little that was hopeful in that quarter. Emma’s heart was more entirely in the power of her suitor than even their fears had anticipated. She had kept so entirely aloof from gentlemen, and so suspiciously repelled the most ordinary attention, that when once she had permitted any intimacy the novelty gave it a double charm. He had come upon her at first as one bowed down with sorrow for the follies of his youth, seeking only for the means of repairing what was past, and professing that happiness was over, and all he could hope was to evidence the depth of his repentance by his devotion and self-sacrifice in the cause of the Church. Then, when at unawares he allowed it to be discovered by Theresa that the heart, supposed to be awake only to remorse, had been gained by the earnestness and excellence of her young friend, and that in her was the most powerful means of consoling and aiding him, when he seemed sunk in the depths of despair at having allowed his sentiments to transpire, and only too much humiliated by the idea of being named together with Miss Brandon, it was impossible but that Emma’s gentle and enthusiastic spirit should go more than half way to raise him from his despondency. She could not believe his errors so great, after all; or even if they were, who would not overlook them, and rejoice to have the power of comforting such a penitent? Theresa Marstone, with a woman’s latent love of romance, was prime confidante to both, encouraged all, and delighted in the prospect of being supreme in the Priory, and moulding the pattern household of the pair formed and united under her auspices.

In the midst of such a dream as this, what chance had Lady Elizabeth of convincing the friends that their penitent, scarcely persuaded to relinquish plans of a hermitage, was a spendthrift adventurer, seeking to repair his extravagance with the estates of Rickworth?

Emma shed indignant tears, and protested that it was cruel to bring up his past faults; talked of the Christian duty of forgiving the returning sinner; and when Lady Elizabeth showed that he had very recently been engaged in his usual courses, Theresa, with a sensible face and reasonable voice, argued that ordinary minds could not enter into the power of the Church’s work, and adduced many cases of equally sudden change of life.

She did not mention whether there was always the heiress of ten thousand a year ready as a reward.

The list of charges against Mark’s character deepened every day, and added to poor Lady Elizabeth’s horror, but he always contrived to render them as nothing to Emma. He had always confessed them beforehand, either to her or to Theresa, with strong professions of sorrow, and so softened and explained away, that they were ready to receive each fresh accusation as an exaggeration of a fault long past, and deeply regretted, and only admired their injured Mark the more. Lady Elizabeth wrote to beg Violet to give her the clue which she had said Arthur possessed to Mark’s actual present character.

In much distress Violet wrote the letter, mentioning some disgraceful transactions which she knew to have been taking place at the very time when the good curate believed his friend sincerely repentant. She had heard them, not from Arthur, but from Mrs Bryanstone, who always learnt from her brother every such piece of gossip, but still, after what had passed, and Lady Elizabeth’s appeal direct to Arthur, she thought it her duty to tell him before she sent the letter, and to ask if the facts were correct.

It was a most unpleasant duty; but Arthur was not in such a mood as when first she had mentioned the subject to him. He muttered something about the intense folly of a woman who could believe a word out of Gardner’s mouth; said if Emma desired to be made miserable for life she could not take a better way; wished he had never set eyes on the fellow, and then, grumbling at Violet’s begging him to read the letter, he cast his eye over it, and said it was all true, and there was worse, too, if Lady Elizabeth did but know it; but what this was he would not tell her. He made no objection to her sending the letter, saying he supposed it must be done, since she was asked; but it was all her doing, and Lady Elizabeth might have gone to some one else; and inconsistently ended with, ‘After all, what’s the use of making such an uproar about it? Such things have happened twenty times before, and will again.’

‘Not with my poor Emma, I hope. Imagine her with such a man as that!’

‘Well! there are plenty of such couples. I wonder what would become of the world if wives were not better than their husbands.’

Every rational person at Gothlands thought this letter conclusive; Emma herself was shaken; but a walk in the shrubbery with Mark settled it in her mind that his newly-formed wishes of amendment had then been weak—he had not then seen her, he had not learnt so much as at present. He had not been able to confess these deeds, because others, who had now spoken, were concerned in them; but now it was a relief to be able to tell all to his Emma! The end of it was, that Emma herself was almost ready to press forward the marriage, so as to give him the means of clearing himself from the debts, which, as he insinuated, were the true cause of Colonel Martindale’s accusations. He forgave him, however, though if all was known of his dealings with Arthur Martindale—! And then there was a long confidential talk with Theresa Marstone, after which she told Lady Elizabeth that, though Mr. Gardner spared Emma’s feelings with regard to her friend, there could be no doubt that Colonel Martindale had done much to lead him astray.

At last, as a dutiful concession, Emma resolved on a compromise, and put him on his probation for a year. This was particularly inconvenient to him, but he was very resigned and humble; ‘perhaps he had hoped more from her affection, but he knew it was his penalty, and must submit. If there was but some religious house to which he could retire for the intermediate space; for he dreaded the effect of being sent back to the world.’

Theresa was wrought upon to counsel haste; but Emma had principle at the bottom of her effervescence of folly, and was too right-minded, as well as too timid, to act in direct opposition to her mother, however she might be led to talk. Therefore they parted, with many tears on Emma’s part, and tender words and promises on Mark’s. Lady Elizabeth had little hope that he would not keep them; but she took advantage of the reprieve to conduct Emma to make visits amongst her relations—sober people, among whom sense was more likely to flourish, and among whom Mr. Gardner could never dare to show himself.

He went, as he told Emma, to seek for some continental convent, where perhaps he might be received as a boarder, and glean hints for the Priory. Ordinary minds believed that his creditors being suspicious of the delay of his marriage with the heiress, had contributed to this resolution.

He spent a few days in London on his way, came to call on Colonel Martindale, and was much with him, as Violet afterwards found, though she did not know of it at the time.

She perceived the renewal of his influence in a project of which Arthur began to talk, of leaving the army and establishing himself at Boulogne. Though by rigid economy and self-denial she had continued to make the original sum apportioned to her cover all household expenses, and his promotion had brought an increase of income, Arthur declared that, with such a family, his means were inadequate to the requirements of his profession, and that unless his father could assist them further, they must reside abroad. Lord Martindale treated the threat with great displeasure, and to Violet it was like annihilation. When thankful for Mark Gardner’s absence, she was to be made to pursue him, probably in order that he might continue to prey on Arthur in secret, and then, at the year’s end, bring them as witnesses that he had abstained from open transgression; she was to see her husband become the idling Englishman abroad, in the society most likely to be his ruin; to have her children exposed to the disadvantages of a foreign education—what more was wanting to her distress? She ventured to expostulate on their account; but Arthur laughed, and told her they would learn French for nothing; and when she spoke of the evils of bringing up a boy in France, it was with the look which pained her so acutely, that she was answered, ‘No fear but that he will be looked after: he is of consequence in the family.’

Never had the future looked so desolate; but sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. She had the root of peace and strength, and had long been trained in patient trust and endurance. To pray, to strive, to dwell on words of comfort, to bear in mind the blessings of the cross, to turn resolutely from gloomy contemplations, and to receive thankfully each present solace,—these were the tasks she set herself, and they bore the fruit of consolation and hidden support. Her boy’s affection and goodness, the beauty and high health of her little girls, and the kindlier moments when Arthur’s better nature shone out, were balm and refreshment, because she accepted them as gifts from the Fatherly Hand that laid the trial upon her.

Her submissive distress so far worked on Arthur, that she heard no more of the Boulogne scheme for the present, and she drove it out of her mind, grateful for his silence, whether it was only from consideration for her, or whether he had really relinquished the design, now that Mr. Gardner was no longer near to maintain his ascendancy.

The summer was dreary at Brogden, as well as in Cadogan-place. Theodora soon was able to call herself well, and to resume her usual avocations, but she had not the same sense of energy and strength of body, and her days were combats with inertness and fatigue. She did not slacken her exertions, but they had no zest, and she suffered for them. Moreover, she was uneasy about Arthur and his wife; and to partake her father’s confidence was to share his many anxieties, and to be perplexed by his cares as well as her own. With her mother there were other difficulties. Lady Martindale had been kept so far apart from her daughter, that now it seemed as if they could not amalgamate, and when Theodora no longer was ill, the old habit of reserve returned. Assiduously did Theodora wait on her, read to her, and go out with her in the carriage; but still without becoming familiar, or being able to cheer her spirits. In truth, after having been for years an obedient attendant on her aunt, Lady Martindale felt the blank of the want of occupation, and thus the sense of her loss was ever renewed. Science, literature, and accomplishments had been her pursuits, chiefly because her aunt led her to them, and they had been gradually dropped with Mrs. Nesbit’s interest in them. In themselves they had no charm for her, and she turned from them now as painfully recalling what she had lost. Dispirited, and without employment, the natural consequence was that her health suffered, and she became a prey to the varied torments of neuralgia, while Theodora proved herself a better nurse than could have been expected for an illness in which she only half believed.

Many hopes were fixed on John’s return; but this was deferred,—he was in the midst of church building, and establishing schemes to which absence would be fatal, and he could only promise to come home next year, when things should be put in train. To his sister he wrote a letter so full of warm affectionate gratitude for her exertions in his behalf, that she was positively soothed and refreshed, and reckoned the more on beginning with him the fraternal union so long delayed, but to which she looked as the solace of her future life.

As to Percival Fotheringham, there was no further explanation of his marriage. John wrote to Violet that he had not heard from him for many months, for it was difficult to keep up a correspondence between Barbuda and the continental towns whither he was journeying. His last letter had spoken of a tour in Italy in contemplation, and that in which he had communicated Lady Fotheringham’s death, mentioned some of her last cares being for Jane and Georgina, and how she had tried to leave some provision which might rescue the former from the necessity of following her sister into the undesirable society she found abroad. This only served to confirm Theodora’s conjecture.

From other sources no intelligence was gained. London was empty, and Violet saw no one likely to know anything of his movements; and when she heard that Mark Gardner had been in town, and eagerly inquired whether he had been asked, she found that Arthur had forgotten the whole matter. Lady Elizabeth finished the letter, rejoicing in his departure, by saying—‘He confirms what I told you of the marriage of his cousin and Mr. Fotheringham, and calls it a lucky thing for her. I had no opportunity of hearing the particulars.’ And, finally, Mrs. Bryanstone had heard of Miss Gardner’s marriage with one of the Fotheringhams of Worthbourne, and only wanted Mrs. Martindale to strengthen her in the belief that it was the dear, eccentric Crusader.

CHAPTER 7

‘Wrangerton, August 20th.

‘You must not be frightened, dearest Violet—Albert is safe; thanks to that most noble-hearted, admirable Lord St. Erme, and above all, thanks to Him who directed this dreadful stroke away from us. I hope you will receive this before you see the newspaper. Mamma has gone up with them, to help them to break it to poor Lady Lucy. May she be supported!

‘The history, as far as I can toll you, is this:—The men at the collieries have been as troublesome and insubordinate as ever, seeming to think opposition to Lord St. Erme an assertion of their rights as free-born Englishmen; and at last, finding it impossible to do anything with them as long as they did not depend immediately upon himself, he took the pits into his own hands when Mr. Shoreham went away, a fortnight ago. It seems that Mr. Shoreham, knowing that he was going, had let everything fall into a most neglected state, and the overlookers brought reports to Albert that there were hardly any safety-lamps used in the great pit, and that the galleries were so insufficiently supported that there was great danger in continuing to work there. However, the reports were contradictory, and after trying in vain to settle what was to be done, Lord St. Erme rode this morning to the collieries, to make a personal inspection, and insist on the men using the Davy-lamp. After trying to dissuade him, Albert proposed to go down with him; but he would not consent—he only smiled, and said there was no need for it. It did not strike Albert till afterwards that he was conscious of the risk, and would not allow another to share it! He was waiting for him, not far from the shaft, when the earth seemed to give way under his feet; there was a thundering sound, a great cry, and he fell. When he recovered his footing, the mouth of the shaft was gone, the scaffolding prostrate, the people around in horror and consternation. The pit had fallen in, and there were at least twenty men there, besides Lord St. Erme. Oh! how you will share that shuddering thankfulness and sorrow, that we felt, when Albert galloped up to the door and threw himself into the arm-chair, so unnerved by the shock that he could not at first speak. Happily his wife was here, so she heard all at once. He is gone with mamma and papa to tell the poor sister. Alas! though we think most of her, there are many other sufferers.

‘Three, o’clock.—Albert is come back. He says Lady Lucy met them in the hall, pale and trembling, as if she had already worked herself into an agony of fright. She begged them to tell her at once, and stood quite still, only now and then moaning to herself, “Oh, St. Erme! St. Erme!” Mamma took her by the hand, and tried to speak soothingly; but she did not seem to attend, and presently looked up, flushed and quivering, though she had been so still before, and declared that the whole might not have fallen; she had heard of people being dug out alive; they must begin at once, and she would go to the spot. There is no hope, Albert says; even if not crushed, they must have perished from the foul air, but the poor girl has caught fast hold of the idea, and insists on going to Coalworth at once to urge it on. They cannot prevent her, and mamma cannot bear that she should be alone, and means to go with her. The carriage was ordered when Albert came here! Poor thing, there was never fonder love between a brother and sister; she hardly had a thought that did not centre in him. It breaks my heart to think how often we have seen them walking arm-in-arm together, and said they might be taken for a pair of lovers.

‘Five o’clock.—Annette begs me to conclude her letter. My father has returned home, and fetched her to Coalworth, to be with my mother, and the poor young lady (already, I fear, Countess of St. Erme), who, he tells us, continues buoyed up by the delusion that her brother may yet be found alive, and is calling on all around to use the utmost exertions for his recovery. I regret that I cannot go in Annette’s stead; but I cannot leave home in mamma’s absence, as poor Louisa is much affected by Albert’s peril, and in so nervous a state that she will not hear of my quitting her for a moment. We have indeed received a lesson, that no rank, however exalted, can protect from the strokes of Providence, or the uncertainties of human life. But the postman calls. Adieu.

‘Your affectionate sister,

‘Matilda Moss.’

(The last moral sentiment, be it observed, readied Miss Martindale, rendered illegible by scrawls of ink from Violet’s hand.)

‘Coalworth, August 21st.

‘Dearest Violet,—Matilda told you how I was sent for to come here. They are working on,—relays relieving each other day and night; but no one but poor Lady Lucy thinks there is any hope. Mr. Alder, the engineer, says Lord St. Erme must have been in the farthest gallery, and they cannot reach it in less than a week, so that if the other perils should be escaped, there would be starvation. The real number lost is fourteen, besides Lord St. Erme. It was a strange scene when I arrived at about seven o’clock yesterday evening. The moor looking so quiet, and like itself, with the heath and furze glowing in the setting sun, as if they had no sympathy for us, till, when we came near the black heaps of coal, we saw the crowd standing round,—then getting into the midst, there was the great broken down piece of blackened soil and the black strong-armed men working away with that life-and-death earnestness. By the ruins of a shed that had been thrown down, there was a little group, Lady Lucy, looking so fair and delicate, so unlike everything around, standing by an old woman in a red cloak, whom she had placed in the chair that had been brought for herself, the mother of one of the other sufferers. Mamma and papa were with her; but nothing seems to comfort her so much as going from one to the other of the women and children in the same trouble with herself. She talks to them, and tries to get them to be hopeful, and nurses the babies, and especially makes much of the old woman. The younger ones look cheered when she tells them that history which she dwells on so much, and seem as if they must believe her, but the poor old dame has no hope, and tells her so. “‘Tis the will of God, my lady, don’t ye take on so now. It will be all one when we come to heaven, though I would have liked to have seen Willy again; but ‘tis the cross the Lord sends, so don’t ye take on,” and then Lady Lucy sits down on the ground, and looks up in her face, as if her plain words did her more good than anything we can say, or even the clergyman, who is constantly going from one to the other. Whenever the men come to work, or go away, tired out, Lady Lucy thanks them from the bottom of her heart; and a look at her serves to inspirit and force them on to wonderful exertions. But alas! what it must end in! We are at the house that was Mr. Shoreham’s, the nearest to the spot. It was hard work to get poor Lady Lucy to come in last night. She stood there till long after dark, when the stars were all out, and mamma could only get her away by telling her, that her brother would be vexed, and that, if she made herself ill, she would not be able to nurse him. She did not sleep all night, and this morning she was out again with daylight, and we were obliged to bring her out some breakfast, which she shared with the fellow-sufferers round her, and would have taken nothing herself if the old dame had not coaxed her, and petted her, calling her “My pretty lady,” and going back to her lecture on its being a sin to fret at His will. Mamma and I take turns to be with her. When I came in, she was sitting by the old woman, reading to her the Psalms, and the good old creature saying at the end of each, “Yes, yes, He knows what is good for them. Glory be to Him.”

‘Aug. 22nd.—As before. They have tried if they can open a way from the old shaft, but cannot do it with safety. Lady Lucy still the same, but paler and more worn, I think, less hopeful; I hope, more resigned.

‘Aug. 23rd.—Poor Lucy was really tired out, and slept for two whole hours in the heat of the noon, sitting on the ground by old Betty, fairly overpowered. It was a touching sight; the old woman watching her so sedulously, and all the rough people keeping such strict silence, and driving off all that could disturb her. The pitmen look at her with such compassionate reverence! The look and word she gives them are ten thousand times more to them, I am sure, than the high pay they get for every hour they work! Next Wednesday is the first day they can hope to come to anything. This waiting is dreadful. Would that I could call it suspense!

‘Aug. 24th, Sunday.—She has been to church this morning. I did not think she could, but at the sound of the bell, she looked up, and the old woman too, they seemed to understand each other without a word, and went together. The service was almost more than one could bear, but she was composed, except at the references in the sermon to our state of intense anxiety, and the need of submission. At the special mention in the Litany of those in danger, I heard from beneath her hands clasped over her face, that low moan of “O, brother, brother!” Still I think when the worst comes, she will bear it better and be supported.

‘Five o’clock.—THESE IS HOPE!—O Violet! We went to church again this afternoon. The way leads past the old shaft. As we came by it in returning, Lady Lucy stood still, and said she heard a sound. We could hear nothing, but one of the wives said, “Yes, some one was working, and calling down there.” I flew to the main shaft, and called Mr. Alder. He was incredulous, but Lady Lucy insisted. A man went down, and the sound was certain. No words can be made out. They are working to meet them. Lucy burst into tears, and threw her arms round my neck as soon as she heard this man’s report; but oh! thankful as we are, it is more cruel than ever not to know who is saved, and this letter must go to-night without waiting for more.

‘25th.—He is alive, they say, but whether he can rally is most uncertain. All night they worked on, not till six o’clock this morning was any possibility of communication opened. Then questions were asked, “How many were there?” “Fifteen, all living, but one much crushed.” Oh! the suspense, the heart-beating as those answers were sent up from the depths of the tomb—a living tomb indeed; and how Lady Lucy pressed the women’s hard hands, and shed her tears of joy with them. But there was a damp to her gladness. Next message was that Lord St. Erme bad fainted—they could not tell whether he lived—he could not hold out any longer! Then it was that she gave way, and indeed it was too agonizing, but the old woman seemed better able to calm her than we could. Terrible moments indeed! and in the midst there was sent up a folded paper that had been handed out at the small aperture on the point of a tool, when the poor things had first been able to see the lights of their rescuers. It was to Lady Lucy; her brother had written it on the leaf of a pocket-book, before their single lamp went out, and had given it in charge to one of the men when he found his strength failing. She was too dizzy and trembling to make out the pencil, and gave it to me to read to her. I hope I am not doing wrong, for I must tell you how beautiful and resigned a farewell it was. He said, in case this note ever came to her, she must not grieve at the manner of his death—it was a comfort to him to be taken, while trying to repair the negligence of earlier years; they were a brave determined set of men who were with him, and she must provide for their widows and children. There was much fond thought for her, and things to console her, and one sentence you must have—“If ever you meet with the “hoch-beseeltes Madchen”, let her know that her knight thanks and blesses her in his last hour for having roused him and sent him forth to the battlefield. I would rather be here now than what I was when she awoke me. Perhaps she will now be a friend and comforter to you.”

‘I think those were the words. I could not help writing them. Poor Lucy cried over the note, and we lowered down baskets of nourishment to be handed in, but we heard only of Lord St. Erme’s continued swoon, and it was a weary while before the opening could be widened enough to help the sufferers out. They were exhausted, and could work no more on their side. But for him, it seems they would have done nothing; he was the only one who kept his presence of mind when the crash came. One lamp was not extinguished, and he made them at once consider, while the light lasted, whether they could help themselves. One of the hewers knew that they were not far from this old shaft, and happily Lord St. Erme had a little compass hung to his watch, which he used to carry in his wanderings abroad; this decided the direction, and he set them to work, and encouraged them to persevere most manfully. He did not work himself—indeed, the close air oppressed him much more than it did the pitmen, and he had little hope for his own life, however it might end, but he sat the whole time, supporting the head of the man who was hurt, and keeping up the resolution of the others, putting them in mind of the only hope in their dire distress, and guiding them to prayer and repentance, such as might fit them for life or death. “He was more than ten preachers, and did more good than forty discourses,” said one man. But he had much less bodily strength than they, though more energy and fortitude, and he was scarcely sensible when the first hope of rescue came. It seemed as if he had just kept up to sustain them till then, and when they no longer depended on him for encouragement, he sank. The moment came at last. He was drawn up perfectly insensible, together with a great brawny-armed hewer, a vehement Chartist, and hitherto his great enemy, but who now held him in his arms like a baby, so tenderly and anxiously. As soon as he saw Lady Lucy, he called out, “Here he is, Miss, I hope ye’ll be able to bring him to. If all lords were like he now!” and then his wife had hold of him, quite beside herself with joy; but he shook her off with a sort of kind rudeness, and, exhausted as he was, would not hear of being helped to his home, till he had heard the doctors (who were all in waiting) say that Lord St. Erme was alive. Lady Lucy was hanging over him in a sort of agony of ecstasy, and yet of grief; but still she looked up, and put her little white hand into the collier’s big black one, and said, “Thank you,” and then he fairly burst out crying, and so his wife led him away. I saw Lord St. Erme for one moment, and never was anything more death-like, such ghastly white, except where grimed with coal-dust. They are in his room now, trying to restore animation. He has shown some degree of consciousness, and pressed his sister’s hand, but all power of swallowing seems to be gone, and the doctors are in great alarm. The others are doing well—the people come in swarms to the door to ask for him.

‘26th.—Comfort at last. He has been getting better all night, and this morning the doctors say all danger is over. Mamma says she can hardly keep from tears as she watches the happy placid looks of the brother and sister, as he lies there so pale and shadowy, and she hangs over him, as if she could never gaze at him enough. Several of the men, who were with him, came to inquire for him early this morning; none of them suffered half so much as he did. I went down to speak to them, and I am glad I did; it is beautiful to see how he has won all their hearts, and to hear their appreciation of his conduct. They say he tended the man who was hurt as if he had been his mother, and never uttered one word of complaint. “He told us,” said one man, “God could hear us out of the depth, as well as when we said our prayers in church; and whenever our hearts were failing us, there was his voice speaking somewhat good to cheer us up, or help us to mind that there was One who knew where we were, and would have a care for us and our wives and children.” “Bless him,” said another, “he has been the saving of our lives;” “Bless him;” and they touched their hats and said Amen. I wish his sister could have seen them!

‘Five o’clock.—Mrs. Delaval is come, and there is no room nor need for us, so we are going home. It is best, for mamma was nursing him all night, and is tired out. He has improved much in the course of the day, and they hope that he may soon be moved home. The pitmen want to carry him back on his mattress on their shoulders. He has made himself king of their hearts! He has been able to inquire after them, and Lady Lucy, who forgets no one, has been down-stairs to see the old Betty. “Ah! my pretty lady,” she said, “you are not sorry now that you tried to take the Lord’s Cross patiently, and now, you see, your sorrow is turned into joy.” And then Lady Lucy would not have it called patience, and said she had had no submission in her, and Betty answered her, “Ah! well, you are young yet, and He fits the burden to the shoulder.” How an adventure like this brings out the truth of every character, as one never would have known it otherwise. Who would have dreamt of that pattern of saintly resignation in the Coalworth heath, or that Lady Lucy Delaval would have found a poor old woman her truest and best comforter? and this without the least forwardness on the old woman’s part.

‘Just going! Lady Lucy so warm-hearted and grateful—and Lord St. Erme himself wished mamma good-bye in such a kind cordial manner, thanking her for all she had done for his sister. I am sorry to go, so as not to be in the way of seeing anything more of them, but it is time, for mamma is quite overcome. So I must close up this last letter from Coalworth, a far happier one than I thought to end with.

‘Your most affectionate,

A. M.

‘P. S.—Is he not a hero, equal to his “hoch-beseeltes Madchen”? I am ashamed of having written to you what was never meant for other eyes, but it will be safe with you. If you had seen how he used to waylay us, and ask for our tidings from you after the fire, you would see I cannot doubt who the “madchen” is. Is there no hope for him? The other affair was so long ago, and who could help longing to have such minstrel-love rewarded?’

That postscript did not go on to Brogden, though Annette’s betrayal of confidence had been suffered to meet the eye of the high-souled maiden.

The accounts of Lord St. Erme continued to improve, though his recovery was but slow. To talk the adventure over was a never-failing interest to Lady Martindale, who, though Theodora suppressed Annette’s quotation, was much of the opinion expressed in the postscript, and made some quiet lamentations that Theodora had rejected him.

‘No, we were not fit for each other,’ she answered.

‘You would not say so now,’ said Lady Martindale. ‘He has done things as great as yourself, my dear.’

‘I am fit for no one now,’ said Theodora, bluntly.

‘Ah, my dear!—But I don’t know why I should wish you to marry; I could never do without you.’

‘That’s the most sensible thing you have said yet, mamma.’

But Theodora wished herself less necessary at home, when, in a few weeks more, she had to gather that matters were going on well from the large round-hand note, with nursery spelling and folding, in which Johnnie announced that he had a little brother.

An interval of peace to Violet ensued. Arthur did not nurse her as in old times; but he was gentle and kind, and was the more with her as the cough, which had never been entirely removed, was renewed by a chill in the first cold of September. All went well till the babe was a week old, when Arthur suddenly announced his intention of asking for a fortnight’s leave, as he was obliged to go to Boulogne on business.

Here was a fresh thunderbolt. Violet guessed that Mr. Gardner was there, and was convinced that, whatever might be Arthur’s present designs, he would come back having taken a house at Boulogne. He answered her imploring look by telling her not to worry herself; he hoped to get ‘quit of the concern,’ and, at any rate, could not help going. She suggested that his cough would bear no liberties; he said, change of air would take it off, and scouted her entreaty that he would consult Mr. Harding. Another morning, a kind careless farewell, he was gone!

Poor Violet drew the coverlet over her head; her heart failed her, and she craved that her throbbing sinking weakness and feverish anxiety might bring her to her final rest. When she glanced over the future, her husband deteriorating, and his love closed up from her; her children led astray by evil influences of a foreign soil; Johnnie, perhaps, only saved by separation—Johnnie, her precious comforter; herself far from every friend, every support, without security of church ordinances—all looked so utterly wretched that, as her pulses beat, and every sensation of illness was aggravated, she almost rejoiced in the danger she felt approaching.

Nothing but her infant’s voice could have recalled her to a calmer mind, and brought back the sense that she was bound to earth by her children. She repented as of impatience and selfishness, called back her resolution, and sought for soothing. It came. She had taught herself the dominion over her mind in which she had once been so deficient. Vexing cares and restless imaginings were driven back by echoes of hymns and psalms and faithful promises, as she lay calm and resigned, in her weakness and solitude, and her babe slept tranquilly in her bosom, and Johnnie brought his books and histories of his sisters; and she could smile in thankfulness at their loveliness of to-day, only in prayer concerning herself for the morrow. She was content patiently to abide the Lord.

CHAPTER 8

‘He is done for. That wife of his may feel the consequence of meddling in other folk’s concerns. Not that I care for that now, there’s metal more attractive; but she has crossed me, and shall suffer for it.’ These short sentences met the ear of a broad-shouldered man in a rough coat, as, in elbowing his way through the crowd on the quay at Boulogne, he was detained for a moment behind two persons, whose very backs had all the aspect of the dissipated Englishman abroad. Struggling past, he gained a side view of the face of the speaker. It was one which he knew; but the vindictive glare in the sarcastic eyes positively made him start, as he heard the laugh of triumph and derision, in reply to some remark from the other.

‘Ay! and got enough to get off to Paris, where the old Finch has dropped off his perch at last. That was all I wanted of him, and it was time to wring him dry and have done with him. He will go off in consumption before the year is out—’

As he spoke, the stranger turned on him an honest English face, the lips compressed into an expression of the utmost contempt, while indignation flashed in the penetrating gray eyes, that looked on him steadily. His bold defiant gaze fell, quailing and scowling, he seemed to become small, shrink away, and disappeared.

‘When scamp number two looks round for scamp number one, he is lost in the crowd,’ muttered the traveller, half smiling; then, with a deep breath, ‘The hard-hearted rascal! If one could only wring his neck! Heaven help the victim! though, no doubt, pity is wasted on him.’

He ceased his reflections, to enter the steamer just starting for Folkestone, and was soon standing on deck, keeping guard over his luggage. The sound of a frequent cough attracted his attention, and, looking round, he saw a tall figure wrapped in great-coats leaning on the leeward side of the funnel.

‘Hollo! you here, Arthur! Where have you been?’

‘What, Percy? How d’ye do?’ replied a hoarse, languid voice.

‘Is Mrs. Martindale here?’

‘No.’ He was cut short by such violent cough that he was obliged to rest his forehead on his arm; then shivering, and complaining of the cold, he said he should go below, and moved away, rejecting Percy’s offered arm with some impatience.

The weather was beautiful, and Percy stood for some time watching the receding shore, and scanning, with his wonted keen gaze, the various countenances of the passengers. He took a book from his pocket, but did not read long; he looked out on the sea, and muttered to himself, ‘What folly now? Why won’t that name let one rest? Besides, he looked desperately ill; I must go and see if they have made him comfortable in that dog-hole below.’

Percy shook himself as if he was out of humour; and, with his hands in his pockets, and a sauntering step, entered the cabin. He found Arthur there alone, his head resting on his arms, and his frame shaken by the suppressed cough.

‘You seem to have a terrible cold. This is a bad time to be crossing. How long have you been abroad?’

‘Ten days.—How came you here?’

‘I am going to Worthbourne. How are all your folks!’

‘All well;’ and coughing again, he filled up a tumbler with spirits and water, and drank it off, while Percy exclaimed:

‘Are you running crazy, to be feeding such a cough in this way?’

‘The only thing to warm one,’ said he, shuddering from head to foot.

‘Yes, warm you properly into a nice little fever and inflammation. Why, what a hand you have! And your pulse! Here, lie down at once,’ as he formed a couch with the help of a wrapper and bag. Arthur passively accepted his care; but as the chill again crept through his veins, he stretched out his hand for the cordial.

‘I won’t have it done!’ thundered Percy. ‘I will not look on and see you killing yourself!’

‘I wish I could,’ murmured Arthur, letting his hand drop, as if unequal to contest the point.

The conviction suddenly flashed on Percy that he was the victim! ‘You have got yourself into a scrape’ he said.

‘Scrape! I tell you I am ruined! undone!’ exclaimed Arthur, rearing himself up, as he burst out into passionate imprecations on Mark Gardner, cut short by coughing.

‘You! with your wife and little children entirely depending on you! You have allowed that scoundrel, whose baseness you knew, to dupe you to your own destruction!’ said Percy, with slowness and severity.

Too ill and wretched to resent the reproach, Arthur sank his head with a heavy groan, that almost disarmed Percy; then looking up, with sparkling eyes, he exclaimed, ‘No! I did not know his baseness; I thought him a careless scape-grace, but not much worse than he has made me. I would as soon have believed myself capable of the treachery, the unfeeling revenge—’ Again he was unable to say more, and struggling for utterance, he stamped his foot against the floor, and groaned aloud with rage and pain.

Percy persuaded him to lie down again, and could not refrain from forcible expressions of indignation, as he recollected the sneering exultation of Gardner’s tone of triumph over one so open-hearted and confiding.

It was a moment when sympathy unlocked the heart, and shame was lost in the sense of injury. Nothing more was needed to call from Arthur the history of his wrongs, as well as he was able to tell it, eking out with his papers the incoherent sentences which he was unable to finish, so that Percy succeeded in collecting, from his broken narration, an idea of the state of affairs.

The horses, kept jointly at his expense and that of Gardner, had been the occasion of serious debts; and on Gardner’s leaving England, there had been a pressure on Colonel Martindale that rendered him anxious to free himself, even at the cost of his commission. Gardner, on the other hand, had, it appeared, been desirous to have him at Boulogne, perhaps, at first, merely as a means of subsistence during the year of probation, and on the failure of the first attempt at bringing him thither, had written to invite him, holding out as an inducement, that he was himself desirous of being disembarrassed, in order that Miss Brandon might find him clear of this entanglement, and representing that he had still property enough to clear off his portion of the liability.

With this view Arthur had gone out to Boulogne to meet him, but had found him dilatory in entering on business, and was drawn into taking part in the amusements of the place; living in a state of fevered excitement, which aggravated his indisposition and confused his perceptions, so that he fell more completely than ever into the power of his false friend, and was argued into relinquishing his project of selling the horses, and into taking up larger sums for keeping them on. In fact, the sensation that a severe cold was impending, and disgust at the notion of being laid up in such company rendered him doubly facile; and, in restless impatience to get away and avoid discussion, he acceded to everything, and signed whatever Gardner pleased. Not till he was on the point of embarking, after having gambled away most of his ready money, did he discover that the property of which he had heard so much was only a shadow, which had served to delude many another creditor; and that they had made themselves responsible for a monstrous amount, for which he was left alone to answer, while the first demand would be the signal for a multitude of other claims. As they parted, Gardner had finally thrown off the mask, and let him know that this was the recompense of his wife’s stories to the Brandons. She might say what she pleased now, it mattered not; Mark was on his way to the rich widow of Mr. Finch, and had wanted nothing of Arthur but to obtain the means of going to her, and to be revenged on him.

So Arthur half-expressed, and his friend understood. Save for this bodily condition, Percy could hardly have borne with him. His reckless self-indulgence and blind folly deserved to be left to reap their own fruit; yet, when he beheld their victim, miserable, prostrated by illness and despair, and cast aside with scornful cruelty, he could not, without being as cold-hearted as Gardner himself, refrain from kind words and suggestions of consolation. ‘Might not his father assist him?’

‘He cannot if he would. Everything is entailed, and you know how my aunt served us. There is no ready money to be had, not even the five thousand pounds that is the whole dependence for the poor things at home in case of my death, which may come soon enough for aught I care. I wish it was! I wish we were all going to the bottom together, and I was to see none of their faces again. It would be better for Violet than this.’

Percy could say little; but, though blunt of speech, he was tender of heart. He did all in his power for Arthur’s comfort, and when he helped him on shore at Folkestone, recommended him to go to bed at once, and offered to fetch Mrs. Martindale.

‘She cannot come,’ sighed Arthur; ‘she has only been confined three weeks.’

More shame for you, had Percy almost said; but he no longer opposed Arthur’s homeward instinct, and, finding a train ready to start, left their luggage to its fate, and resolved not to lose sight of him till he was safely deposited at his own house. Such care was in truth needed; the journey was a dreadful one, the suffering increased every hour, and when at length, in the dusk of the evening, they arrived in Cadogan-place, he could hardly mount the stairs, even with Percy’s assistance.

It was the first time that Violet had left her chamber, and, as the drawing-room door opened, she was seen sitting, pale and delicate, in her low chair by the fire, her babe on her lap, and the other three at her feet, Johnnie presiding over his sisters, as they looked at a book of prints.

She started up in alarm as Arthur entered, leaning on Mr. Fotheringham, and at once seized by a paroxysm of severe cough. Percy tried to assume a reassuring tone. ‘Here, you see, I have brought him home with one of his bad colds. He will speak for himself presently.’

In a second she had placed the infant on the sofa, signed to Johnnie to watch him, and drawn the arm-chair to the fire. Arthur sank into it, throwing his arm round her for support, and resting his weary head against her, as if he had found his refuge. Percy relieved her from the two little girls, unclasping their frightened grasp on her dress so gently and firmly, that, stranger though he was, Anna did not cry on being taken in his arms, nor Helen resist his leading her out of the room, and desiring her to take her sister up-stairs and to call their nurse.

Returning, he found that necessity had brought strength and presence of mind to their mother. She did not even tremble, though Arthur’s only words were, ‘We are undone. If I die, forgive me.’ Indeed, she hardly took in the sense of what he said; she only caressed, and tried to relieve him, assisted by Percy, who did not leave them till he had seen Arthur safely in charge of Mr. Harding.

He then walked away to his old lodgings in Piccadilly, where he was recognized with ecstasy by the quondam ragged-school boy, and was gladly welcomed by his landlady, who could not rejoice enough at the sight of his good-humoured face.

He divided his time between friendly gossip on her family affairs as she bustled in and out, in civility to the cat, and in railing at himself for thinking twice of such a selfish, ne’er-do-well as Arthur Martindale. The image of that pale young mother and her little ones pursued him, and with it the thought of the complicated distresses awaiting her; the knowledge of the debts that would almost beggar her, coming in the midst of her husband’s dangerous illness.

Percy muttered to himself lines of ‘Who comes here—a Grenadier,’ made a face, stretched himself, and called on himself to look on reasonableness and justice. Arthur deserved no favour, because he had encumbered himself with a helpless family, and then cruelly disregarded them.

‘What does a man deserve who leaves his wife with a child of a week old, to run after a swindler in foreign parts—eh, puss?’ said he aloud, viciously tweaking the old cat’s whiskers; then, as she shook her ears and drew back, too dignified to be offended, ‘Ay, ay, while wheat and tares grow together, the innocent must suffer for the guilty. The better for both. One is refined, the other softened. I am the innocent sufferer now,’ added he; ‘condole with me, pussy! That essay would have been worth eighty pounds if it was worth a sixpence; and there’s a loss for a striving young man! I cannot go on to Worthbourne without recovering it; and who knows how Jane will interpret my delay? While I live I’ll never carry another manuscript anywhere but in my pocket, and then we should all go to the bottom together, according to poor Arthur’s friendly wish. Ha! that’s not it sticking out of my great-coat pocket? No such good luck-only those absurd papers of poor Arthur’s. I remember I loaded my coat on him when we were going to land. What a business it is! Let us overhaul them a bit.’

He became absorbed in the contemplation, only now and then giving vent to some vituperative epithet, till he suddenly dashed his hand on the table with a force that startled the cat from her doze.

‘Never mind, puss; you know of old