Love, hope, and patience, these must be thy graces,
And in thine own heart let them first keep school.
—COLERIDGE
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.’
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