Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife

CHAPTER 15

‘Arthur, the landlady has been to ask how much longer we shall want the rooms!’

‘How long have we been here?’

‘We came on the 20th of April, and this is the 3rd of June. What a difference it has made in you!’

‘And in you; Ventnor is a grand doctor.’

‘And Johnnie is really beginning to have a colour. How pleased his grandpapa will be to see him so much stronger and more spirited. I do not think Lord Martindale could have done anything kinder by us than sending us here.’

‘How does the purse hold out?’

‘I have been reckoning that we could stay on three weeks more before going to Brogden; and, if you like it, I should wish to spend our wedding-day here,’ said Violet, in the shy diffident way in which she was wont to proffer any request for her own gratification.

‘I had another scheme for our wedding-day. What do you say to spending it at Wrangerton?’

She looked up in his face as if to see if he really meant it, then the glad flush darted into her cheeks, and with a cry of joy like a child, she almost sobbed out, ‘Oh, Arthur, Arthur! thank you.’

He looked at her, amused, and enjoying her ecstasy. ‘So you approve, Mrs. Martindale?’

‘O, to go to mamma! to show mamma the children! Annette! home!—Johnnie to see Helvellyn!—my sisters!—Olivia’s baby!’ cried Violet, in incoherent exclamations, almost choked with joy.

‘My poor Violet,’ said Arthur, surprised and almost remorseful; ‘I did not know you wished it so very much.’

‘I believe I had left off thinking about it,’ said Violet; ‘but I am so very much obliged to you, dear Arthur—how very kind it is.’

It never occurred to her, as it did to him, that the kindness might have come sooner. ‘I only hope you like it,’ she added, after a pause.

‘Don’t I like what makes you look as you do now?’ said he, smiling. ‘I shall enjoy looking up our old quarters. Besides,’ he added, more gravely, ‘it is your turn now; and liking apart, I know I have not used Mrs. Moss well, in keeping you so long from her. You must let her know it was not your fault.’

‘May I write, then? Oh, Arthur, dearest! if I could but find words to tell you how happy you have made me!’

It was no sudden determination, for he brought a ‘Bradshaw’ out of his pocket, with all the various railways and trains underscored in pencil in a most knowing way, and a calculation of expenses on the cover, all wrong—for Arthur had never done an addition sum right in his life.

Violet was to write as soon as she pleased, and fix the day and hour.

Perhaps Violet had never been so happy in her life as when, in the afternoon, she wandered a little apart on the beach, to realize and feed on her new treasure of delight. Arthur and the children were felicitously dabbling in sand and sea-water, reducing the frocks to a condition that would have been Sarah’s daily distraction, if she had not reconciled herself to it by observing, ‘it did her heart good to see the Colonel take to the children, though he was no more to be trusted with them than a sea-mew; and if it was not for Master John, she believed they would all come home some day drownded.’

As soon as the spring was sufficiently advanced, Lord Martindale had sent the whole party to recruit by the sea-side, at their own dear Ventnor, and there the last six weeks had been spent in the daily joy of watching Arthur’s progress in recovery;—until now a slight degree of weakness and languor, an occasional cough, and his greatly altered appearance, were the only evident remains of his illness; and though she could not feel that his health was absolutely re-established, there was such abundant cause for hope and thankfulness, as filled her heart to overflowing, especially when she was rejoiced by tokens of that more blessed change within.

His spirits had returned with his health. Perhaps it was part of his boyish nature, that his sorrow for his errors, though sincere and earnest, did not permanently depress him, when not brought before his mind; but rather the sense of behaving well added to his brightness. There was nothing to conceal; the guilty consciousness was gone, and the fear for the future was distant. His manners had a sweetness more engaging than ever. To his wife, who had, as he recovered, suffered from the effects of her exertions, he was most affectionately attentive, and his children were his delight, while little Johnnie throve and expanded into spirit and mirth, like a plant reviving in sunshine.

He had gone over Violet’s old haunts with her, and she had enjoyed making him enter into the feelings associated with the scenes she had visited with his brother. John was expected to return in the summer, but even this anticipation paled in comparison with the present felicity. That longing for her own home had been forced into such a remote cell, that she had had no idea of its strength till now, when it was allowed to spring up and colour everything.

She walked along the shore within sight of the cottage, where she had been with John, too small and expensive for their present numbers and means, and looking up at its bowery wicket, gathered up the remembrances associated with it.

She had come thither a mere child, a wife and mother, before strength, spirits, or judgment were equal to her tasks,—terrified at her responsibility, perceiving her failures, sinking under the load too early laid on her. There had she been guided to comfort,—there had her hand been taught to clasp the rod and staff, that had led her safe through the shadow, well-nigh of death. How would her heart have fainted if she could have guessed what had awaited her! But these things were past, and their memory was sweetened by thankfulness. And now, where once stood the self-torturing, pining girl, was now the calm trustful woman,—serene beneath the overshadowing Wings, resting on the everlasting Arms,—relying, least of all, upon herself. Further trouble might be in store; the clouds might return after the rain; but her peace was not mere freedom from storms, it was the security that there was One who would be with her and her loved ones through all, and thus could she freely rejoice in present sunshine, without scanning each distant cloud, or marring present bliss by future dread.

It was complete gladness. There was not a misgiving whether home might be exactly as it stood in her memory, or in Johnnie’s imagination; and she filled the children’s heads so much with what they were to see, that their papa declared he had found Annie under the belief that Helvellyn was her grandfather.

Arthur was so much charmed with seeing his wife so happy, that, forgetting all his fears of tediousness, he partook the enjoyment of her anticipations. He was the first, when they came in sight of a mountain, to lift Johnnie on his knee and tell him it was Helvellyn; and mamma’s resentment at the grievous error was one of the prettiest and merriest things imaginable.

However, when Helvellyn actually appeared, and she felt herself really coming home, she was silent, in anxiety and doubt. She must be very different from the Violet who had gone away. Would her mother and Matilda think she had improved according to her opportunities?

She could hardly reply when Arthur recognized the High-street, so much wider in her imagination, and her heart beat as the garden wall and the lawn were before her. At the door—yes!—it was, it was the mother for whose embrace, she had so often longed! Timidly affectionate and hastily nervous, she could hardly afford one moment to her daughter in her frightened haste to greet her son-in-law, before he was ready, as he was lifting the children out. Here, too, were Annette and Mr. Moss, the young ladies were in the drawing-room, detained by etiquettes of Matilda’s; but Violet hardly knew who spoke to her, the joy was to see a baby of hers at last in her mothers arms.

She could hardly see any one but the slight worn-looking mother, whose low, sad-toned voice awoke such endless recollections, and made her realize that she was once more beside mamma. To look at her sisters almost disturbed her; and it well-nigh struck her as unnatural to find the children hanging on her.

Still more unnatural was it to be conducted up-stairs, like company, to the best room, and to find her mother in distress and solicitude lest things should not be comfortable, and such as they were used to. And oh! the strangeness of seeing her little ones in her own old nursery, waited upon by the sisters she had left as children—and by Sarah, settled in there as if she had never been away. One part of her life or the other must be a dream.

Dear as all the faces were, it was a relief to be silent for a little while, as Arthur, half-asleep, rested in the large old armchair, and she unpacked, too happy for weariness; and the clear pure mountain air breathing in at the open window, infusing life into every vein, as she paused to look at the purple head above the St. Erme woods, and to gaze on the fragrant garden beneath; then turned away to call to mind the childish faces which she had not yet learnt to trace in those fine-looking young women.

‘Ha!’ said Arthur, rousing himself; ‘are all the pretty plaits and braids come out again? A welcome sight.’

‘Mamma thought me altered,’ said Violet; ‘and I thought I would not look more old than I could help; so I would not put on my cap for fear it should distress her.’

‘Old! altered!’ said Arthur. ‘How dare you talk of such things!’

‘I can’t help it,’ said Violet, meekly.

‘Well! I believe I see what you mean,’ he said, studying her with a gravity that was amusing. ‘There’s your youngest sister, Octavia, is not she?’

‘Oh, is not she pretty?’

‘Whish! don’t praise yourself; she is the image of you at sixteen. Now that I have seen her, I see you are changed; but somehow—the word that always suited you best was lovely; and you have more of that style of thing than even when your cheeks were pink. Not your oval face and white skin, you know, but that—that look that is my Violet—my heart’s-ease, that used to keep my heart up last winter. Ay! you are more to my mind!’

That little episode was the special charm of Violet’s evening—a happy one, though there were some anxieties, and a few fond little illusions dispelled.

It might be the dread of Arthur’s being annoyed, as she watched him looking very pale and spiritless from fatigue, which made her perceive that all dinner-time Matilda was overwhelming him with a torrent of affected nonsense—or at least what Violet would have thought so in any one but her highly-respected eldest sister; and she feared, too, that he could not admire the girlish airs and graces which did not become that sharpened figure and features. She had not known how much more Matilda talked than any one else; even her father only put in a caustic remark here and there, when Matilda WOULD know all Lord St. Erme’s and Lady Lucy’s views and habits. Mrs. Moss was silenced whenever her low voice tried to utter a sentence. Annette, quiet and gentle as ever, looked drooping and subdued, and scarcely spoke, while the two fine blooming girls, who seemed like new acquaintance, were still as mice in awe and shyness. Caroline, the second sister, was married and settled in Canada; and the three blanks that weddings had made only now impressed themselves on her mind as a novelty.

After dinner, Violet felt as if she must rescue Arthur from Matilda at any cost, and succeeded in setting her down to the piano; and to secure his quiet, though feeling it a very presumptuous venture, she drew her chair near her father, and set herself to talk to him. Mr. Moss was quite amazed to find a woman—a daughter—capable of rational conversation. She went on with the more spirit, from her pleasure in seeing Arthur, instead of dozing under cover of the music, going to sit by Mrs. Moss and talk to her, and though nothing was heard, their countenances were proof enough of their interest—Mrs. Moss’s thin mild face quite colouring up at the unwonted attention, and her eyes glistening. In fact they were talking about Violet, and in such a strain that Mrs. Moss that night confided to Annette, that she should never again believe a word against Colonel Martindale.

But if the fortnight was to be like this, how was Arthur to bear it? Violet dreaded it for him the more because he was so very good and forbearing, not making one remark on what she knew must have struck him. She could almost have reproached herself with selfishness in never having thought of his want of companionship and amusement.

The night’s rest, however, made a great difference in his capacity for entertainment, beginning from his laugh at Helen’s inquiry, ‘What was the use of so many aunts?’ He lay on the grass in the sunshine, playing with the children, and fast making friends with the younger aunts, who heartily relished his fun, though they were a good deal afraid of him; while Violet sat under the verandah, feasting her eyes upon Helvellyn, and enjoying the talk with her sisters as much as she could, while uneasy at the lengthened housekeeping labours that her mother was undergoing. They were to retrace one of their memorable walks by the river-side in the afternoon, but were prevented by the visit expected all the morning, but deferred to that fashionable hour, of Mrs. Albert Moss, who sailed in, resolved that the Honourable Mrs. Martindale should find one real companion in the family.

Those fluttering silks and fringes seemed somewhat to stand on end at finding themselves presented to a slight, simply dressed figure in a plain straw bonnet; and the bare-legged, broad-sashed splendours of Miss Albertine Louisa stood aghast at the brown holland gardening suits of the London cousins.

‘In training for the Highlanders?’ was Arthur’s mischievous aside to Octavia, setting her off into the silent frightened laugh that was his special diversion; and he continued, as they stood half in and half out of the window, ‘There’s Helen patronizing her! I hope she will take her down to the sand-heap, where the children have been luxuriating all the morning.’

‘Oh! how can you—’

‘It is my father’s great principle of education,’ said Arthur, solemnly, ‘to let them grope in the dirt. I never rested till I had seen my boy up to the ears in mud.—But ha! what a magnificent horse! Why,’ as he started forward to look at it, ‘I declare it is stopping here!’

‘Olivia and Mr. Hunt in the gig!’ cried Octavia. Oh, she has the baby in her lap!’

Matilda and Mrs. Albert Moss looked at each other, shocked.

‘What will Mr. Hunt make her do next?’

‘Poor Olivia!’ said Mrs. Albert. ‘We regret the connection; but Mr. Hunt will have his own way. You must excuse—’

It was lost. Seeing the new-comers in difficulties between baby, horse, and gate, Arthur had sped out to open the last for them; and Violet had sprung after him, and received the child in her arms while her sister alighted. Here was the mesalliance of the family, too wealthy to have been rejected, but openly disdained by Matilda, while the gentle Mrs. Moss and Annette hardly ventured to say a good word for him. Violet’s apprehensions had chiefly centred on him, lest his want of refinement should make him very disagreeable to Arthur; and she almost feared to look up as she held out her hand to him.

In a moment her mind was relieved; voice, look, and manner, all showed that the knightly soul was in him, and that he had every quality of the gentleman, especially the hatred of pretension, which made him retain the title of English yeoman as an honourable distinction.

It was a pretty group of contrasts; the soldierly, high-bred, easy grace of the pallid black-haired Colonel, with the native nobleness of bearing of the stalwart farmer, equally tall, and his handsome ruddy face glowing with health; and the two sisters, the one fresh, plump, and rosy, the picture of a happy young mother, and the other slender and dignified, with the slightly worn countenance, which, even in her most gladsome moods, retained that pensive calmness of expression.

The baby occupied the ladies, the horse their husbands; and on hearing what guests were in the drawing-room, Mr. Hunt, with a tell-tale ‘then,’ said he would drive on to his business at Coalworth, inviting the Colonel to take the vacant seat.

With Arthur off her mind, Violet was free to enjoy, and soon found that the only flaw in Olivia’s felicity was the Wrangerton fashion of sneering at her husband, and trying to keep her up to Matilda’s measure of gentility. Proud as she was of her ‘George,’ he had not made her bold enough to set those censures at nought; but when she found Violet of his way of thinking, she joyfully declared that she would never allow herself to be again tormented by Matilda’s proprieties. How glad she was that George had insisted; for, as she confided to Violet and Annette, she knew that bringing the baby without a maid would be thought so vulgar that she would have stayed at home, in spite of her desire to see Violet; but her husband had laughed at her scruples, declaring that if her sister could be offended by her coming in this manner, she must be a fine lady not worth pleasing.

Perhaps Mr. Hunt so expected to find her. He was a breeder of horses on an extensive scale, and had knowledge enough of the transactions of Mark Gardner and his set, not to be very solicitous of the acquaintance of Colonel Martindale, while he dreaded that the London beauty would irretrievably fill his little wife’s head with nonsense.

One look swept away his distrust of Mrs. Martindale; and the charm of the Colonel’s manner had gained his heart before the drive was over. The next day he was to send a horse for Arthur to ride to Lassonthwayte to see his whole establishment; and Violet found she might dismiss her fears of want of amusement for her husband.

He had sold off all his own horses, and had not ridden since his illness, and the thought seemed to excite him like a boy. His eyes sparkled at the sight of the noble hunter sent for him; and Violet had seldom felt happier than as she stood with the children on the grass-plat, hearing her sisters say how well he looked on horseback, as he turned back to wave her an adieu, with so lover-like a gesture, and so youthful an air, that it seemed to bring back the earliest days of their marriage.

This quiet day, only diversified by a call from Lord St. Erme and Lady Lucy, and by accompanying Mrs. Moss to make some visits to old friends in the town, brought Violet to a fuller comprehension of her own family.

Her mother was what she herself might have become but for John. She was an excellent person, very sensible, and completely a lady; but her spirit had been broken by a caustic, sharp-tempered, neglectful husband, and she had dragged through the world bending under her trials, not rising above them. Her eldest daughter had been sent to a fashionable school, and had ever since domineered over the whole family, while the mother sank into a sort of bonne to the little ones, and a slave to her husband. There was much love for her among her fine handsome girls, but little honour for the patient devotion and the unfailing good sense that judged aright, but could not act.

Annette, her chief comfort, tried to bring up her pupil Octavia to the same esteem for her; but family example was stronger than precept, and Annette had no weight; while even Mr. Hunt’s determination that Olivia should show due regard to her mother, was looked on as one of his rusticities. Poor Mrs. Moss was so unused to be treated as a person of importance, that she could hardly understand the attention paid her, not only by Violet, but by the Colonel; while the two young sisters, who regarded Violet and her husband as the first of human beings, began to discover that ‘O, it is only mamma!’ was not the most appropriate way of speaking of her; and that when they let her go on errands, and wait on every one, Violet usually took the office on herself.

So busy was Mrs. Moss, that Violet had very few minutes of conversation with her, but she saw more of Annette, in whom the same meek character was repeated, with the tendency to plaintiveness that prevented its real superiority from taking effect. She drooped under the general disregard, saw things amiss, but was hopeless of mending them; and for want of the spirit of cheerfulness, had become faded, worn, and weary. Violet tried to talk encouragingly, but she only gave melancholy smiles, and returned to speak of the influences that were hurting Octavia.

‘Do not let us dwell on what we cannot help,’ said Violet; ‘let us do our best, and then leave it in the best Hands, and He will bring out good. You cannot think how much happier I have been since I knew it was wrong to be faint-hearted.’

Before the end of the day she had seen her mother and Annette look so much more cheerful, that the wish crossed her that she could often be at hand.

By and by Arthur came home in the highest spirits, tossing Annie in the air, as he met her in the passage, and declaring himself so far from tired that he had not felt so well for a year, and that the mountain breezes had taken the weight off his chest for good and all. He was in perfect raptures with Lassonthwayte and with its master, had made an engagement to bring Violet, her mother, and the children, to stay there a week, and—‘What more do you think?’ said he.

‘Everything delightful, I see by your face,’ said Violet.

‘Why, Hunt has as pretty a little house as ever I saw in the village of Lassonthwayte, to be let for a mere nothing, just big enough to hold us, and the garden all over roses, and that style of thing. Now, I reckon our allowance would go three times as far here as in London; and if I were to sell out, the money invested in these concerns of Hunt’s would be doubled in a year or two—at any rate, before the boys will want schooling. If I do know anything it is of horses, you see, and we should pay off Percy and all the rest of them, and be free again.’

‘Live near mamma and Olivia!’

‘Ah! I knew you would like it. The mountain air will bring back your colour, and make a Hercules of Johnnie yet. I longed to have him there to-day! We may live cheaply, you know, not get into all this town lot; only have the girls staying with us, and give your mother a holiday now and then. Don’t you fancy it, Mrs. Martindale?’

‘It is too delightful! I suppose we must not settle it without your father, though.’

‘He can’t object to our living at half the cost, and getting out of debt; I’ll talk him over when we go home. Hunt is as fine a fellow as I ever saw, and as steady as old time.’

CHAPTER 16

Lassonthwaite lost none of its charms on closer acquaintance. Mr. Hunt’s farm stood on the slope of a hill, commanding a view of the mountains, rising like purple clouds above the moorland, richly carpeted with the varied colours of heath, fern, and furze, and scattered with flocks of the white bleached mountain sheep, and herds of sturdy little black cattle; while the valley, nearer at hand, was fringed with woods, sheltering verdant pasture land, watered by the same clear frolicsome stream that danced through the garden—Olivia’s garden—brilliant with roses and other beauties, such as the great Harrison himself would hardly have disdained.

Lord St. Erme might well call it a farm of the poets, so well did everything accord with the hearty yeoman, and his pretty, shepherdess-looking wife. The house was of the fine old order, large and lofty, full of wonders in the way of gables, porches, and oriels, carved doors and panels, in preservation that did them honour due, and the furniture betokening that best of taste which perceives the fitness of things. All had the free homely air of plenty and hospitality—the open doors, the numerous well-fed men and maids, the hosts of live creatures—horses, cows, dogs, pigs, poultry, each looking like a prize animal boasting of its own size and beauty—and a dreadful terror to Johnnie. He, poor little boy, was the only person to whom Lassonthwayte was not a paradise. Helen and Annie had no fears, and were wild with glee, embracing the dogs, climbing into dangerous places, and watching the meals of every creature in the yard; but poor Johnnie imagined each cow that looked at him to be a mad bull, trembled at each prancing dog, and was miserable at the neighbourhood of the turkey-cock; while Mr. Hunt’s attempts to force manliness on him only increased his distress to such a degree as to make it haunt him at night. However, even this became a source of pleasant feeling; Arthur, once so rough with him, now understood the secret of his delicacy of nerves, and reverenced him too much to allow him to be tormented. Even in the worst of Johnnie’s panics at night would come smiles, as he told how papa would not let him be forced to pat the dreadful dog, and had carried him in his arms through the herd of cattle, though it did tire him, for, after putting him down, he had to lean on the gate and pant. So next time the little boy would not ask to be carried, and by the help of holding his hand, so bravely passed the savage beasts, that his uncle pronounced that they should make a man of him yet.

Arthur, always happier when the little fingers were in his, was constantly talking of the good that Johnnie was to gain in the life in the open air; and this project continually occupied them. The cottage was a very pretty one, and most joyously did Olivia show it off to Violet and Mrs. Moss, planning the improvements that Mr. Hunt was to make in it, and helping Violet fix on the rooms. It seemed like the beginning of rural felicity; and Arthur talked confidently to his wife of so rapidly doubling his capital, that he should pay off his debts without troubling his father, who need never be aware of their extent.

Violet did not quite like this, but Arthur argued, ‘They are my own concerns, not his, and if I can extricate myself without help, why should he be further plagued about me?’

She did not contest the point; it would be time enough when they were at Brogden, but it made her rather uneasy; the concealment was a little too like a return to former habits, and she could not but fear the very name of horses and races. Still, in the way of business, and with George Hunt, a man so thoroughly to be relied on, it was a different thing; and Arthur’s mind was so changed in other matters, that she could not dream of distrust. The scheme was present pleasure enough in itself, and they all fed on it, though Mr. Hunt always declared that the Colonel must not consider himself pledged till he had consulted his own family, and that he should do nothing to the house till he had heard from him again.

Violet could not satisfy herself that Lord and Lady Martindale would give ready consent, and when talking it over alone with her mother, expressed her fears.

‘Well, my dear,’ said Mrs. Moss, ‘perhaps it will be all for the best. We cannot tell whether it might turn out well for you to be settled near us. Colonel Martindale is used to something different, and your children are born to another rank of life.’

‘O mamma, that could make no difference.’

‘Not, perhaps, while they were young, but by and by you would not wish to have them feeling that we are not like their other relations. My dear child, you need not blush to that degree!’

‘They will never feel that you are not equal to—to the grandest—the dearest!’ said Violet, tearfully.

‘You would try not to let them, dearest, but the truth would be too strong,’ said Mrs. Moss, smiling. ‘You know we had been content to think poor Louisa our model of manners till you came among us again.’

‘O, mamma! at least there was Lady Lucy.’

‘And now we see you fit company for Lady Lucy, and that we are not. No, my dear, don’t deny it; I see it in your ease with her, and it is quite right.’

‘I don’t like to think so!’

‘I understand better now,’ said Mrs. Moss. ‘Perhaps it would have been more advisable if there had been no intermingling of ranks, yet I can hardly regret, when I see you, my Violet. It has raised your whole tone of mind, but it has cut you off from us, and we cannot conceal it from ourselves. If you do come here, you must make up your mind beforehand not to be too intimate even with Olivia and George.’

‘I am very glad I am not to settle it,’ said Violet, with a sigh. ‘I should be much disappointed to give it up, and yet sometimes—it will be some consolation at least to find that you have not set your heart on it, mamma?’

‘I have left off setting my heart on anything, my dear child, said Mrs. Moss, with a sigh, telling of many and many a disappointment. Sincerely religious as she was, it was out of sight, and scarcely a word was ever breathed to her daughter of her true spring of action.

There was a feeling that she was not mistaken in thinking that too much intercourse was not desirable. Arthur was apt to call the distance from Wrangerton to Lassonthwayte seven miles, instead of five, and soon it grew to nine, with a bad road and a shocking hill. This was after he had discovered from Mr. Hunt that Lord St. Erme’s affairs had fallen into a most unsatisfactory state, while the Messrs. Moss had been amassing a comfortable fortune; and that every one knew that the colliery accident was chiefly owing to Albert’s negligence, cowardice, and contempt of orders; so that it was the general marvel that the Earl did not expose them, and remove his affairs from their hands.

Arthur could suppose that the cause of this forbearance might be the connection between Theodora and the Moss family; and the idea made him feel almost guilty when in company with the Earl. Matilda, and indeed the others, were surprised at his declining the invitations to stay at the park; but Violet, as well as he, thought it better to lay themselves under no further obligations; though they could not avoid receiving many attentions. Lady Lucy feted the children, and Violet accomplished her wish of showing Johnnie the little Madonna of Ghirlandajo.

The first sight of the rooms made Violet somewhat melancholy, as she missed the beautiful works of art that had been a kind of education to her eye and taste, and over which she had so often dreamt and speculated with Annette. However, there was something nobler in the very emptiness of their niches, and there was more appropriateness in the little picture of the Holy Child embracing His Cross, now that it hung as the solo ornament of the library, than when it was vis-a-vis to Venus blindfolding Cupid, and surrounded by a bewildering variety of subjects, profane and sacred, profanely treated. She could not help feeling that there was a following in those steps when she saw how many luxuries had been laid aside, and how the brother and sister, once living in an atmosphere of morbid refinement, were now toiling away, solely thoughtful of what might best serve their people, mind or body, and thinking no service beneath them.

Lord St. Erme’s talent and accomplishment were no longer conducive only to amusement or vanity, though they still were exercised; and it was curious to see his masterly drawings hung round the schools and reading-room, and his ready pencil illustrating his instructions, and to hear him reading great authors to the rude audience whom he awakened into interest. There might be more done than sober judgments appreciated, and there were crotchets that it was easy to ridicule, but all was on a sound footing, the work was thoroughly carried out, and the effects were manifest. The beautiful little church rising at Coalworth would find a glad congregation prepared to value it, both by the Earl and by the zealous curate.

Violet wished Theodora could but see, and wondered whether she would ever venture to make a visit at Lassonthwayte; hardly, she supposed, before her marriage.

Lady Lucy one day asked when Miss Martindale was to be married, and on hearing that no period could be fixed, said she was grieved to find it so; it would be better for her brother that it should be over. Violet ventured to express her hopes that he had at last found peace and happiness.

‘Yes,’ said Lucy, ‘he is very busy and happy. I do not think it dwells on his spirits, but it is the disappointment of his life, and he will never get over it.’

‘I hope he will find some one to make him forget it.’

‘I do not think he will. No one can ever be like Miss Martindale, and I believe he had rather cling to the former vision, though not repining. He is quite content, and says it is a good thing to meet with a great disappointment early in life.’

Violet doubted not of his contentment when she had looked into his adult school, and seen how happily he was teaching a class of great boys to write; nor when she heard him discussing prices, rents, and wages with Mr. Hunt.

Lord St. Erme and Lady Lucy had come to an early dinner at Lassonthwayte, thus causing great jealousy on the part of Mrs. Albert Moss, and despair on Matilda’s, lest Olivia should do something extremely amiss without her supervision. Little did she guess that Lucy had been reckoning on the pleasure of meeting her dear Mrs. Moss for once without those daughters.

After dinner, all the party were on the lawn, watching the tints on the mountains, when Lord St. Erme, coming to walk with Mrs. Martindale, asked her, with a smile, if she remembered that she had been the first person who ever hinted that the Westmoreland hills might be more to him than the Alps.

‘I have not forgotten that evening,’ he said. ‘It was then that I first saw Mr. Fotheringham;’ and he proceeded to ask many questions about Percy’s former appointment at Constantinople, his length of service, and reason for giving it up, which she much enjoyed telling. He spoke too of his books, praising them highly, and guessing which were his articles in reviews, coming at last to that in which, as he said, he had had the honour of being dissected.

‘Poor Lucy has hardly yet forgiven it,’ he said; ‘but it was one of the best things that ever befell me.’

‘I wonder it did not make you too angry to heed it.’

‘Perhaps I was at first, but it was too candid to be offensive. The arrow had no venom, and was the first independent criticism I had met with. Nobody had cared for me enough to take me to task for my absurdities. I am obliged to Mr. Fotheringham.’

Violet treasured this up for Percy’s benefit.

This festivity was their last in the north. Their visit at Lassonthwayte had been lengthened from a week to a fortnight, and Lady Martindale wrote piteous letters, entreating them to come to Brogden, where she had made every arrangement for their comfort, even relinquishing her own dressing-room. They bade farewell to Wrangerton, Arthur assuring Mrs. Moss that he would soon bring Violet back again; and Mrs. Moss and Violet agreeing that they were grateful for their happy meeting, and would not be too sorry were the delightful vision not to be fulfilled.

At the beginning of their journey, Arthur’s talk was all of the horses at Lassonthwayte and the friendship that would soon be struck up between Percy and Mr. Hunt. The railway passed by the village of Worthbourne, and he called Violet to look out at what might yet be Theodora’s home.

‘For the sake of John and Helen too,’ said Violet; while the children, eager for anything approaching to a sight, peeped out at the window, and exclaimed that there was a flag flying on the top of the church steeple.

‘The village wake, I suppose,’ said Arthur. ‘Ha! Helen, we will surprise Uncle Percy by knowing all about it!’

At the halt at the Worthbourne station, he accordingly put out his head to ask the meaning of the flag.

‘It is for the son and heir, sir. Old Sir Antony’s grandson.’

Arthur drew in his head faster than he had put it out, making mutterings to himself that a good deal surprised the children. After their long pleasuring, Cadogan-place looked dingy, and Violet as she went up to the drawing-room in the gray twilight, could not help being glad that only three months of Arthur’s sick leave had expired, and that they were to be there for no more than one night. In spite of many precious associations, she could not love a London house, and the Lassonthwayte cottage seemed the prettier in remembrance.

Arthur had fetched his papers, and had been sitting thoughtful for some time after Johnnie had gone to bed, when he suddenly looked up and said, ‘Violet, would it be a great vexation to you if we gave up this scheme?’

‘Don’t think of me. I always thought you might view it differently from a distance.’

‘It is not that,’ said Arthur; ‘I never liked any one better than Hunt, and it is nine if not ten miles from the town. But, Violet, I find we are in worse plight than I thought. Here are bills that must be renewed, and one or two things I had forgotten, and while I owe the money and more too, I could hardly in honesty speculate with the price of my commission.’

‘No!—oh! You could never be comfortable in doing so.’

‘If it was only Percy that was concerned, I might get him to risk it, and then double it, and set him and Theodora going handsomely; but—No, it is of no use to think about it. I wish it could be—’

‘You are quite right, I am sure.’

‘The thing that settles it with me is this,’ continued Arthur. ‘It is a way of business that would throw me with the old set, and there is no safety but in keeping clear of them. I might have been saved all this if I had not been ass enough to put my neck into Gardner’s noose that unlucky Derby-day. I had promised never to bet again after I married, and this is the end of it! So I think I have no right to run into temptation again, even for the chance of getting clear. Do you?’

‘You are quite right,’ she repeated. ‘If the money is not our own, it would only be another sort—’

‘Of gambling. Ay! And though in those days I did not see things as I do now, and Hunt is another sort of fellow, I fancy you had rather not trust me, mamma?’ said he, looking with a rather sad though arch smile into her face.

‘Dear Arthur, you know—’

‘I know I won’t trust myself,’ he answered, trying to laugh it off. ‘And you’ll be a good child, and not cry for the cottage?’

‘Oh, no! Mamma and I both thought there might possibly be considerations against it, especially as the girls grow up.’

‘That’s right. I could not bear giving up what you seemed to fancy. but we will visit them when we want a mouthful of air, and Annette and Octavia shall come and stay with us. I should like to show Octavia a little of the world.’

‘Then, we shall go on as we are?’

‘Yes; spend as little as may be, and pay off so much a year. If we keep no horses, that is so much clear gain.’

‘That seems the best way; but I almost fear your being well without riding.’

‘No fear of that! I don’t want to go out, and you never do. We will take our long walks, and, as Percy says, I will read and be rational. I mean to begin Johnnie’s Latin as soon as we are settled in. Why, I quite look forward to it.’

‘How delighted Johnnie will be!’

‘We shall do famously!’ repeated Arthur. ‘Nothing like home, after all.’

Violet did not think he quite knew what he undertook, and her heart sank at the idea of a London winter, with his health and spirits failing for want of his usual resources. He imagined himself perfectly recovered; but when he went the next day to show himself to the doctor, the stethoscope revealed that the damage was not so entirely removed but that the greatest care would be necessary for some time to come. It sat lightly on him; his spirits depended on his sensations, and he had no fears but that a few months would remove all danger; and Violet would say no word of misgiving. She would have felt that to remonstrate would have been to draw him back, after his first step in the path of resolute self-denial.