Who is the bride? A simple village maid,
Beauty and truth, a violet in the shade.
She takes their forced welcome and their wiles
For her own truth, and lifts her head and smiles.
They shall not change that truth by any art,
Oh! may her love change them before they part.
She turns away, her eyes are dim with tears,
Her mother’s blessing lingers in her ears,
‘Bless thee, my child,’ the music is unheard,
Her heart grows strong on that remembered word.
FREDERICK TENNYSON
‘Here we are!’ said Arthur Martindale. ‘Here’s the lodge.’ Then looking in his wife’s face, ‘Why! you are as white as a sheet. Come! don’t be a silly child. They won’t bite.’
‘I am glad I have seen Mr. John Martindale,’ sighed she.
‘Don’t call him so here. Ah! I meant to tell you you must not “Mr. Martindale” me here. John is Mr. Martindale.’
‘And what am I to call you?’
‘By my name, of course.’
‘Arthur! Oh! I don’t know how.’
‘You will soon. And if you can help shrinking when my aunt kisses you, it will be better for us. Ha! there is Theodora.’
‘O, where?’
‘Gone! Fled in by the lower door. I wish I could have caught her.’
Violet held her breath. The grand parterre, laid out in regularly-shaped borders, each containing a mass of one kind of flower, flaming elscholchias, dazzling verbenas, azure nemophilas, or sober heliotrope, the broad walks, the great pile of building, the innumerable windows, the long ascent of stone steps, their balustrade guarded by sculptured sphinxes, the lofty entrance, and the tall powdered footmen, gave her the sense of entering a palace. She trembled, and clung to Arthur’s arm as they came into a great hall, where a vista of marble pillars, orange trees, and statues, opened before her; but comfort came in the cordial brotherly greeting with which John here met them.
‘She is frightened out of her senses,’ said Arthur.
John’s reply was an encouraging squeeze of the hand, which he retained, leading her, still leaning on her husband’s arm, into a room, where an elderly gentleman was advancing; both her hands were placed within his by her supporters on either side, and he kissed her, gravely saying, ‘Welcome, my dear.’ He then presented her to a formal embrace from a tall lady; and Arthur saying, ‘Well, Theodora! here, Violet,’ again took her hand, and put it into another, whose soft clasp was not ready, nor was the kiss hearty.
Presently Violet, a little reassured by Lord Martindale’s gentle tones, ventured on a survey. She was on the same sofa with Lady Martindale; but infinitely remote she felt from that form like an eastern queen, richly dressed, and with dark majestic beauty, whose dignity was rather increased than impaired by her fifty years. She spoke softly to the shy stranger, but with a condescending tone, that marked the width of the gulf, and Violet’s eyes, in the timid hope of sympathy, turned towards the sister.
But, though the figure was younger, and the dress plainer, something seemed to make her still more unapproachable. There was less beauty, less gentleness, and the expression of her countenance had something fixed and stern. Now and then there was a sort of agitation of the muscles of the face, and her eyes were riveted on Arthur, excepting that if he looked towards her, she instantly looked out of the window. She neither spoke nor moved: Violet thought that she had not given her a single glance, but she was mistaken, Theodora was observing, and forming a judgment.
This wife, for whose sake Arthur had perilled so much, and inflicted such acute pain on her, what were her merits? A complexion of lilies and roses, a head like a steel engraving in an annual, a face expressing nothing but childish bashfulness, a manner ladylike but constrained, and a dress of studied simplicity worse than finery.
Lady Martindale spoke of dressing, and conducted her meek shy visitor up a grand staircase, along a broad gallery, into a large bed-room, into which the western sun beamed with a dazzling flood of light.
The first use Violet made of her solitude was to look round in amaze at the size and luxury of her room, wondering if she should ever feel at home where looking-glasses haunted her with her own insignificance. She fled from them, to try to cool her cheeks at the open window, and gaze at the pleasure-ground, which reminded her of prints of Versailles, by the sparkling fountain rising high in fantastic jets from its stone basin, in the midst of an expanse of level turf, bordered by terraces and stone steps, adorned with tall vases of flowers. On the balustrade stood a peacock, bending his blue neck, and drooping his gorgeous train, as if he was ‘monarch of all he surveyed.’
Poor Violet felt as if no one but peacocks had a right here; and when she remembered that less than twelve weeks ago the summit of her wishes had been to go to the Wrangerton ball, it seemed to be a dream, and she shut her eyes, almost expecting to open them on Annette’s face, and the little attic at home. But then, some one else must have been the fabric of a vision! She made haste to unclose them, and her heart bounded at thinking that he was born to all this! She started with joy as his step approached, and he entered the room.
‘Let us look at you,’ he said. ‘Have you your colour? Ay, plenty of it. Are you getting tamer, you startled thing?’
‘I hope I have not been doing wrong. Lady Martindale asked me to have some tea. I never heard of such a thing before dinner, but I thought afterwards it might have been wrong to refuse. Was it!’
He laughed. ‘Theodora despises nothing so much as women who drink tea in the middle of the day.’
‘I am so afraid of doing what is unladylike. Your mother offered me a maid, but I only thought of not giving trouble, and she seemed so shocked at my undoing my own trunk.’
‘No, no,’ said he, much diverted; ‘she never thinks people can help themselves. She was brought up to be worshipped. Those are her West Indian ways. But don’t you get gentility notions; Theodora will never stand them, and will respect you for being independent. However, don’t make too little of yourself, or be shy of making the lady’s maids wait on you. There are enough of them—my mother has two, and Theodora a French one to her own share.
‘I should not like any one to do my hair, if that is not wrong.’
‘None of them all have the knack with it you have, and it is lucky, for they cost as much as a hunter.’
‘Indeed, I will try to be no expense.’
‘I say, what do you wear this evening?’
‘Would my white muslin be fit?’
‘Ay, and the pink ribbons in your hair, mind. You will not see my aunt till after dinner, when I shall not be there; but you must do the best you can, for much depends on it. My aunt brought my mother up, and is complete master here. I can’t think how my father’—and he went on talking to himself, as he retreated into his dressing-room, so that all Violet heard was, ‘wife’s relations,’ and ‘take warning.’
He came back to inspect her toilette and suggest adornments, till, finding he was overdoing them, he let her follow her own taste, and was so satisfied with the result, that he led her before the glass, saying, ‘There. Mrs. Martindale, that’s what I call well got up. Don’t you?’
‘I don’t mind seeing myself when I have you to look at.’
‘You think we make a handsome couple? Well, I am glad you are tall—not much shorter than Theodora, after all.’
‘But, oh! how shall I behave properly all dinner-time? Do make a sign if I am doing anything wrong.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘I know I shall make mistakes. Matilda says I shall. I had a letter from her this morning to warn me against “solecisms in etiquette,” and to tell me to buy the number of the “Family Friend” about dinner-parties, but I had not time, and I am sure I shall do wrong.’
‘You would be much more likely, if you had Matilda and her prig of a book,’ said Arthur, between anger and diversion. ‘Tell her to mind her own business—she is not your mistress now, and she shall not teach you affectation. Why, you silly child, should I have had you if you had not been “proper behaved”? You have nothing to do but to remember you are my wife, and as good as any of them, besides being twenty times prettier. Now, are you ready?’
‘Yes, quite; but how shall I find my way here again?’
‘See, it is the third door from the stairs. The rest on this side are spare rooms, except where you see those two green baize doors at the ends. They lead to passages, the wings on the garden side. In this one my aunt’s rooms are, and Miss Piper, her white nigger, and the other is Theodora’s.’
‘And all these opposite doors?’
‘Those four belong to my father and mother; these two are John’s. His sitting-room is the best in the house. The place is altogether too big for comfort. Our little parlour at Winchester was twice as snug as that overgrown drawing-room down-stairs.’
‘Dear little room! I hope we may go back to it. But what a view from this end window! That avenue is the most beautiful thing I have seen yet. It looks much older than the house.’
‘It is. My father built the house, but we were an old county family long before. The old Admiral, the first lord, had the peerage settled on my father, who was his nephew and head of the family, and he and my Aunt Nesbit having been old friends in the West Indies, met at Bath, and cooked up the match. He wanted a fortune for his nephew, and she wanted a coronet for her niece! I can’t think how she came to be satisfied with a trumpery Irish one. You stare, Violet; but that is my aunt’s notion of managing, and the way she meant to deal with all of us. She has monstrous hoards of her own, which she thinks give her a right to rule. She has always given out that she meant the chief of them for me, and treated me accordingly, but I am afraid she has got into a desperately bad temper now, and we must get her out of it as best we can.’
This not very encouraging speech was made as they stood looking from the gallery window. Some one came near, and Violet started. It was a very fashionably-dressed personage, who, making a sort of patronizing sweeping bend, said, ‘I was just about to send a person to assist Mrs. Martindale. I hope you will ring whenever you require anything. The under lady’s maid will be most happy to attend you.’
‘There,’ said Arthur, as the lady passed on, ‘that is the greatest person in the house, hardly excepting my aunt. That is Miss Altisidora Standaloft, her ladyship’s own maid.’
Violet’s feelings might somewhat resemble those of the Emperor Julian when he sent for a barber, and there came a count of the empire.
‘She must have wanted to look at you,’ proceeded Arthur, ‘or she would never have treated us with such affability. But come along, here is Theodora’s room.’
It was a cheerful apartment, hung with prints, with somewhat of a school-room aspect, and in much disorder. Books and music lay confused with blue and lilac cottons, patterns, scissors, and papers covered with mysterious dots; there were odd-looking glass bottles on the mantel-shelf with odder looking things in them, and saucers holding what Violet, at home, would have called messes; the straw-bonnet lay on the floor, and beside it the Scotch terrier, who curled up his lips, showed his white teeth, and greeted the invaders with a growl, which became a bark as Arthur snapped his fingers at him. ‘Ha! Skylark, that is bad manners. Where’s your mistress? Theodora!’
At the call, the door of the inner room opened, but only a little dark damsel appeared, saying, in a French accent, that Miss Martindale was gone to Miss Gardner’s room.
‘Is Miss Gardner here?’ exclaimed Arthur.
‘She is arrived about half an hour ago,’ was the reply. Arthur uttered an impatient interjection, and Violet begged to know who Miss Gardner was.
‘A great friend of Theodora’s. I wish she would have kept further off just now, not that she is not a good-natured agreeable person enough, but I hate having strangers here. There will be no good to be got out of Theodora now! There are two sisters always going about staying at places, the only girls Theodora ever cared for; and just now, Georgina, the youngest, who used to be a wild fly-away girl, just such as Theodora herself, has gone and married one Finch, a miserly old rogue, that scraped up a huge fortune in South America, and is come home old enough for her grandfather. What should possess Theodora to bring Jane here now? I thought she would never have forgiven them. But we may as well come down. Here’s the staircase for use and comfort.’
‘And here is the hall! Oh!’ cried Violet, springing towards it, ‘this really is the Dying Gladiator. Just like the one at Wrangerton!’
‘What else should he be like!’ said Arthur, laughing. ‘Every one who keeps a preserve of statues has the same.’
She would have liked to linger, recognizing her old friends, and studying this museum of wonders, inlaid marble tables, cases of stuffed humming birds, and stands of hot-house plants, but Arthur hurried her on, saying it was very ill-contrived, a draught straight through it, so that nothing warmed it. He opened doors, giving her a moment’s glimpse of yellow satin, gilding and pictures, in the saloon, which was next to the drawing-room where she had been received, and beyond it the dining-room. Opposite, were the billiard-room, a library, and Lord Martindale’s study; and ‘Here,’ said he, ‘is where Theodora and I keep our goods. Ha!’ as he entered, ‘you here, Theodora! Hallo! what’s this? A lot of wooden benches with their heels in the air. How is this? Have you been setting up a charity school in my room?’
‘I found the children by the wood were too far from school, so I have been teaching them here. I came to see about taking the benches out of your way. I did not expect you here.’
‘I was showing her our haunts. See, Violet, here’s my double barrel, and here are the bows. I forget if you can shoot.’
‘Matilda and Caroline do.’
‘You shall learn. We will have the targets out. Where’s the light bow you used to shoot with, Theodora?’
‘It is somewhere,’ said Theodora, without alacrity; ‘no, I remember, I gave it to Mr. Wingfield’s little nephew.’
‘Unlucky! Yours will never do for those little fingers.’ Theodora abruptly turned to Violet, and said,’ She must be tired of standing there.’ Violet smiled with pleasure at being addressed, thanked, and disclaimed fatigue.
‘She is of your sort, and does not know how to be tired,’ said Arthur. ‘I wondered to hear your bosom friend was here. What brings her about now?’
‘If you call her my bosom friend, you answer the question,’ was the proud reply, and it provoked him to carry on the teasing process.
‘I thought she was not THE friend,’ he continued; ‘I ought to have congratulated you on THE friend’s capture. A goldfinch of the South American breed is a rare bird.’
Theodora drew up her head, and impetuously heaped some school-books together. ‘Have you seen the pretty caged bird?’
‘Never.’
In a soft tone, contrasting with the manner of his last sayings, Arthur invited his wife to come out on the lawn, and walked away with her. She was surprised and uneasy at what had taken place, but could not understand it, and only perceived he would prefer her not seeming to notice it.
It was all the strange influence of temper. In truth, Theodora’s whole heart was yearning to the brother, whom she loved beyond all others; while on the other hand his home attachments centred on her, and he had come to seek her with the fixed purpose of gaining her good-will and protection for his young bride. But temper stepped between. Whether it began from Theodora’s jealousy of the stranger, or from his annoyance at her cold haughty manner to his wife, he was vexed, and retaliated by teasing; she answered coldly, in proud suffering at being taunted on a subject which gave her much pain, and then was keenly hurt at his tone and way of leaving her, though in fact she was driving him away. She stood leaning against a pillar in the hall, looking after him with eyes brimming with tears; but on hearing a step approach, she subdued all signs of emotion, and composedly met the eye of her eldest brother. She could not brook that any one should see her grief, and she was in no mood for his first sentences: ‘What are you looking at?’ and seeing the pair standing by the fountain, ‘Well, you don’t think I said too much in her favour?’
‘She is very pretty,’ said Theodora, as if making an admission.
‘It is a very sweet expression. Even as a stranger, it would be impossible not to be interested in her, if only for the sake of her simplicity.’
Theodora glanced at Violet’s dress, and at the attitude in which she was looking up, as Arthur gathered some roses from a vase; then turned her eyes on John’s thoughtful and melancholy countenance, and thought within herself, that every man, however wise, can be taken in by a fair face, and by airs and graces.
‘Poor thing,’ continued John, ‘it must be very trying; you don’t see her to advantage, under constraint, but a few kind words will set her at ease.’
He paused for an answer, but not obtaining one, said, ‘I did not know you expected Miss Gardner to-day.’
She surprised him, by answering with asperity, prompted by a second attack on this subject, ‘I can’t help it. I could not put her off,—what objection can there be?’
‘Nothing, nothing,—I meant nothing personal. It was only that I would have avoided having spectators of a family meeting like this. I am afraid of first impressions.’
‘My impressions are nothing at all.’
‘Well, I hope you will make friends—I am sure she will repay your kindness.’
‘Do you know that you are standing in a tremendous draught?’ interrupted Theodora.
‘And there’s my mother on the stairs. I shall go and call them in; come with me, Theodora.’
But she had turned back and joined her mother.
He found Violet all smiles and wonder: but she relapsed into constraint and alarm as soon as she entered the drawing-room. Miss Gardner presently came down,—a lady about five or six and twenty, not handsome, but very well dressed, and with an air of ease and good society, as if sure of her welcome. As Violet listened to her lively conversation with Lord Martindale, she thought how impossible it was that she should ever be equally at home there.
The grandeur of the dining-room was another shock, and the varieties of courses revived her remorse for the cold mutton. She sat between Lord Martindale and John, who talked to her as soon as he thought she could bear the sound of her own voice, and, with Arthur opposite, her situation was delightful compared to the moment when, without either of her protectors, she must go with the imperial Lady Martindale to encounter the dreaded aunt.
When the time came, Arthur held open the door, and she looked up in his face so piteously, that he smiled, and whispered ‘You goose,’ words which encouraged her more than their tenor would seem to warrant.
Warm as it was, the windows were shut, and a shawl was round Mrs. Nesbit’s tall, bending, infirm figure. Violet dared not look up at her, and thought, with mysterious awe, of the caution not to shrink if she were kissed, but it was not needed, Lady Martindale only said, ‘My aunt, Mrs. Arthur Martindale,’ and Mrs. Nesbit, half rising, just took her hand into her long skinny fingers, which felt cold, damp, and uncertain, like the touch of a lizard.
Violet was conscious of being scanned from head to foot—nay, looked through and through by black eyes that seemed to pierce like a dart from beneath their shaggy brows, and discover all her ignorance, folly, and unfitness for her position. Colouring and trembling, she was relieved that there was another guest to call off Mrs. Nesbit’s attention, and watched the readiness and deference with which Miss Gardner replied to compliments on her sister’s marriage; and yet they were not comfortable congratulations, thought Violet; at least they made her cheeks burn, and Theodora stood by looking severe and melancholy; but Miss Gardner seemed quite to enter into the sarcastic tone, and almost to echo it, as if to humour the old lady.
‘Your sister acted very sensibly,’ said Mrs. Nesbit, with emphasis. ‘Very good management; though Theodora was somewhat taken by surprise.’
‘Yes, I know we used her very ill,’ said Miss Gardner; ‘but people have unaccountable fancies about publishing those matters. Mr. Finch was in haste, and we all felt that it was best to have it over, so it was talked of a very short time previously.’
‘Speed is the best policy, as we all know,’ said Mrs. Nesbit; and Violet felt as if there was a flash of those eyes upon her, and was vexed with herself for blushing. She thought Miss Gardner’s answer good-naturedly unconscious:
‘Oh, people always shake together best afterwards. There is not the least use in a prolonged courtship acquaintance. It is only a field for lovers’ quarrels, and pastime for the spectators.’
‘By the bye,’ said Mrs. Nesbit, ‘what is become of your cousin, Mrs. George Gardner’s son?’
‘Mark! Oh, he is abroad. Poor fellow, I wish we could find something for him to do. Lady Fotheringham asked her nephew, Percival, if he could not put him in the way of getting some appointment.’
‘Failed, of course,’ said Mrs. Nesbit.
‘Yes; I never expected much. Those diplomats are apt to be afraid of having their heels trodden upon; but it is a great pity. He is so clever, and speaks so many languages. We hope now that Mr. Finch may suggest some employment in America.’
‘Highly advisable.’
‘I assure you poor Mark would be glad of anything. He is entirely steadied now; but there are so few openings for men of his age.’
An interruption here occurring, Miss Gardner drew off to the window. Theodora sat still, until her friend said, ‘How lovely it is! Do you ever take a turn on the terrace after dinner?’
Theodora could not refuse. Violet wished they had asked her to join them; but they went out alone, and for some moments both were silent. Miss Gardner first spoke, remarking, ‘A beautiful complexion.’
There was a cold, absent assent; and she presently tried again, ‘Quite a lady,’ but with the same brief reply. Presently, however, Theodora exclaimed, ‘Jane, you want me to talk to you; I cannot, unless you unsay that about Percy Fotheringham. He is not to be accused of baseness.’
‘I beg your pardon, Theodora, dear; I have no doubt his motives were quite conscientious, but naturally, you know, one takes one’s own cousin’s part, and it was disappointing that he would not help to give poor Mark another chance.’
‘That is no reason he should be accused of petty jealousies.’
‘Come, you must not be so very severe and dignified. Make some allowance for poor things who don’t know how to answer Mrs. Nesbit, and say what first occurs. Indeed, I did not know you were so much interested in him.’
‘I am interested in justice to the innocent.’
‘There! don’t annihilate me. I know he is a very superior person, the pride of Lady Fotheringham’s heart. Of course he would have recommended Mark if he had thought it right; I only hope he will find that he was mistaken.’
‘If he was, he will be the first to own it.’
‘Then I am forgiven, am I? And I may ask after you after this long solitary winter. We thought a great deal of you.’
‘I needed no pity, thank you. I was well off with my chemistry and the parish matters. I liked the quiet time.’
‘I know you do not care for society.’
‘My aunt is a very amusing companion. Her clear, shrewd observation is like a book of French memoirs.’
‘And you are one of the few not afraid of her.’
‘No. We understand each other, and it is better for all parties that she should know I am not to be interfered with. Positively I think she has been fonder of me since we measured our strength.’
‘There is a mutual attachment in determined spirits,’ said Miss Gardner.
‘I think there must be. I fancy it is resolution that enables me to go further with her than any one else can without offending her.’
‘She is so proud of you.’
‘What is strange is, that she is prouder of me than of mamma, who is so much handsomer and more accomplished,—more tractable, too, and making a figure and sensation that I never shall.’
‘Mrs. Nesbit knows better,’ said Miss Gardner, laughing.
‘Don’t say so. If John’s illness had not prevented my coming out last year, I might have gone into the world like other girls. Now I see the worth of a young lady’s triumph—the disgusting speculation! I detest it.’
‘Ah! you have not pardoned poor Georgina.’
‘Do you wish for my real opinion?’
‘Pray let me hear it.’
‘Georgina had a grand course open to her, and she has shrunk from it.’
‘A grand course!’ repeated Jane, bewildered.
‘Yes, honest poverty, and independence. I looked to her to show the true meaning of that word. I call it dependence to be so unable to exist without this world’s trash as to live in bondage for its sake. Independence is trusting for maintenance to our own head and hands.’
‘So you really would have had us—do what? Teach music?—make lace?’
‘If I had been lucky enough to have such a fate, I would have been a village school-mistress.’
‘Not even a governess?’
‘I should like the village children better; but, seriously, I would gladly get my own bread, and I did believe Georgina meant to wait to be of age and do the same.’
‘But, Theodora, seriously! The loss of position.’
‘I would ennoble the office.’
‘With that head that looks as if it was born in the purple, you would ennoble anything, dear Theodora; but for ordinary—’
‘All that is done in earnest towards Heaven and man ennobles and is ennobled.’
‘True; but it needs a great soul and much indifference to creature comforts. Now, think of us, at our age, our relations’ welcome worn out—’
‘I thought you were desired to make Worthbourne your home.’
‘Yes, there was no want of kindness there; but, my dear, if you could only imagine the dulness. It was as if the whole place had been potted and preserved in Sir Roger de Coverley’s time. No neighbours, no club-books, no anything! One managed to vegetate through the morning by the help of being deputy to good Lady Bountiful; but oh! the evenings! Sir Antony always asleep after tea, and no one allowed to speak, lest he should be awakened, and the poor, imbecile son bringing out the draught-board, and playing with us all in turn. Fancy that, by way of enlivenment to poor Georgina after her nervous fever! I was quite alarmed about her,—her spirits seemed depressed for ever into apathy!’
‘I should think them in more danger now.’
‘Oh! her Finch is a manageable bird. Her life is in her own power, and she will have plenty of all that makes it agreeable. It is winning a home instead of working for it; that is the common sense view—’
‘Winning it by the vow to love, honour, and obey, when she knows she cannot?’
‘Oh, she may in the end. He is tame, and kind, and very much obliged. My dear Theodora, I could feel with you once; but one learns to see things in a different light as one lives on. After all, I have not done the thing.’
‘If you did not promote it, you justify it.’
‘May I not justify my sister to her friend?’
‘I do no such thing. I do not justify Arthur. I own that he has acted wrongly; but—No, I cannot compare the two cases. His was silly and bad enough, but it was a marriage, not a bargain.’
‘Well, perhaps one may turn out as well as the other.’
‘I am afraid so,’ sighed Theodora.
‘It has been a sad grief to you, so fond of your brother as you were.’
‘Not that I see much harm in the girl,’ continued Theodora; ‘but—’
‘But it is the loss of your brother! Do you know, I think it likely he may not be as much lost to you as if he had chosen a superior person. When the first fancy is over, such a young unformed thing as this cannot have by any means the influence that must belong to you. You will find him recurring to you as before.’
Meanwhile, Violet sat formal and forlorn in the drawing-room, and Lady Martindale tried to make conversation. Did she play, or draw? Matilda played, Caroline drew, she had been learning; and in horror of a request for music, she turned her eyes from the grand piano. Was she fond of flowers? O, yes! Of botany? Caroline was. A beautifully illustrated magazine of horticulture was laid before her, and somewhat relieved her, whilst the elder ladies talked about their fernery, in scientific terms, that sounded like an unknown tongue.
Perceiving that a book was wanted, she sprang up, begging to be told where to find it; but the answer made her fear she had been officious. ‘No, my dear, thank you, do not trouble yourself.’
The bell was rung, and a message sent to ask Miss Piper for the book. A small, pale, meek lady glided in, found the place, and departed; while Violet felt more discomposed than ever, under the sense of being a conceited little upstart, sitting among the grand ladies, while such a person was ordered about.
Ease seemed to come back with the gentlemen. Lord Martindale took her into the great drawing-room, to show her Arthur’s portrait, and the show of the house—Lady Martindale’s likeness, in the character of Lalla Rookh—and John began to turn over prints for her, while Arthur devoted himself to his aunt, talking in the way that, in his schoolboy days, would have beguiled from her sovereigns and bank-notes. However, his civilities were less amiably received, and he met with nothing but hits in return. He hoped that her winter had not been dull.
Not with a person of so much resource as his sister. Solitude with her was a pleasure—it showed the value of a cultivated mind.
‘She never used to be famous for that sort of thing,’ said Arthur.
‘Not as a child, but the best years for study come later. Education is scarcely begun at seventeen.’
‘Young ladies would not thank you for that maxim.’
‘Experience confirms me in it. A woman is nothing without a few years of grown-up girlhood before her marriage; and, what is more, no one can judge of her when she is fresh from the school-room. Raw material!’
Arthur laughed uneasily.
‘There is Mrs. Hitchcock—you know her?’
‘What, the lady that goes out with the hounds, and rides steeple-chases? I saw her ride through Whitford to-day, and she stared so hard into the carriage, that poor Violet pulled down her veil till we were out of the town.’
‘Well, she was married out of a boarding-school, came here the meekest, shyest, little shrinking creature, always keeping her eyelids cast down, and colouring at a word.’
Arthur thought there was a vicious look at his bride’s bending head, but he endured by the help of twisting the tassel of the sofa cushion, and with another laugh observed, ‘that all the lady’s shyness had been used up before he knew her.’
‘Then there was Lord George Wilmot, who ran away with a farmer’s daughter. She made quite a sensation; she was quite presentable, and very pretty and well-mannered—but such a temper! They used to be called George and the Dragon. Poor man! he had the most subdued air—’
‘There was a son of his in the Light Dragoons—’ began Arthur, hoping to lead away the conversation, ‘a great heavy fellow.’
‘Exactly so; it was the case with all of them. The Yorkshire farmer showed in all their ways, and poor Lord George was so ashamed of it, that it was positively painful to see him in company with his daughters. And yet the mother was thought ladylike.’
Arthur made a sudden observation on John’s improved looks.
‘Yes. Now that unhappy affair is over, we shall see him begin life afresh, and form new attachments. It is peculiarly important that he should be well married. Indeed, we see every reason to hope that—’ And she looked significant and triumphant.
‘Much obliged!’ thought Arthur. ‘Well! there’s no use in letting oneself be a target for her, while she is in this temper. I’ll go and see what I can make of her ladyship. What new scheme have they for John? Rickworth, eh?’
He was soon at his mother’s side, congratulating her on John’s recovery, and her looks were of real satisfaction. ‘I am glad you think him better! He is much stronger, and we hope this may be the period when there is a change of constitution, and that we may yet see him a healthy man.’
‘Has he been going out, or seeing more people of late?’
‘No—still keeping in his rooms all the morning. He did drive one day to Rickworth with your father, otherwise he has been nowhere, only taking his solitary ride.’
‘I never was more surprised than to see him at Winchester!’
‘It was entirely his own proposal. You could not be more surprised than we were; but it has been of much benefit to him by giving his thoughts a new channel.’
‘He likes her, too,’ said Arthur.
‘I assure you he speaks most favourably of her.’
‘What did he say?’ cried Arthur, eagerly.
‘He said she was a lady in mind and manners, and of excellent principles, but he declared he would not tell us all he thought of her, lest we should be disappointed.’
‘Are you?’ said Arthur, with a bright, confident smile.
‘By no means. He had not prepared me for so much beauty, and such peculiarly graceful movements. My drawing days are nearly past, or I should be making a study of her.’
‘That’s right, mother!’ cried Arthur. ‘What a picture she would make. Look at her now! The worst of it is, she has so many pretty ways, one does not know which to catch her in!’
Perhaps Lady Martindale caught her aunt’s eye, for she began to qualify her praise. ‘But, Arthur, excuse me, if I tell you all. There is nothing amiss in her manners, but they are quite unformed, and I should dread any contact with her family.’
‘I never mean her to come near them,’ said Arthur. ‘Though, after all, they are better than you suppose. She has nothing to unlearn, and will pick up tone and ease fast enough.’
‘And for education? Is she cultivated, accomplished?’
‘Every man to his taste. You never could get learning to stick on me, and I did not look for it. She knows what other folks do, and likes nothing better than a book. She is good enough for me; and you must take to her, mother, even if she is not quite up to your mark in the ologies. Won’t you? Indeed, she is a good little Violet!’
Arthur had never spoken so warmly to his mother, and the calm, inanimate dignity of her face relaxed into a kind response, something was faltered of ‘every wish to show kindness;’ and he had risen to lead his wife to her side, when he perceived his aunt’s bead-like eyes fixed on them, and she called out to ask Lady Martindale if Lady Elizabeth Brandon had returned.
The young ladies came in late; and Arthur in vain tried to win a look from his sister, who kept eyes and tongue solely for Miss Gardner’s service.
At night, as, after a conversation with his brother, he was crossing the gallery to his own room, he met her.
‘Teaching my wife to gossip?’ said he, well pleased.
‘No, I have been with Jane.’
‘The eternal friendship!’ exclaimed he, in a changed tone.
‘Good night!’ and she passed on.
He stood still, then stepping after her, overtook her.
‘Theodora!’ he said, almost pleadingly.
‘Well!’
He paused, tried to laugh, and at last said, rather awkwardly, ‘I want to know what you think of her?’
‘I see she is very pretty.’
‘Good night!’ and his receding footsteps echoed mortification.
Theodora looked after him. ‘Jane is right,’ she said to herself, ‘he cares most for me. Poor Arthur! I must stand alone, ready to support him when his toy fails him.’
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