Thus have I seen a temper wild
In yokes of strong affection bound
Unto a spirit meek and mild,
Till chains of good were on him found.
He, struggling in his deep distress,
As in some dream of loneliness,
Hath found it was an angel guest.
—Thoughts in Past Years
Five days had passed, and no material change had taken place. There was no serious recurrence of bleeding, but the inflammation did not abate, and the suffering was grievous, though Arthur was so much enfeebled that he could not struggle under it. His extreme debility made his body passive, but it was painfully evident that his mind was as anxious and ill at ease as ever. There was the same distrustful watch to see every letter, and know all that passed; the constant strain of every faculty, all in absolute silence, so that his nurses, especially Theodora, felt as if it would be a positive personal relief to them if those eyes would be closed for one minute.
What would they have given to know what passed in that sleepless mind? But anything that could lead to speaking or agitation was forbidden; even, to the great grief of Theodora, the admission of the clergyman of the parish. Lord Martindale agreed with the doctors that it was too great a risk, and Violet allowed them to decide, whispering to Theodora that she thought he heeded Johnnie’s prayers more than anything read with a direct view to himself. The cause of his anxiety remained in doubt. Lord Martindale had consulted Violet, but she knew nothing of any papers. She was aware that his accounts were mixed up with Mr. Gardner’s, and believed he had gone to Boulogne to settle them; and she conjectured that he had found himself more deeply involved than he had expected. She remembered his having said something of being undone, and his words to Johnnie seemed to bear the same interpretation.
Mr. Fotheringham’s apparition was also a mystery; so strange was it that, after bringing Arthur home in such a state, he should offer no further assistance. James was desired to ask him to come in, if he should call to inquire; but he did not appear, and the father and sister began to have vague apprehensions, which they would not for the world have avowed to each other, that there must be worse than folly, for what save disgrace would have kept Percy from aiding John’s brother in his distress? Each morning rose on them with dread of what the day might bring forth, not merely from the disease within, but from the world without; each postman’s knock was listened to with alarm, caught from poor Arthur.
His wife was of course spared much of this. That worst fear could not occur to her; she had no room for any thought but for him as he was in the sight of Heaven, and each hour that his life was prolonged was to her a boon and a blessing. She trusted that there was true sorrow for the past—not merely dread of the consequences, as she traced the shades upon his face, while he listened to the hymns that she encouraged Johnnie to repeat. In that clear, sweet enunciation, and simple, reverent manner, they evidently had a great effect. He listened for the first time with his heart, and the caresses, at which Johnnie glowed with pleasure as a high favour, were, she knew, given with a species of wondering veneration. It was Johnnie’s presence that most soothed him; his distressing, careworn expression passed away at the first sight of the innocent, pensive face, and returned not while the child was before him, bending over a book, or watching the baby, or delighted at having some small service to perform. Johnnie, on his side, was never so well satisfied as in the room, and nothing but Violet’s fears for his health prevented the chief part of his time from being spent there.
Her own strength was just sufficient for the day. She could sit by Arthur’s side, comprehend his wishes by his face, and do more to relieve and sustain him than all the rest; and, though she looked wretchedly weak and worn, her power of doing all that was needed, and looking upon him with comforting refreshing smiles, did not desert her. The night watch she was forced to leave to be divided between his father and sister, with the assistance alternately of Sarah and the regular nurse, and she was too much exhausted when she went to bed, for Theodora to venture on disturbing her by an unnecessary word.
Theodora’s longing was to be continually with her brother, but this could only be for a few hours at night; and then the sight of his suffering, and the difficulty of understanding his restlessness of mind, made her so wretched, that it took all the force of her strong resolution to conceal her unhappiness; and she marvelled the more at the calmness with which the feeble frame of Violet endured the same scene. The day was still more trying to her, for her task was the care of the children, and little Helen was so entirely a copy of her own untamed self, as to be a burdensome charge for a desponding heart and sinking spirits.
On the fifth morning the doctors perceived a shade of improvement; but to his attendants Arthur appeared worse, from being less passive and returning more to the struggle and manifestation of oppression and suffering. He made attempts at questions, insisting on being assured that no letter nor call had been kept from him; he even sent for the cards that had been left, and examined them, and he wanted to renew the conversation with his father; but Lord Martindale silenced him at once, and left the room. He looked so much disappointed that Violet was grieved, and thought, in spite of the doctors, that it might have been better to have run the risk of letting him speak, for the sake of setting his mind at rest.
Lord Martindale, however, saw so much peril in permitting a word to be uttered, that he deemed it safer to absent himself, and went out to try to trace out Mr. Fotheringham, and ask whether he could throw any light on Arthur’s trouble.
The children were out of doors, and Theodora was profiting by the interval of quiet to write to her mother, when she heard James announce, ‘Mr. Fotheringham.’
She looked up, then down. Her first thought was of her brother; the next brought the whole flood of remembrances, and she could not meet his eye.
He advanced, but there was no friendly greeting. As to a stranger, he said, ‘I hope Colonel Martindale is better?’
Could it be himself? She gave a hasty glance. It was; he chose to disown her; to meet her without even a hand held out! Rallying her fortitude, she made answer, ‘Thank you; we hope—’
She got no further—her hand was grasped. ‘Theodora! I did not know you.’
She had forgotten her altered looks! Relieved, she smiled, and said, ‘Yes, I am a strange figure. They think Arthur a little better to-day, thank you.’
‘How has it been?’
He listened to the details with eagerness, that dismissed from her mind the sickening apprehension of his knowing of any hidden evil; then, saying he was pressed for time, begged her to ask Mrs. Martindale to let him speak to her on a matter of such importance that he must venture on disturbing her.
Theodora beckoned to Violet at the door, hoping to elude Arthur’s notice; but any attempt at secrecy made him more distrustful, and the name had hardly been whispered before she was startled by hearing—‘Bring him here.’
Much frightened, the wife and sister expostulated, thus making him more determined; he almost rose on his elbow to enforce his wishes, and at last said, ‘You do me more harm by preventing it.’
Violet felt the same; and in fear and trembling begged Theodora to call Percy. She knew herself to be responsible for the danger, but saw the impossibility of preventing the interview without still greater risk. Indeed, while Theodora delayed Percy with cautions, impatience, and the fear of being disappointed, were colouring each sunken cheek with a spot of burning red, the hands were shaking uncontrollably, and the breath was shorter than ever, so that she was on the point of going to hasten the visitor, when he knocked at the door.
She signed to him at once to turn to Arthur, who held out his hand, and met his greeting with an anxious, imploring gaze, as if to ask whether, after all, he brought him hope.
‘Well,’ said Percy, cheerfully, ‘I think it is settled.’
Arthur relaxed that painful tension of feature, and lay back on his pillows, with a relieved though inquiring look.
‘Begging your pardon for being meddlesome,’ continued Percy, ‘I thought I saw a way of being even with that scoundrel. Your papers had got into my pocket, and, as I had nothing else to do, I looked them over after parting with you, and saw a way out of the difficulty. I was coming in the morning to return them and propound my plan, but finding that you could not be seen, I ventured to take it on myself at once, for fear he should get out of reach.’
He paused, but Arthur’s eyes asked on.
‘I had reason to think him gone to Paris. I followed him thither, and found he was making up to Mrs. Finch. I let him know that I was aware of this villainy, and of a good deal more of the same kind, and threatened that, unless he came in to my terms, I would expose the whole to his cousin, and let her know that he is at this moment engaged to Miss Brandon. She is ready to swallow a good deal, but that would have been too much, and he knew it. He yielded, and gave me his authority to break up the affair.’
As Arthur was still attentive and anxious, Percy went on to explain that he had next gone to the man who kept the horses, and by offers of ready money and careful inspection of his bills, had reduced his charge to a less immoderate amount. The money had been advanced for a portion of Arthur’s share of the debts, and a purchaser was ready for the horses, whose price would clear off the rest; so that nothing more was wanted but Arthur’s authority for the completion of the sale, which would free him from all present danger of pressure upon that score.
‘Supposing you do not disavow me, said Percy, ‘I must ask pardon for going such lengths without permission.’
A clutch of the hand was the answer, and Percy then showed him the accounts only waiting for his signature.
The money advanced was nearer five thousand pounds than four; and Arthur, pointing to the amount, inquired, by look and gesture, ‘Where does it come from?’
‘Never mind; it was honestly come by. It is a lot that has accumulated out of publishing money, and was always bothering me with railway shares. It will do as well in your keeping.’
‘It is throwing it into a gulf.’
‘In your father’s, then. I will take care of myself, and speak when I want it. Don’t trouble your father about it till he sees his way.’
‘I must give you my bond.’
‘As you please, but there is no hurry.’
Arthur, however, was bent on giving his signature at once, and, as he looked towards his wife and child, said, ‘For their sakes, thank you.’
‘I did it for their sakes,’ said Percy, gruffly, perhaps to check Arthur’s agitation; but as if repenting of what sounded harsh, he took the infant in his arms, saying to Violet, ‘You have a fine fellow here! Eyes and forehead—his father all over!’
Arthur held out his hand eagerly. ‘Let him be your godson—make him like any one but me.’
Percy took two turns in the room before he could answer. ‘My godson, by all means, and thank you; but you will have the making of him yourself. You are much better than I expected.’
Arthur shook his head; but Violet, with a look, sufficient reward for anything, said, ‘It is you that are making him better.’
He replied by inquiries about the christening. The baby was a day less than four weeks old, and Violet was anxious to have him baptized; so that it was arranged that it should take place immediately on Percy’s return from Worthbourne, whither he was to proceed that same afternoon, having hitherto been delayed by Arthur’s affairs. This settled, he took leave. Arthur fervently pressed his hand, and, as Violet adjusted the pillows, sank his head among them as if courting rest, raising his eyes once more to his ‘friend in need,’ and saying, ‘I shall sleep now.’
Violet only hoped that Mr. Fotheringham understood what inexpressible gratitude was conveyed in those words, only to be appreciated after watching those six wakeful, straining days and nights.
Meantime, Theodora waited in fear, too great at first to leave space for other thoughts; but as time past, other memories returned. On coming to summon Percy she had found him standing before the little stuffed owl, and she could not but wonder what thoughts it might have excited, until suddenly the recollection of Jane dissipated her visions with so violent a revulsion that she was shocked at herself, and perceived that there was a victory to be achieved.
‘It shall be at once,’ said she. ‘I WILL mention her. To be silent would show consciousness. Once done, it is over. It is easier with my altered looks. I am another woman now.’
She heard him coming down, and almost hoped to be spared the meeting, but, after a moment’s pause, he entered.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I hope I have done him no harm. I think better of him now than when I came home. He looks to me as if the worst was over.’
They were the first words of hope, and spoken in that hearty, cheery voice, they almost overset her weakened spirits, and the struggle with tears would not let her answer.
‘You have had a most trying time,’ said he, in the kind way that stirred up every old association; but that other thought made her guarded, and she coldly hurried out the words—
‘Yes; this is the first time my father has been out. He went in search of you, to ask how you met poor Arthur, who has been able to give no account of himself.’
‘We met on board the steamer. He had been obliged to leave Boulogne without finishing his business there, and I went back to settle it for him.’
‘And the papers he had lost?’
‘I had them: it is all right.’
‘And his mind relieved?’
‘I hope it is.’
‘Oh! then, we may dare to hope!’ cried she, breathing freely.
‘I trust so; but I must go. Perhaps I may meet Lord Martindale.’
With a great effort, and a ‘now-or-never’ feeling, she abruptly said, ‘I hope Jane is well.’
He did not seem to understand; and confused, as if she had committed an over familiarity of title, she added, ‘Mrs. Fotheringham.’
She was startled and hurt at his unconstrained manner.
‘Very well, I believe. I shall see her this evening at Worthbourne.’
‘Has she been staying there long?’ said Theodora, going on valiantly after the first plunge.
‘Ever since the summer. They went home very soon after the marriage.’
A new light broke in on Theodora. She was tingling in every limb, but she kept her own counsel, and he proceeded. ‘I saw them at Paris, and thought it did very well. She is very kind to him, keeps him in capital order, and has cured him of some of his ungainly tricks.’
‘How did it happen? I have heard no particulars.’
‘After his mother’s death poor Pelham was less easily controlled: he grew restless and discontented, and both he and my uncle fell under the influence of an underbred idle youth in the neighbourhood, who contrived at last to get Sir Antony’s consent to his taking Pelham abroad with him as his pupil. At Florence they met with these ladies, who made much of their cousin, and cajoled the tutor, till this marriage was effected.’
‘She must be nearly double his age.’
‘She will manage him the better for it. There was great excuse for her. The life she was obliged to lead was almost an apology for any way of escape. If only it had been done openly, and with my uncle’s consent, no one could have had any right to object, and I honestly believe it is a very good thing for all parties.’
‘Would Sir Antony have consented?’
‘I have little doubt of it. He was hurt at first, but he was always fond of Jane. She is very attentive to him, and I hope makes him quite comfortable. He wrote to ask me to come and see them at Worthbourne, and I am on my way. I see it is getting late. Good-bye.’
Theodora’s heart had been bounding all this time. Her first impulse was to rush up to tell Violet; but as this could not be, she snatched up a bulky red volume, and throwing over the leaves till she came to F.—Fotheringham, Sir Antony, of Worthbourne, looked down the list of his children’s names, and beheld that the only one not followed by the fatal word “died” was Antony Pelham.
What had they all been doing not to have thought of this before? However, she recollected that it would have seemed as impossible that the half-witted youth should marry as that he should be on the Continent. The escape from the certainty that had so long weighed on her, taught her what the pain had been; and yet, when she came to analyze her gladness, it seemed to melt away.
She dwelt on her period of madness—her wilful, repeated rejection of warning; she thought of the unhappy Derby day—of her own cold ‘Very well’—her flirtation with Lord St. Erme. She recollected the passage with Annette Moss: and then, for her present person, it was changed beyond recognition, as had just been proved; nor could she wonder, as, turning to the mirror, she surveyed the figure in black silk and plain cap, beyond which the hair scarcely yet peeped out—the clearness and delicacy of skin destroyed, the face haggard with care and sorrow, the eyelids swollen by watchful nights. She almost smiled at the contrast to the brilliant, flashing-eyed, nut-brown maid in the scarlet-wreathed coronal of raven hair, whom she had seen the last time she cared to cast a look in that glass.
‘I am glad I am altered,’ said she, sternly. ‘It is well that I should not remind him of her on whom he wasted his hope and affection. It is plain that I shall never marry, and this is a mask under which I can meet him with indifference like his own. Yes, it was absolute indifference—nothing but his ordinary kindliness and humanity; neither embarrassment nor confusion—just as he would have met any old woman at Brogden.
If he remembers that time at all, it is as a past delusion, and there is nothing in me to recall what he once liked. He did not know me! Nonsense! I thought I was content only to know him safe from Jane—still his real self. I am. That is joy! All the rest is folly and selfishness. That marriage! How disgusting—and what crooked ways! But what is that to me? Jane may marry the whole world, so that Percy is Percy!’
The children were heard on the stairs, and Helen rushed in, shouting, in spite of the silencing finger, ‘Aunt, it is the owl man!’ and Johnnie himself, eager and joyous, ‘It is the man who came with papa.’
‘He met us,’ said Helen. ‘He knew my name, and he asked Annie’s, and carried her to our door.’
‘He said he had been into papa’s room,’ said Johnnie, ‘and had seen baby. He is a very good-natured gentleman. Don’t you like him, Aunt Theodora?’
‘And oh! aunt, he asked me whether we ever went to Brogden; and when he heard that we had been at the parsonage, he said he lived there when he was a little boy, and our nursery was his;’ chattered on Helen. ‘He asked if we were in the fire; and you know Johnnie can’t bear to hear of that; so I told him how funny it was when you came and pulled me out of bed, and we went down the garden with no shoes. And he asked whether that was the way you had grown so ugly, Aunt Theodora.’
‘No, Helen, he did not say that; for he was a gentleman,’ interposed Johnnie; ‘he only said he was afraid our aunt had been a sufferer, and Sarah told—’
‘And I told,’ again broke in Helen, ‘how Cousin Hugh said it was an honour and a glory to be burnt like you; and I told him how I got the water and should have put out the fire, if that horrid Simmonds had not carried me away, and I wish he had not. So long as I had not my curls burnt off,’ said Miss Helen, pulling one of the glossy chestnut rings into her sight, like a conscious beauty as she was.
‘He asked Sarah all about it,’ said Johnnie; ‘and he said we had a very good aunt; and, indeed, we have!’ climbing carelessly into her lap. ‘Then he met grandpapa, and they are walking in the square together.’
So Mr. Fotheringham could be in no real haste to be gone, and had only hurried away to avoid Theodora. However, there was no more musing time, the children’s dinner was ready, and she was going down with the little girls, when her father entered. ‘How is Arthur?’
It was answered by Johnnie, who was flying down-stairs with joyous though noiseless bounds, his whole person radiant with good tidings. ‘Papa is asleep! grandpapa. Papa is fast asleep!’
‘Have you been in the room?’
‘No; mamma came to the door and told me. Baby is gone up to our nursery, and nobody is to make the least noise, for papa is gone to sleep so comfortably!’
The boy had caught so much gladness from his mother’s look, that he almost seemed to understand the importance of that first rest. His grandfather stroked his hair, and in the same breath with Theodora, exclaimed, ‘It is owing to Percy!’
‘Has he told you about it?’ said Theodora.
‘So much as that there is a final break with that fellow Gardner—a comfort at least. Percy said they had got their affairs into a mess; Arthur had been trying to free himself, but Gardner had taken advantage of him, and used him shamefully, and his illness had forced him to come away, leaving things more complicated than ever. There was a feeling of revenge, it seems, at Arthur not having consented to some disgraceful scheme of his; but Percy did not give me the particulars. Meeting him in the steamer, ill and desperate—poor fellow—Percy heard the story, took care of him, and saw him home; then, finding next morning what a state he was in, and thinking there might be immediate demands—’
‘Oh! that was the terrible dread and anxiety!’
‘He did what not one man in a million would have done. He went off, and on his own responsibility adjusted the matter, and brought Gardner to consent. He said it had been a great liberty, and that he was glad to find he had not gone too far, and that Arthur approved.’
‘Do you know what it was?’
‘No; he assured me all was right, and that there was no occasion to trouble me with the detail. I asked if any advance was needed, and he said no, which is lucky, for I cannot tell how I could have raised it. For the rest, I could ask him no questions. No doubt it is the old story, and, as Arthur’s friend, he could not be willing to explain it to me. I am only glad it is in such safe hands. As to its being a liberty, I told him it was one which only a brave thorough-going friend would have taken. I feel as if it might be the saving of his life.’
Theodora bent down to help little Anna, and said, ‘You know it is Sir Antony Fotheringham’s son that Miss Gardner married?’
‘Ay!’ said Lord Martindale, so much absorbed in his son as to forget his daughter’s interest in Percival Fotheringham. ‘He says Arthur’s cough did not seem so painful as when he saw him before, and that he even spoke several times. I am frightened to think what the risk has been of letting him in.’
‘Arthur insisted,’ said Theodora, between disappointment at the want of sympathy, and shame for having expected it, and she explained how the interview had been unavoidable.
‘Well, it is well over, and no harm done,’ said Lord Martindale, not able to absolve the sister from imprudence. After a space, he added, ‘What did you say? The deficient young Fotheringham married?’
‘Yes, to Jane Gardner.’
‘Why, surely some one said it was Percy himself!’
‘So Violet was told at Rickworth.’
Lord Martindale here suddenly recollected all, as his daughter perceived by his beginning to reprove Helen for stirring about the salt. Presently he said, ‘Have you heard that the other sister, the widow—what is her name?’
‘Mrs. Finch—’
‘Is going to be foolish enough to marry that Gardner. She was your friend, was not she?’
‘Yes, poor thing. Did you hear much about her?’
‘Percy says that she was kind and attentive to the old man, as long as he lived, though she went out a great deal while they lived abroad, and got into a very disreputable style of society there. Old Finch has left everything in her power; and from some words overheard on the quay at Boulogne, Percy understood that Gardner was on his way to pay his court to her at Paris. There was a former attachment it seems, and she is actually engaged to him. One can hardly pity her. She must do it with her eyes open.’
Theodora felt much pity. She had grieved at the entire cessation of intercourse, even by letter, which had ensued when the Finches went to the Continent; and she thought Georgina deserved credit for not having again seen Mark, when, as it now appeared, there had lurked in her heart affection sufficient to induce her to bestow herself, and all her wealth, upon him, spendthrift and profligate as she must know him to be. Miserable must be her future life; and Theodora’s heart ached as she thought of wretchedness unaided by that which can alone give support through the trials of life, and bring light out of darkness. She could only pray that the once gay companion of her girlhood, whose thoughtlessness she had encouraged, might yet, even by affliction, be led into the thorny path which Theodora was learning to feel was the way of peace.
Arthur was wakened by the recurring cough, and the look of distress and anxiety returned; but the first word, by which Violet reminded him of Percy’s call, brought back the air of relief and tranquillity. Mr. Harding, at his evening visit, was amazed at the amendment; and Johnnie amused his grandfather by asking if the owl man was really a doctor, or whether Sarah was right when she said he had rescued papa and his portmanteau out of a den of thieves.
When Violet left the room at night, the patient resignation of her face was brightening into thankfulness; and while preparing for rest, she could ask questions about the little girls. Theodora knew that she might tell her tale; and sitting in her favourite place on Violet’s footstool, with her head bent down, she explained the error between the two cousins.
‘How glad I am!’ said the soft voice, ever ready to rejoice with her. ‘Somehow, I had never recollected it, he is so like what he used to be. I am very glad.’
‘Don’t treat it as if it was to concern me,’ said Theodora. ‘I care only as he remains the noblest of men.’
‘That he is.’
‘Don’t wish any more, nor think I do,’ said Theodora. ‘I never liked stories of young ladies who reform on having the small-pox. It is time nonsense should be out of my head when a man does not know me again.’
‘Oh! surely—did he not?’
‘Not till I spoke. No wonder, and it is better it should be so. I am unworthy any way. O, Violet, now will you not let me ask your forgiveness?’
‘What do you mean, dearest?’
‘Those races.’
Violet did not shrink from the mention; she kissed Theodora’s brow, while the tears, reserved for the time of respite, dropped fast and bright.
‘Poor dear,’ she said; ‘how much you have suffered!’
There was silence for some moments. Theodora striving to keep her tears as quiet as her sister’s.
‘I think,’ said Violet, low and simply, ‘that we shall be happy now.’
Then, after another silence, ‘Come, if we go on in this way, we shall not be fit for to-morrow, and you have only half a night. Dearest, I wish I could save you the sitting up! If he is better to-morrow, Johnnie shall take you for a walk.’
He was better, though the doctors, dismayed at yesterday’s imprudence, preached strenuously on his highly precarious state, and enforced silence and absence of excitement. Indeed, his condition was still such that the improvement could only be seen in occasional gleams; and as the relief from mental anxiety left him more attention to bestow on the suffering from the disorder, he was extremely depressed and desponding, never believing himself at all better.
The experiment of a visit from the little girls was renewed, but without better success; for the last week had increased the horrors of his appearance; and Theodora reported that Johnnie had confided to her, as a shocking secret, that the reason why Helen could not bear to go near papa was, that he looked exactly like Red Ridinghood’s wolf.
Violet was grateful for the saying, for it was the first thing that drew a smile from Arthur, and to court the child became a sort of interest and occupation that distracted his thoughts from himself. It was touching to see him watching her, as she ran in and out, trying to catch her eye, stretching out his hand invitingly, holding up fruit to allure her, and looking with fond, proud, yet mournful eyes, on her fresh healthful beauty. She used to try not to see him, and would race past at full speed, and speak to her mamma with her back to him; but gradually some mysterious attraction in that silent figure won sidelong glances from her, and she began to pause, each time with a longer and fuller tip-toe gaze, both hands pressed down on the top of her head, and a look like a wild fawn, till all at once, the wehr-wolf feeling would seize her, and she would turn and dash off as if for her life, while his eager, pleased face relaxed into disappointment, and her mother still said that time would bring her round.
At last, she took them completely by surprise, suddenly launching herself on the bed, and plunging her face into the midst of the black bristles; then, leaping down, and rushing to the door as if expecting to be caught. So violent a proceeding was almost more than Arthur could bear, and Violet, rising to smooth the coverings, began to preach gentleness; but shaken as he was, he was too much gratified to permit the reproof, smiled, and held up a bunch of grapes to invite the little maid back. But this was an offence; she put her hands behind her, and, with a dignified gesture, announced, ‘I do not give kisses for grapes. I did it because Johnnie will not let me alone, and said I was unkind.’
‘Theodora all over!’ said her father, much entertained. It was a great step that he had discovered that the children could afford him diversion, especially now, when nothing else could have served to wile away the tedious hours. He could bear no reading aloud from any one but Johnnie, whom he would not refuse; and to whom he listened with pride in a performance he fancied wonderful, while the little books cost no effort of attention, and yet their simple lessons floated on his thoughts, and perchance sank into his heart. Or when he lay panting and wearied out with oppression, the babe’s movements would attract his eye, and the prattlings of the little girls at their mamma’s side would excite a languid curiosity that drew him out of himself. Sometimes that childish talk left food for thought. One day when the children had been sent into the next room to share some fruit from the plate by his bed-side, Helen’s voice was overheard saying, ‘I wish papa would never get well!’
‘Helen! Helen, how can you?’ pleaded her brother’s shocked voice.
‘He is so much more good-natured when he is ill,’ was Helen’s defence. ‘I like him now; I don’t like him at all when he is well, because then he is always cross. Don’t you think so, Johnnie?’
‘That is not kind of you when he lies there, and it hurts him so sadly to breathe. You should wish him to be well, Helen.’
‘If he would be kind to me.’
‘O, you don’t know what it feels like to be ill,’ said Johnnie. ‘I do want to see him strong and able to ride, and go out to his soldiers again. I hope he will be kind still, and not go away and make mamma unhappy—’
‘If he would ever lead me by the hand, like the little girl’s papa at the house with the parrot, I should like that sort of papa, if he was not a little thin short ugly man. Should not you, Johnnie?’
‘No! I never shall like anything so well as my own papa. I do love him with my whole, whole heart! I am so glad he will let us love him now! It seems to come over me in the morning, and make me so glad when I remember it.’
Violet had been on the point of stopping this conversation, but Arthur would not permit her, and listened with his eyes filling with tears.
‘What have you done to that boy?’ he murmured.
‘It is his own loving self,’ said Violet.
Arthur pressed her hand to his lips. ‘My poor children! If papa ever were to get well—’
And Violet regretted that he had heard, for his emotion threw him back for the rest of the evening.
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