This house of splendour and of princely glory
Doth now stand desolated, the affrighted servants
Rush forth through all its doors. I am the last
Therein.
—Wallenstein
Theodora was no sooner in the gallery than she was recalled to the present. There was a strange gleam of light reflected on the avenue. Roused at once to action, she hurried towards the window. The fire was within the house. She pushed open the door leading to Mrs. Nesbit’s apartments. Light was flashing at every chink of the bed-room door. She threw it back. Out rolled a volume of smoke, the glare of flame burst on her, the curtains were blazing! ‘Aunt! Aunt Nesbit, are you there? she cried, in tones low with horror and choked with smoke; she plunged between the burning curtains, felt that she had a hold of something, dragged it out, found it move and gasp, bore it from the room, and, depositing it on a couch in the gallery, only then could perceive that it was indeed Mrs Nesbit, uninjured, though half-suffocated.
Mrs. Garth, who slept in the adjoining room, with the door open, had been waked by her call, and came running out. An old soldier, she had full self-possession, and was at once effective, and it was well, for she exclaimed, ‘Miss Martindale, you are on fire,’ just as the light and the scorching were revealing the same to herself. There was no time for personal terror, barely for pain, the fire was crushed out between them by the help of a woollen table-cover, they scarcely knew how, they only saw that the draught had increased the blaze in the room, and dense clouds of smoke came bursting out upon them.
Mrs. Nesbit clung terrified to her niece, but Theodora, with a word or two of encouragement, freed herself from her grasp, and leaving her to Mrs. Garth’s care, flew up the nursery stairs. She must have the children in their mother’s sight before the alarm should reach her. Sarah’s first waking impulse was to growl, that Master Johnnie would catch his death of cold, but the next moment she was equal to any emergency; and the little ones were at their mother’s door just as she was opening it, thinking the noise more than Maria’s illness could occasion, and setting forth to see whether there was anything amiss in the nursery. Theodora put Annie into her arms. ‘All safe. It is only the north wing. Don’t be frightened. Stay where you are.’
Violet could only obey, thankful at having her three around her, and trying to keep her terror from being visible enough to increase Johnnie’s exceeding alarm, or to frighten Helen out of her happy state of inquisitive excitement and curiosity.
Theodora had hurried to call her parents. They were already in motion. Lord Martindale’s first care was for Violet and the children, Lady Martindale’s for her aunt, and almost instantly she was embracing and supporting the pale shrunken figure, now feebly tottering along the gallery, forsaken by Mrs. Garth, who had gone back to secure her own valuables.
By this time, the gallery was full of screaming maids, whom Sarah had, with difficulty, prevented from leaping at once from attic windows; and staring men, hallooing for water, which no one brought, except little Helen, who, escaping from her mother’s room, ran barefooted into the midst, holding aloft the water-bottle triumphantly, and very indignant at being captured, and carried back in the butler’s arms.
The fire was spreading so fast that Lord Martindale decided on removing all the helpless to the gardener’s house at the end of the pleasure ground. He came himself to call Violet, told her not to be alarmed, and, taking his grandson in his arms, led the way. Mrs. Nesbit was carried on a mattress between two of the servants, Lady Martindale walking beside her, absorbed in trying to guard her from injury or alarm; Annie, asleep and unconscious, was in her mother’s arms, and Theodora carried the amused and chattering Helen. At the foot of the stairs, Violet exclaimed, ‘My cross, I must not leave it!’ and would have turned, but Theodora prevented her. ‘I know where it is,’ she said, ‘I am going to see how they are moving Maria;’ and putting Helen into the nearest pair of arms, she ran back.
Harrison’s successor, Mr. Armstrong and his wife were on foot, and ready to receive them. Their spare bed was for Mrs. Nesbit, in their own the three children were placed. In all his haste, Lord Martindale paused till he could lay his little shivering ice-cold charge in the bed, and see him hide his head in his mother’s bosom. ‘Good boy!’ he said, ‘I told him not to cry for you, and he has not made a sound, though I have felt him trembling the whole way. Take care of him.’
Little did she need the recommendation, though it sent a thrill of gladness through her that it should have been made at such a time. She had great apprehension of the effect of the shock on the child’s tender frame and timid nature, his obedience and self-command seeming almost to enhance the excess of terror. The shuddering horror and convulsive clinging were beyond control, and were renewed whenever a fresh glare broke out from the burning house; to turn him away from the window, or to put up blinds and curtains made it worse, for the shadows of the trees, flickering mysteriously, seemed still more terrific. His sister screamed with excitement and delight at each brighter burst of flame, till she suddenly laid down her head and fell fast asleep; but still his nervous trembling continued at intervals, and his mother could not leave him, nor cease from saying consoling words of his heavenly Guardian, the only means that soothed him, especially when his sighing exclamation recurred, ‘O, if papa was but here!’ the tune to which her heart was throbbing throughout that dreadful night. She felt guilty of being useless, but he was her first care, and her power of real service was small: so she could only hang over him, and as she watched the healthful sleep of her little girls, join her prayers and thanksgivings with his, that all papa’s treasures were safe. Not till the flames were dying down, morning twilight showing cold and gray, and Sarah coming in with bundles of rescued garments, was Johnnie’s mind free enough to unclasp his hand, and show something fast held in it. ‘Aunt Helen’s cross, mamma; I thought I might keep hold of it, because I was frightened.’
Her caresses lulled him at last to sleep, while she grieved at Theodora’s having gone in search of the cross. She knew of her safety from Sarah, who reported that she had been working like any ten; but she had not yet seen her, and the silence and suspense became oppressive.
Theodora had hardly spent a moment in seeking the cross, she tied on Violet’s bonnet over the hair falling round her, hurried to assist in carrying the sick maid to a bed made up for her at the stables, and then, missing the dumb page from among the servants, she rushed back to look for him, dashed up the stairs through thick smoke, found him asleep, and crossing a floor that almost burnt her foot, she shook him awake, and saw him too in safety. She bethought her of her brother John’s possessions, now that the living were all secure; she hurried into the work, she tore down his prints and pictures, carried them and his books out,—desks, drawers, weights she would never have dreamt of lifting, were as nothing to her. Many times did her father meet her, exclaim and urge her to desist, and to go to Armstrong’s; she said she was just going: he went in one of the thousand directions in which he was called at once, and presently again encountered her, where he least expected it, coming out of a cloud of smoke with a huge pile of books in her arms! On she worked, regardless of choking, blinding smoke—regardless of the glare of flame—never driven from the field but by a deluge from a fire-engine; when stumbling down-stairs, guided by the banisters, she finally dismayed her father, who thought her long ago in safety, by emerging from the house, dragging after her a marble-topped chess table, when half the upper windows were flashing with flame.
Then he locked her arm into his, and would not let her stir from his side.
Water had been the great deficiency. Fire-engines were slow in coming, and the supply from the fountains was as nothing, so that the attempt had necessarily been to carry out property rather than to extinguish the fire. Sarah, after coolly collecting all that belonged to her mistress or the children, had taken the command of Miss Altisidora Standaloft, (who usually regarded her as vulgarity personified,) scolded away her hysterics, and kept guard over her, while she packed up her lady’s jewels and wardrobe, not until then allowing her the luxury of shrieking at every jet of flame. The other servants and the villagers had worked with hearty goodwill below stairs; and when Theodora had time to look around, the pleasure-ground presented a strange scene. Among the trodden plants and shrubs lay heaps of furniture, sofas, chairs lying tumbled here and there, with plate, pictures, statues, ornaments heaped in wild confusion, crowds of people, in every variety of strange dishabille, gathered round; two long lines of them handing bucket after bucket, with machine-like regularity, from the fountain; others removing the furniture from the terrace; cushions, ormolu, fine china, handed out of the lower windows; the whole seen by the wild lurid light that flashed from the windows above, strangely illuminating the quiet green trees, and bringing out every tiny leaf and spray by its fierce brilliancy, that confused every accustomed shadow, while the clouds of smoke rolled down as if to wither all around.
And above the rushing roaring sound! the thunder of falling ceilings; the red light within some familiar windows; the gray sky reflected in others, till, after a few uncertain flickers, the glow awoke in them also. Then arose the whiter gusts of vapour, when water, hissing and boiling, contended with fire.
In vain! the flame surmounted! Shouts, cries! Lord Martindale pushing nearer, calling to all for heaven’s sake to come out, leave all, only come out; men rushing from the doors, leaping from the lower windows; one dark figure emerging at the moment before a tremendous crash shook the earth beneath their feet; the fire seemed for a moment crushed out, then clouds of smoke rose wilder and denser, yellowed by the light of the morning; the blaze rushed upwards uncontrolled, and the intensity of brightness, behind and above the walls, glared on the mass of awe-struck faces. There was not a movement, not a word, not a sound, save that of the roaring flame.
The first voice was Lord Martindale’s: ‘Are all out? Is every one safe?’
‘Yes, my lord, all but the claret of 1826,’ said that last to escape, half-clad, grimy, and singed, only in courteous voice, the butler.
‘Thank God!’ said Lord Martindale, fervently. ‘And, Simmonds, thank you for what you have done to-night;’ and he heartily shook the butler’s hand.
‘Oh, my lord, if it had been more! If that claret was but safe, I should feel I had done my duty,’ said Simmonds, almost overcome, but giving place to Mr. Hugh Martindale, who, just released from a chain of buckets in the kitchen yard, was coming up to wring his cousin’s hand, say there seemed no more to be done, and repeat his congratulations on the safety of life and limb. But a fresh alarm arose, lest the fire might extend to the stabling; and in watching the horses led out, the spreading of wet tarpaulins on the roof, the engines playing on the burning mass in the house, and the flames rising with diminishing fierceness in the intervals of the bursts of steam, there was such intense excitement that no one could think of aught but the sight before them.
At last there was a touch on Lord Martindale’s arm; a message from the gardener’s house that he must come directly: Mrs. Nesbit was in a fit.
The morning dewiness and calmness of the garden had a curious effect, as they walked hastily through it, out of sight of the confusion on the lawn; everything looked so blue and pale, especially Violet, who came down to meet them.
‘I have sent for Mr. Legh,’ she said. ‘It is very terrible. She is quite insensible, but—’
She broke off suddenly. Theodora had sat down, untied her bonnet, then tried to rise, but tottered, and sank senseless on the floor.
Her father lifted her, so as to place her with her head on Violet’s lap. Violet removed the bonnet, the hair came with it, burnt off in masses, the very eyelashes and brows were singed, the forehead, cheeks, and neck frightfully reddened and blistered. Lord Martindale took her hands to chafe them: they were bleeding, and purple from bruises, the arms scorched and burnt—injuries overlooked in the excitement, but ready to repay themselves after her five hours’ violent and incessant exertion. It was a frightfully long swoon; and her father, almost in despair, had sent a second messenger for medical aid before Violet could look up consolingly, and direct his attention to the signs of returning animation. She presently half opened her eyes, perceived in whose arms she lay, and who was bending over her—she heard his fond words; but reviving no further, closed her eyes, without attempting to speak.
Lord Martindale could no longer delay going up-stairs. There the scene was most distressing; there was complete insensibility, with a tendency to convulsive movement, a condition so plainly hopeless that he would fain have removed his wife, hitherto so unaccustomed to any spectacle of suffering. But Lady Martindale was not to be detached from her who had absorbed her affection from infancy. Wrapped in that one idea, she hardly heard his representations of their daughter’s state, and, with piteous looks, repelled his assurances that her care was unavailing, and ought to be relinquished to Mrs. Garth and the maids. He was obliged at length to desist, and returned just as Violet and Mr. Martindale had succeeded in moving Theodora to a slippery horse-hair sofa. She looked up and replied, ‘Better, thank you,’ to his first inquiry; but when asked if she was in pain, was forced to answer, ‘Yes, not much,’ and closed her eyes, as if she only wished not to be disturbed.
They held council over her: Mr. Martindale urged taking her at once to his parsonage; he would find the carriage, and Violet should bring her, leaving the children to follow under Sarah’s charge when they should awake. Violet only demurred at leaving Lady Martindale; but Lord Martindale authoritatively told her, that it was not fit for her to be in Mrs. Nesbit’s room, and he should be much obliged to her to see Theodora properly taken care of.
The transit was serious, every one longed to have it over, but dreaded the arrival of the carriage, which came before it was expected. Resolute as ever, Theodora astonished them by springing at once on her feet, disdaining aid, but she had hardly taken a step, before she faltered, and was just falling, when her father caught her in his arms and carried her to the carriage, where Violet was ready to uphold her sinking head. Mr. Martindale took the short way, and was at home before them, to lift her out, and transport her at once to her room. Since the marriage of Pauline, Theodora had given up a personal attendant, and no ladies’ maids were forthcoming, except Miss Standaloft, whose nerves could not endure the sight of Mrs. Nesbit, far less of Miss Martindale, so the whole business of undressing fell upon Violet, and the rector’s little under-maid, who, having been a school-girl, was of course devoted to Miss Martindale. A difficult task it was, for besides the burns, bruises, and faintness, every muscle and sinew were so strained and tender from the violent exertion, and the blows she had unconsciously received, that the gentlest touch and slightest movement were severely painful. Violet was most grateful for her never-failing resolution. Every move was made unhesitatingly the moment it was requisite, and not a complaint was uttered, scarcely even a confession of suffering; on anxious inquiry, ‘Never mind, it can’t be helped,’ was the utmost reply, given in a blunt, almost annoyed manner, as if she could not bear to be disturbed out of that silence of endurance.
In the same manner, between stupefaction and fortitude, the surgeon’s visit was gone through, and Violet heard from him that there was no serious consequence to be apprehended, provided fever could be averted. Violet, much alarmed as to the effect of the tidings of the previous night, thought it right to mention that she had undergone a severe shock, and perceived that he thought it greatly increased the chance of serious illness; but he could do nothing but insist on tranquillity; and, as Theodora had now fallen into an exhausted sleep, he returned to his other patient.
The hours seemed to have forgotten their reckoning; it was to Violet as if she had been years without looking after her children, and when she found it was only half-past nine, she was dismayed to think of the length of day yet to come. Leaving Theodora’s sleep to be guarded by the little maid, she ventured down. The dumb boy was watching, with tearful eyes, at the foot of the stairs, his whole face one question about Miss Martindale. Answering him reassuringly on the slate, she opened the dining-room door, and a refreshing sight met her eyes. Round the breakfast-table sat her own three, from their glossy heads to their little shining shoes, in order trim, as if no disaster had ever come near them;—little Annie on Cousin Hugh’s knee; Helen’s tongue going as fast as ever; Johnnie in shy good behaviour. A general cry of joy greeted her, and they were in an instant around her, telling of the wonders of the lawn, how the dying gladiator was lying on the blue damask bed, and the case of stuffed humming-birds on the top of the kitchen dresser, and the poor peacock so frightened that he hid himself in the laurels, and would not come near them.
All alarms had gone away like a dream of the night, and the day had dawned on the happy creatures in all its freshness and newness, which their elders would fain have shared, but the necessity of attending to them had something reviving in it, and Violet could not look at them without renewed thrills of thankfulness. It was like rescued mariners meeting after a shipwreck, when her father-in-law came in and embraced her and the children affectionately, with a special caress for Johnnie, ‘the best little boy he ever saw.’ He looked worn and depressed, and Violet hastened to help Mr. Martindale in setting breakfast before him, while he anxiously bade her rest, hoped she had not been hurt by all she had undergone; and asked for Theodora, whose illness, and his wife’s despair at her aunt’s condition, were the chief actual distress. For the rest, he was so thankful that no life had been lost, as to have hardly a thought to bestow on the ruin and destruction.
There was now time for the question, how did the fire begin? Mrs. Nesbit, before her attack came on, had said, that wishing to take a draught, and not liking to call Mrs. Garth, she had drawn the light near to the curtains, and had, doubtless, left it there. It seemed as if Mrs. Garth had taught her to dread disturbing her at night, and now Lady Martindale shrank with horror from letting her even approach the patient.
But how had Mrs. Nesbit been rescued without the slightest burn, and what had occasioned Theodora’s injuries? Not till Violet began to explain did it dawn on her what a heroine she was describing. All had been so simply and fearlessly done, that it had not struck her till she heard it in her own narration.
Lord Martindale was much affected. ‘My brave girl!’ he said; ‘then under Providence the safety of every one of us is owing to her. I wish she was awake that I might tell her so this minute!’
It was delightful to see how this seemed to compensate for everything; and, indeed, he said it was almost worth while to have been burnt out for the sake of seeing how nobly every one had behaved, servants and neighbours, rich and poor, working alike at the risk of their lives, and he was positively overcome as he spoke of the warm sympathy that met him on all sides, testifying the universal respect and affection with which he was regarded. Notes and messages were coming in from all the neighbourhood to intreat to be allowed to shelter his family; but it was impossible to move at present, and his views were fixed on occupying the house which had so long stood empty.
‘Arthur can have a room fitted up there directly,’ he said. ‘Where is he, my dear? How soon can he come?’
Violet was obliged to confess her ignorance. He had said he should be going about, and had given her no address. Much vexed, Lord Martindale forbore to distress her by remarks, and replied to his cousin’s question whether the house was insured—
‘For twenty thousand pounds, but that is nothing like the amount of damage. I hardly know how we shall meet it. I must have John at home to settle matters. How strange it is to look back. I remember as if it was yesterday, when John was born, Mrs. Nesbit insisting on my pulling down the poor old house, to make the place fit, as she said, for my son’s inheritance, and there is an end of it! Who would have told her that she would burn it down herself, poor woman? She always detested the old hall. Don’t you remember the stags’ antlers, Hugh? Ay, Johnnie, you would have wondered at those—a dozen stags’ heads with branching horns in the hall.’
‘Oh! tell me, grandpapa! Was it where you lived when you were a little boy?’
‘Ay, Johnnie,’ said Lord Martindale, pausing to take him on his knee. ‘Cousin Hugh could tell you how we went on together there! Such jackdaws’ nests as used to be in the chimneys—’
‘I do believe,’ said his cousin, ‘you have more regret at this moment for the old house than for this one!’
‘Well! when I think of going home, the old red pediment with the white facings always comes into my mind, as it used to look up the avenue, when we came back for the holidays. Those old shields with the martlets—see, Johnnie, like that—’ holding up the crest on a spoon, ‘where the martins used to build their nests over the windows, were such as I never saw anywhere else. I found one of them lying about at the farm the other day.’
‘Do you remember the hornet’s nest in the wall of the garden—?’
‘What a garden that was! They have never found any pear equal to that jargonelle, where you ate twenty the first day of the holidays. What do you think of that, Johnnie?’
‘Ay, Johnnie, and I can tell you of something grandpapa did,’ retorted Mr. Hugh Martindale; and to Violet’s diversion, the two old cousins continued to make Johnnie an excuse for bringing up their boyish memories, which seemed to rise on them the more vividly, now that the great mansion no longer obstructed their view. It was complete oblivion of everything else, and seemed to do infinite good to Lord Martindale, but soon it was interrupted; Lady Elizabeth had driven over to beg to carry the whole party back to Rickworth with her, or at least to take home Violet and the children; but this could not be; Violet could not leave Theodora, and though Lord Martindale pressed her to consult her own comfort by removing, he was evidently gratified by her begging to be allowed to remain at the parsonage. He then returned to his wife, and Lady Elizabeth, after offers of every service in her power, took leave, while Violet returned to her charge.
Theodora awoke with less fever than they had ventured to hope, and quite composed, though much surprised with her first acquaintance with illness, and not even comprehending that she could not get up, till the pain of the attempt corroborated Violet’s assurance.
‘How base it is,’ said she, ‘not to be able to do a few hours’ work without having to take to one’s bed. I flattered myself I was not so despicably weak, for a woman.’
‘You might be satisfied,’ said Violet, her heart too full to say more.
‘Not while your Sarah walks about as if nothing had happened.’
‘Where should any of us be but for you?’ said Violet, bending over her.
‘There’s not an inch of me fit for kissing!’ exclaimed Theodora, turning away.
‘Lord Martindale will soon come to tell you what he thinks of it.’
‘Papa! Where is he? I don’t remember him since we went down to Armstrong’s. Yes, I do though!’ she paused, ‘but I can’t think of it. Crying would be worse. What a queer thing fainting is! I used to speculate what it was like.’
‘How do you like it?’ said Violet, perceiving her mood.
‘Tolerably, in some respects; but it makes one’s memory hazy. What has become of mamma? I suppose she is afraid of the sight of my visage.’
‘Oh! no, no!’
‘My aunt, of course! How could I forget! Mrs. Armstrong spoke of her being ill. Was it another stroke!’ said Theodora, alarmed as her recollection returned, and Violet was obliged to tell the whole.
‘My poor mother!’ said Theodora, gravely, ‘I wish I could help—’
There was a knock at the door. Miss Standaloft stood hesitating and making signs to Violet.
‘Is there any news of Mrs. Nesbit?’ asked Theodora. ‘There can be only one thing to hear. Is it over?’
It was, and the end had been quiet. Theodora drew a long breath, and repeated, ‘Poor mamma!’
‘Do you want me? Do you think I might go to her!’ said Violet. ‘She has no one with her but the gentlemen.’
‘I should be very glad if you were there. Only don’t hurt yourself, or Arthur will be angry; and to have you to nurse would be more than could be borne. My poor aunt! I think she softened at the last, and she loved us all very much at one time.’
‘I am glad she was kind to Johnnie,’ said Violet.
Miss Altisidora was induced to sit on the other side the curtain, intending to call Sarah if anything was wanted, and Violet walked across the park, dreading to enter for the first time the presence of the shadow of death, fearing in her lowliness to intrude or presume, but drawn onwards by the warmhearted yearning to perform a daughter’s part, if perchance her husband’s mother could derive the least solace from her attentions.
She crossed the trodden grass, and gazed on the ruin of the abode that had once almost oppressed her with its grandeur. Past away! and with it, she whose hopes and schemes were set on the aggrandizement of the family—she had gone where earthly greatness was weighed in its true balance! And the lime trees budded, new and young in their spring greenness, as when the foundation-stone was laid!
Violet thought how she had been taught to look on this as her boy’s inheritance, and therewith came the prayer that he might win his true inheritance, made without hands, ever spring-like and beyond the power of the flame! She looked up at the shell, for it was no more, she only recognized the nursery windows by their bars; the woodwork was charred, the cement blackened by the fire, where yesterday Helen’s and Annie’s faces had been watching her return! A sick horror passed over her as she thought how much had depended on Theodora’s watchful night, and imagined what might have awaited Arthur!
Then with hopeful, grateful anticipation, she looked to his coming, and his greeting after such perils endured in his absence. ‘O, will not thankfulness bring him those thoughts! It must! He must join with me, when he owns the mercy and sees our children safe. Oh! then blessings on this night’s danger! Let me see, he will learn it from the paper! When can he come? Oh! how his looks and one word from him will reward Theodora!’
She felt as if her happy anticipation had been selfish when she came near the cottage with its blinded windows. Lord Martindale was speaking to some one, but turned at once to her. ‘You here, my dear? You have heard?’
‘Yes, I have; but Theodora and I thought as Lady Martindale has no maid here, that I had better come and see if I could do anything for her. Can I?’ said she, with her humble sweetness.
‘I cannot tell, my dear,’ he answered. ‘She attends to nothing, and has not been able to shed tears. We cannot rouse her. Indeed, I am sorry you came; you ought to be resting.’
‘O, no, we both wished it. Should I be troublesome to her?’
‘No, indeed, my dear child,’ said he, affectionately. ‘It is a great relief to me that you should be with her, for here is much that I must attend to, and I wish nothing so much as to get her to the parsonage. The carriage is waiting, but she will not hear of coming away, and I do not know how to leave her here.’
So saying, he led her into the room; Violet gave one shrinking glance towards the bed, while the chill of awe shot through her veins; but the chief thought was needed for her who sat rigid and motionless, with fixed tearless eyes, and features in cold stillness more than ever like marble. Violet felt as if that deathly life was more painful to look upon than death itself, and her hand trembled in Lord Martindale’s grasp; he pressed it closer, and going up to his wife, said, ‘Anna, my dear, here is our child Violet so kind as to come and see you.’
Lady Martindale made a courteous movement, as if by mechanism, but without looking up. He was delaying, unable to leave them thus, though he was much wanted below stairs.
‘I will stay while you go,’ whispered Violet, though she longed to keep him, for that presence filled her with trembling, and promising speedy return, he departed.
For some minutes she could venture nothing, and the silence in which she heard only the beatings of her own heart seemed more than she could bear; but at last she collected herself, and an impulse suddenly occurring to her, she ventured to touch her mother-in-law, and said, ‘Theodora has been asking for you.’
Lady Martindale shook her head. ‘I cannot come, I cannot leave her.’
‘Poor Theodora is so much hurt!’ pleaded Violet; ‘you will be surprised to see how she is scorched! Such arms and hands, that she cannot help herself—and she wants cold applications continually.’
Lady Martindale once looked attentive, but a glance at her aunt brought back her face of silent misery. Violet was perplexed, but strove on—‘Poor Theodora! I hope you will come to her. She wants care very much. Did you know that it was in saving her that she was so sadly burnt?’
‘No: was it?’
‘Yes; she snatched her out through the burning curtains. That was the way Theodora’s hair was all burnt off, and her arms are so blistered!’ continued Violet, controlling her trembling, and speaking as when she was persuading one of the children—‘Poor Theodora! Will you not come and see her?’
‘Where is she?’
‘She is at the parsonage. They are ready to take us.’
‘Oh, no! I cannot go. You go to her.’
‘Pray, pray come with me. Theodora is so ill! It would do her so much good to see you; and we are afraid of her being anxious or distressed, lest she should have fever. Won’t you come?’
A motion, as if she could not bear this, made Violet fear she must desist, and she paused for a short interval, then said, ‘SHE was very fond of Theodora.’
‘Oh! Yes, yes—’
‘She would not like her to be left so long.’
‘I thought you were taking care of her.’
‘Oh, yes! but I cannot be the same as you would. One always wants one’s mother so much in illness.’
‘She was always a mother to me!’ The tears came at last, and she wept unrestrainedly; while Violet hung over her with soft caressing words of sympathy that cannot be detailed, till the first grief had had its course, and she again tried the experiment of repeating Theodora’s name, and saying how much she was suffering.
Lady Martindale did not reply, but suffered Violet to put on her cloak, and gradually lead her from the room, saying at each pause something of ‘poor Theodora.’
The deed was done; it might be by importunity, but it was worth achieving, even at the risk of being vexatious. Lord Martindale could hardly believe his eyes when he saw his wife on her way to the carriage, and Theodora was equally astonished when she appeared at her bedside.
It was a new thing to see one, hitherto healthy and independent, so completely prostrated; and no more was needed to awaken the natural affection so long stifled or thrust aside. Lady Martindale was greatly shocked, and, perhaps magnifying her daughter’s illness, had no room for any other thought. She wished to do everything for her herself—would hardly admit Violet’s assistance—and took every care, with skilfulness that was marvellous in one trained to ineffectiveness.
To Theodora her attendance was a new and exquisite repose. It was the first taste of her mother’s love, and made her content to be helpless; as there she lay, murmuring thanks, and submitting to be petted with a grateful face of childlike peace, resting in her mother’s affection, and made happy by the depth of warm feeling in her father’s words.
‘It is a good speculation to be ill,’ said she, with a smile of strong feeling when they had bidden her good night, and left her to Violet, who was to sleep on a mattress on the floor.
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