Then weep not o’er the hour of pain,
As those who lose their all;
Gather the fragments that remain,
They’ll prove nor few nor small.
—M. L. DUNCAN
In the meantime Theodora and her father had been brought into contact with visitors from the external world. One morning James brought in a card and message of inquiry from Lord St. Erme, and Lord Martindale desired that he should be admitted. Theodora had just time to think how ridiculous it was of her to consider how she should appear to another old lover, before he came in, colouring deeply, and bending his head low, not prepared to shake hands; but when hers was held out, taking it with an eager yet bashful promptitude.
After a cordial greeting between him and her father, it was explained that he had not entirely recovered what he called his accident, and had come to London for advice; he had brought a parcel from Wrangerton for Mrs. Martindale, and had promised to carry the Moss family the latest news of the Colonel. While this was passing, and Lord Martindale was talking about Arthur, Theodora had time to observe him. The foreign dress and arrangement of hair were entirely done away with, and he looked like an Englishman, or rather an English boy, for the youthfulness of feature and figure was the same; the only difference was that there was a greater briskness of eye, and firmness of mouth, and that now that the blush on entering had faded, his complexion showed the traces of recent illness, and his cheeks and hands were very thin. When Theodora thought of the heroism he had shown, of her own usage of him, and of his remembrance of her in the midst of his worst danger, she could not see him without more emotion than she desired. He was like a witness against her, and his consciousness WOULD infect her! She longed for some of the cool manner that had come so readily with Percy, and with some difficulty brought out a composed inquiry for Lady Lucy; but he disconcerted her again by the rapid eager way in which he turned round at her voice.
‘Lucy is very well, thank you; I left her staying with my cousins, the Delavals. It is very hard to get her away from home, and she threatens not to stay a day after my return.’ He spoke in a hasty confused way, as if trying to spin everything out of the answer, so as to remain conversing with Theodora as long as possible.
‘How long shall you be in town?’ she asked, trying to find something she could say without awkwardness.
‘I can hardly tell. I have a good deal to do. Pray’—turning to Lord Martindale—‘can you tell me which is the best shop to go to for agricultural implements?’
Speed the plough! Farming is a happy sedative for English noblemen of the nineteenth century, thought Theodora, as she heard them discussing subsoil and rocks, and thought of the poet turned high farmer, and forgetting even love and embarrassment! However, she had the satisfaction of hearing, ‘No, we cannot carry it out thoroughly there without blowing up the rocks, and I cannot have the responsibility of defacing nature.’
‘Then you cannot be a thorough-going farmer.’
‘I cannot afford it, and would not if I could. It is only for the sake of showing the tenants that I am not devoid of the spirit of the age.’
Country gentlemen being happier in agricultural implement shops than anywhere else, Lord Martindale offered to accompany his friend and give his counsel. He would go up-stairs to see how Arthur was, and carry the parcel to Violet.
‘Pray tell Mrs. Martindale that her mother and sisters sent all manner of kind messages. Very pleasing people they are,’ said Lord St. Erme; ‘and Mrs. Moss was so very kind to my poor little sister that we hardly know how to be sufficiently grateful.’
‘I never saw any of the family but the brother,’ said Theodora.
‘And he is not the best specimen,’ said Lord St. Erme. ‘Some of the young ladies are remarkably nice people, very sensible, and Lucy is continually discovering some kindness of theirs among the poor people. Ah! that reminds me, perhaps you could tell me whether you know anything of a school in your neighbourhood, from which a master has been recommended to me—St. Mary’s, Whiteford.’
‘I don’t know much of it; I believe the clergyman takes pains about it.’
‘Do you think they would have a superior man there! Our funds are low, and we must not look for great attainments at present. It is easy to cram a man if he is intelligent; I only want a person who can keep up what is taught, and manage the reading-room on nights when we are not there.’
‘Have you a reading-room?’
‘Only at Wrangerton as yet; I want to set up another at Coalworth.’
‘Then you find it answer? How do you arrange?’
‘Two nights in the week we read to them, teach singing, or get up a sort of lecture. The other days there are books, prints, newspapers; and you will be surprised to see how much they appreciate them. There’s a lad now learning to draw, whose taste is quite wonderful! And if you could have seen their faces when I read them King Henry IV! I want to have the same thing at Coalworth for the winter—not in summer. I could not ask them to spend a minute, they can help, out of the free air and light; but in winter I cannot see those fine young men and boys dozing themselves into stolidity.’
Was this the man who contemned the whole English peasantry, colliers especially? Theodora rejoiced that his hobby had saved her a world of embarrassment, and still more that their tete-a-tete was interrupted. Lady Elizabeth Brandon begged to know whether Miss Martindale could see her.
She was on her way through London; and having just heard of Colonel Martindale’s illness, had come to inquire, and offer to be useful. Emma remained at the hotel. After Lord Martindale’s cheerful answer and warm thanks, the gentlemen set off together, and Theodora sat down with her good old friend to give the particulars, with all the fulness belonging to the first relief after imminent peril.
After the first, however, Lady Elizabeth’s attention wandered; and before the retrograding story had gone quite back to the original Brogden cough, she suddenly asked if Percival Fotheringham was in England.
‘Yes, at Worthbourne. You know it was his cousin—’
‘I know—it was a mistake,’ said Lady Elizabeth, hurrying over the subject, as by no means suited its importance in Theodora’s eyes. ‘Can you tell me whether he has seen or heard anything of Mr. Mark Gardner?’
‘Yes,’ said Theodora, surprised.
‘I suppose you have not heard him say how he is conducting himself?’
‘Have you heard that he is going to be married to Mrs. Finch?’
Theodora was astonished at the effect of this communication on her sober staid old friend. She started, made an incredulous outcry, caused it to be repeated, with its authority, then rose up, exclaiming, ‘The wretch! My poor Emma! I never was more rejoiced. But Emma!’
The sight of Theodora’s surprise recalled her to herself. ‘Ah! you do not know?’ she said; and having gone so far, was obliged to explain, with expressions of gratitude to Arthur and Violet for having so well guarded a secret that now might continue hidden for ever.
Theodora was slow in comprehending, so monstrous was the idea of Emma Brandon engaged to Mark Gardner! She put her hands before her eyes, and said she must be dreaming—she could not credit it. When convinced, there was something in her manner that pleased and comforted Lady Elizabeth by the kind feeling and high esteem it showed.
‘Let me ask you one question, my dear,’ she said, ‘just to set my mind at rest. I was told that your brother’s affairs were involved with those of that unhappy man. I trust it is no longer so.’
Theodora explained, as far as she understood, how Percy had extricated him.
‘Ah!’ said Lady Elizabeth, ‘I fear we are in some degree the cause. My poor Emma was imprudent enough to quote Colonel Martindale; and she has told me that she was frightened by a pale look of anger that crossed his face, and something which he muttered between his teeth. But he made her believe Arthur his seducer!’
‘Poor Arthur! If you knew all!’ said Theodora; ‘and who—’ then breaking off, ‘Percy did tell papa that it was all Mr. Gardner’s revenge for Arthur’s not consenting to some nefarious transaction. Depend upon it, that was it! You asked Violet, you say. Percy said that, among the sentences he overheard on the quay, there was something about a wife who had crossed him, and who should suffer for it. He said it was spoken with a hard-hearted wickedness that, even when he did not know who it was, made him long to crush him like a reptile; and when he had seen Violet and the children, though it might be interference, he said he could as soon have left them in the folds of a serpent!’
‘Ah! my poor girl!’
‘But this frees her. Oh! she cannot grieve for such a wretch!’
‘I fear her attachment is so strong that she will not see it in this light.’
‘When he gives her up without a word, she ought to be too angry to grieve.’
‘I do not think that is in her nature.’
‘So much the better. Anger and comfort cannot go together. Oh, one so good and gentle must be helped! How I wish I could do anything for her; but she will be better at home. It is lucky there are no associations with him there.’
‘I wish she was at home. Theresa Marstone is staying with her brother in London, and I left her with Emma at the hotel.’
‘Fortunately there cannot be two ways of thinking on this matter,’ said Theodora.
Lady Elizabeth was too anxious to break the tidings to her daughter to wait at that time to see Violet; and went, promising to come to-morrow to report how the blow should have been borne.
Theodora was glad when she had a little space in which to think over the events of the day.
Ever since she had embraced the lesson of humility, the once despised Emma Brandon had been rising in her estimation. The lowliness of her manners, and the heart-whole consistency of her self-devotion, had far outweighed her little follies, and, together with remorse for having depreciated and neglected her, had established her claim to respect and admiration.
And now to find the old prediction verified, and Emma led away by so absurd a delusion, might have seemed a triumph, had not Theodora been thoroughly humbled. She only saw a humiliating contrast between the true pure heart that blindly gave its full affections, and that which could pretend to have given itself away, and then, out of mere impatience of restraint, play with and torture the love it had excited, and, still worse, foster an attachment it never meant to requite!
She was the more sensible of this latter delinquency now that Lord St. Erme had just been brought before her, deserving all that man could deserve; having more than achieved all to which she had incited him, and showing a constancy unchecked by the loss of her personal attractions. His blushing homage came almost as a compensating contrast after her severe mortification at Percy’s surprise and subsequent cool composure.
While reproaching herself for this feeling, her father came home, and with him the Earl. They had been occupied all the afternoon, and had fallen into conversation on county business. Lord Martindale, finding his young friend was alone at his hotel, thought he had better dine with them, since Violet need not be troubled about it. Theodora wondered whether it had occurred to her father that some one else might be troubled, and that it might seem like a renewal of encouragement; but the fact was, that after ten days of the sick-room, his society was a positive treat to Lord Martindale, and in advising him on magistrate’s business, he forgot everything else.
The dinner went off without embarrassment. Lord St. Erme did indeed blush when he offered his arm to her; but with consideration that seemed to understand her, he kept up the conversation chiefly with Lord Martindale on rates, police, and committees.
She thought of the horror he had been wont to express of the English squirearchy, ‘whose arena is the quarter sessions;’ and she remembered standing up for them, and declaring there was far more honest, sturdy, chivalrous maintenance of right and freedom in their history than in all his beloved Lombardic republics. And now, what was he but a thorough-going country gentleman, full of plans of usefulness, sparing neither thought, time, nor means; and though some of his views were treated by Lord Martindale as wild and theoretical, yet, at any rate, they proved that he had found living men a more interesting study than the Apollo Belvedere.
Theodora was resolved that Violet should see him, and now that the dinner was eaten and beyond anxiety, went up to disclose his presence, and persuade her to go down to tea and leave her with the patient. She found it was well she had kept her counsel; Violet took it quietly enough; but Arthur chose to concern himself as to what wine had been produced, and would have sent a message to James if his sister had not assured him that it was too late.
He insisted on Violet’s going down to the drawing-room, and would not hear of Theodora’s remaining with him. The nurse was in the outer room, and Johnnie was made supremely happy by being allowed to sit up an hour longer to be his companion; and thus with Lord Martindale and Theodora making frequent expeditions to visit him, Violet was sufficiently tranquil to remain as long in the drawing-room as was worth the fatigue of the transit.
She could enjoy her talk with the Earl; and, indeed, since Annette’s visit, she had heard no tidings so full and satisfactory. He knew the name of every one at Wrangerton; he seemed to have learnt to love Helvellyn; he spoke very highly of Olivia’s husband, Mr. Hunt, declaring that he liked nothing better than a visit to his most beautiful place, Lassonthwayte, a farm fit for the poets, and had learnt a great deal from him; and of Mrs. Moss he talked with affectionate gratitude that brought the tears into Violet’s eyes, especially when he promised to go and call on her immediately on his return, to tell her how Colonel Martindale was going on, and describe to her her grandchildren. He repeated to Violet how kind her mother had been to his sister, and how beautifully she had nursed him. Lord Martindale began to ask questions, which brought out a narration of his adventures in the coal-pit, given very simply, as if his being there had been a mere chance.
He allowed that he knew it to be dangerous, but added, that it was impossible to get things done by deputy, and that he had no choice but to see about it himself, and he dwelt much on the behaviour of the men.
‘Did you give up hope?’ asked Lord Martindale.
‘For myself I did. The confined air oppressed me so much, even before the sense of hunger came on, that it seemed to take away all power of thought and action.’
‘Yet you did think?’ said Violet.
‘I was obliged, for the men were more confounded and helpless at first, though, when once directed, nothing could be more resolute and persevering! Brave fellows! I would not but have had it happen! One seldom has such a chance of seeing the Englishman’s gallant heart of obedient endurance. It was curious to observe the instinctive submission. Some were men who would not for worlds have touched their hats to me above ground; yet, as soon as I tried to take the lead, and make them think what could yet be done, they obeyed instantly, though I knew almost nothing compared to them, and while they worked like giants, I could hardly move.’
‘Was it very acute suffering?’
‘For the last two days it was, but it was worse for those who had to work. I was generally faint and drowsy, and could hardly rouse myself to speak a word of encouragement, which was what they wanted. They fancied it was vain to work towards the old shaft, but I was sure none of them could live to be dug out from above, and that it would be wrong to let them cease. I think, as well as I recollect, that speaking was the worst pain of all. But it is no harm to know what the poor undergo.’
‘Hardly to such extremity,’ said Violet.
‘Well, I know I shall never turn indifferently away again when I hear, “We are starving.” A man feels little for what he has not experienced.’
‘I suppose,’ said Lord Martindale, ‘that it has put an extinguisher on Chartism?’
‘There are some determined village Hampdens still, but I think the fellow-feeling it has excited has done good. I have not been able to go among them since, but they have indefatigably come to inquire for me. The first Sunday I was able to come down-stairs, I found the hall door beset with them in their best, looking like a synod of Methodist preachers. Poor Lucy shocked my aunt by running about crying, and shaking hands with their great horny fists. I fancy “our young lady,” as they call her, is the strongest anti-chartist argument.’
Though talking in this animated manner he was far from strong, and went away early, looking thoroughly tired. Theodora had stitched away throughout the conversation in silence; but Violet knew, by the very fixity of her eye, that she was feeling it deeply and there was consciousness in the absence of word or look, with which she let the Earl bid her good night. It was a strange thing to have been in part the means of forming so noble a character, and yet to regard her share in it with nothing but shame.
Self-reproachful and unhappy, Theodora went to take her turn of watching her brother for the first part of the night. She could not have borne to be told, what was in fact the case, that he was generally more uncomfortable under her care than that of any one else, chiefly because there was not the restraint either of consideration for his wife, or of the authority of his father. Besides, she was too visibly anxious, too grave and sad, to find anything cheerful with which to divert his attention; and he was sure to become restless and exacting, or else depressed, either as to his illness or his affairs.
To-night he had discovered Lady Elizabeth’s visit, and was anxious to know whether Gardner had broken with Miss Brandon. Theodora would not encourage his talking; and this teased him, only making him say more till she had told all, adding, ‘O Arthur! what a comfort it must be that this is brought upon you by your having tried to save Emma!’
‘Not much of that. It was Violet. I would have stopped her writing if I could.’
Perhaps this downfall of the heroism with which she had been endowing his resistance, was one of the most cruel blows of all.
‘If he marries Mrs. Finch, he must at least pay off what he owes me;’ and he began perplexing himself with reckonings. Theodora saw his brow drawn together, and his lips moving, and begged him to desist and try to sleep.
‘You have interrupted me—I have lost it!’ and he tried again. ‘No, I can’t get it right. There is a lot of papers in my writing-case. You’ll see to it. It will be something for Violet and the children. Mind the claim is sent in;’ and again he strove to explain, while she entreated him to put such things out of his mind; and it ended in such violent coughing, that Lord Martindale heard, came in, and with a look that told her how ill she managed, sent her to bed, where she vexed herself for hours at Arthur’s seeming to dwell only on his gaming debts, instead of on what she longed to see occupying his mind. Her elasticity seemed to have been destroyed by her illness, and she had lost the vigour which once would have made her rise against depression. The reappearance of Percy and of Lord St. Erme seemed only to have wearied and perplexed her; and she lay awake, feeling worn, confused, and harassed, and only wishing to hide her head and be at rest.
Arthur had a bad night, and was not so well in the morning, and while Lord Martindale was wondering why Theodora could not have been more cautious, the letters came in—one from Brogden—making it evident that Lady Martindale was so unwell and dispirited, that she ought not to be left alone any longer. Lord Martindale, therefore, decreed that Theodora should return, taking with her the three eldest children. And she could make no objection; she ought to submit to be passively disposed of; and, grievous as it was to leave her brother and Violet, there was compensation in avoiding her former suitors.
Lady Elizabeth came in almost at the same time as Lord Martindale went out, after breakfast. She was in great distress. Poor Emma treated the whole as a calumny; and when shown the absolute certainty that Mark was at Paris, daily calling on Mrs. Finch, remained persuaded that his cousin had perverted him from the first, and was now trying to revive her pernicious influence when he might have been saved; or that perhaps he was driven to an immediate wealthy marriage by his honourable feeling and his necessities. It was all her own fault for not having taken him at once. Lady Elizabeth had hardly been able to prevent her from writing to revoke the year’s probation, and offer him all that was needed to satisfy his creditors.
Theodora could not help exclaiming, that she thought Emma would have had more dignity.
‘So I told her, my dear; but it seemed to be no consolation. I do not feel secure that, though she has promised me not to write, Theresa Marstone may not.’
‘Is Miss Marstone still in his favour?’
‘I can still less understand her view,’ said Lady Elizabeth, with a grave, sad simplicity, almost like satire; ‘she says it only convinces her that the Church of England does not know how to treat penitents.’
Theodora could not help laughing, and Lady Elizabeth nearly joined her, though sighing and saying that such talk gave her other fears for Emma. She dreaded that Miss Marstone was unsettled in her allegiance to her Church, and that her power over Emma was infusing into her her own doubts.
‘It is very sad—very strange! I cannot understand it,’ said Theodora. ‘I had always believed that such innocence and lowliness as Emma and Violet have was a guard against all snares; yet here is Emma led astray by these very excellences!’
‘My dear,’ said Lady Elizabeth, ‘I think it is the want of that lowliness that is at the root with my poor child. It is a dangerous thing for a girl to throw herself into an exclusive friendship, especially when the disapproval of her own family is felt. I tried, but I never could like Theresa Marstone; and now I see that she liked to govern Emma, and depreciated my judgment—very justly, perhaps; but still I was her mother, and it was not kind to teach her to think doing as I wished a condescension.’
‘So Emma sold all her senses to her friend?’
‘Yes, and Miss Marstone keeps them still. Theresa taught her to think herself wiser than all, and their own way of talking the proof of goodness.’
‘Ay! their passwords.’
‘Just so, and I do believe it was that kind of vanity that took from her her power of discerning and the instinctive shrinking from evil.’
‘It is very easy to make simplicity silliness,’ said Theodora. ‘I beg your pardon, Lady Elizabeth, I did not mean to blame her, but I was thinking how truly you spoke.’
‘And now, may I ask to see Mrs. Martindale; or will it be too much for her?’
‘She will be glad, but she was tired with coming down to Lord St. Erme. And now, Arthur’s bad night! Oh! Lady Elizabeth, you come from your griefs to ours. It is a shame to make you share them!’
‘I do not think so,’ said Lady Elizabeth. ‘There is a tract of Hannah More’s showing that to bear another’s burden lightens our own; and all old people will tell you that many troubles together weigh less heavily than a single one.’
Theodora could not think so; each of her cares seemed to make the others worse, till the mere toil and vexation of Helen’s lessons became serious; and yet, when the children were dismissed for their walk, she felt unable to profit by her leisure, otherwise than by sighing at the prospect of missing the power of looking in at Arthur from hour to hour. She had not roused herself to occupation, when, to her dismay, Lord St. Erme was admitted. She began to say her father was not at home.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I met him.’
He means mischief! thought Theodora.
‘He tells me that you are going away!’
‘I believe so,’ said Theodora. ‘My mother is not well, and we cannot both be spared from home.’
‘Will you forgive me?’ said the Earl, still standing, and with downcast eyes, and heightened complexion. ‘I know this is no fit time, but I could not part without one allusion. I would not harass you for worlds. A word from you, and I drop the subject.’
‘Oh! pray, then, say no more!’ was her breathless entreaty.
He turned in silence, with a mournful gesture of farewell, and laid his hand on the door. She perceived her unkindness to one who had every claim to honour and consideration—one who had remembered her in well-nigh the hour of death.
‘Stay,’ she said; ‘I did not speak as I ought.’
‘I know I presumed too far,’ said Lord St. Erme, pausing; ‘I ask your pardon for disturbing you. It was selfish; but I could not let you go without once adverting to the subject—’
There was a tremor of voice, an eager look, that made her fear that the crushed hope was reviving, and she hastened to say, ‘The best thing would be that you should think no more about me.’
‘Impossible!’ he vehemently cried; then, catching himself up, and speaking in the same deferential tone as at first, ‘I owe you far too much to cease to think of you.’
‘It is a great pity,’ said Theodora; ‘I never deserved such feelings, and they make me wish more and more that all could be undone.’
‘No! no!’ exclaimed Lord St. Erme, his eyes lighting and his cheek glowing, while his fair young features wore a look that was all poet and knight. ‘Would I see what is past undone? It was the turning-point of my life—the call to arms. Hitherto, life had been to me a dream in an enchanted garden, with the same secret weariness and dissatisfaction! I dread the thought of the time and means I lavished away, fancying because it was not vice it was not dissipation. It was then that I became unworthy of you. It was you who taught me where lies modern chivalry, and made my folly and conceit cease to despise the practical; showed me—may I quote German to you once more?—that “Das Leben ist keine Lustfahrt sondern theils eine kampfes, theils eine Pilger-weise.” I took up my staff, at first, I own, in hopes of winning you—’
‘You did not persevere merely for that reason?’
‘No; when my eyes were once opened to the festering sin and misery around, when I saw the evil nourished at my own door by my neglect, and perceived that those dependent on me were doomed to degradation and oppression that I might gratify my craving for art,—then, indeed, I was appalled! Those paintings and statues seemed to cry out to me that human souls had been sacrificed to them! The toil and devotion of a life would be too little to atone! Oh! that it were more able and effective. Means and judgment go but a little way!’
‘Your heart and happiness are in the work,’ said Theodora, seeing how he was carried away by his feelings.
‘Yes. There is a sense like the labourer’s at his daily task, and though there is the mountain of things undone, there is the hope that all are not wilfully neglected. It is for this that I longed to thank you. When I was in danger, I knew what it would have been to wait for death before I thought of—of the way of peace. I blessed you in my heart then—I thank you now.’
‘Thank Him who has brought good out of evil, was all Theodora could say.
He bowed his head gravely, and continued: ‘Now, thank you again for having listened. It has been a great satisfaction to me to acknowledge my obligations. Do not suppose I came to London intending to distress you with my pertinacity, or with any idea of having earned your favour. I was obliged to come; and when once near you, I could not bear to separate without, at least, entreating to know whether the former obstacle exists.’
‘It does,’ said Theodora, looking down; ‘I believe it always will. I lament more than I can express, my conduct towards you; and what you have told me grieves me more in one way, though in another it is most consoling. You have the true secret of peace, and I know all must be well with you. If you had done otherwise, it would have been far worse for me. Tell Lucy I have not forgotten her. I am sure she has the true light-hearted sort of happiness.’
‘She has, indeed,’ said Lord St. Erme; and he entered into a description of his sister’s doings; her perfect content with their seclusion, and her influence over the dependants. So eager did he grow in his favourite subject, the welfare of his people, that he seemed to have forgotten what had brought him to Cadogan-place, and Theodora was convinced that though the being brought into contact with her had for the time renewed the former attachment, it was in reality by no means the prominent thought of his life. His duties and the benefit of his colliers were what engrossed his mind; and with his sister to render his home happy, everything else was secondary. When it did occur to him to think of love, it was for Theodora; but he had no more time for such thoughts than most other busy practical men.
He discoursed upon his schools and reading-rooms till the children came in, and then bade her good-bye, quite as if he had talked himself back into an every-day state of feeling.
Was Theodora mortified? She went to her own room to analyze her sensations, but was almost immediately followed by Johnnie, coming to tell her that the owl-man was in the drawing-room.
‘Another who is consoled!’ thought she. ‘Humiliating, indeed, it is to see such complete cures. There is no need to be absurd and conscious at this meeting! But here I do, indeed, need forgiveness—how my heart aches to ask it—his mere pardon for my offences! If I could only have it out with him without compromising womanly proprieties! That can’t be; I must bear it!’
On the stairs she heard Helen’s voice. ‘He came yesterday, to the evening dinner, but I don’t like him.’
‘Why not?’ asked Percy.
‘Because he says I am just like Aunt Theodora, and I am not.’
Theodora knew whom she meant. Lord St. Erme had been much struck by her little niece’s resemblance, and Helen resented the comparison as an indignity to her beauty. She felt extremely annoyed at Percy’s hearing this; then recollected it did not signify to him, and entered just as he was telling little Miss Vanity that she was the silliest child he had ever the honour of meeting.
There was some constraint, on her part, in the short conversation on Arthur’s health that ensued, before he went up; and he only returned to the drawing-room for a moment, to assure her that he thought Arthur much better than when he had last seen him.
‘He avoids me! he cannot endure me!’ she thought, and yet she felt doubly averse to the idea of returning to Brogden.
Lord Martindale came in with a look of expectation on his face which grieved Theodora, for she knew her refusal would be a disappointment to him. He sent the children away, paused for her to begin, and at last asked: ‘Well, my dear, has Lord St. Erme been here?’
‘Yes papa;’ and it was plain enough how it had been. Lord Martindale sighed. The rest being equal, it was not in human nature not to prefer an Earl to an almost penniless author. ‘I would not urge you on any account,’ he said; ‘but I wish it could have been otherwise.’
‘So do I, most heartily,’ said Theodora.
‘It is very different now,’ said Lord Martindale. Four years ago I could hardly have wished it. Now, I think most highly of him, and I should have been rejoiced to have seen his constancy rewarded.’
‘I am ashamed and grieved,’ said Theodora. ‘He did, indeed, deserve better things. He is a noble character; and I cannot honour or esteem him enough, nor sufficiently regret the way I treated him. But, indeed, papa, it would not be right. I cannot help it.’
‘Well, there is no more to be said,’ sighed Lord Martindale. ‘I know you will do right.’
Something was won since her former dismissal of the Earl! Her father gave her a look full of confidence and affection; and made happy by it, she rallied her spirits and said, ‘Besides, what a pair it would be! We should be taken for a pretty little under-graduate and his mother!’
‘That will not last, my dear,’ said Lord Martindale, vexed though smiling at her droll manner. ‘You are younger than he.’
‘In years, but not in mind,’ said Theodora. ‘No, no, papa; you have me for life, and it is hard you should be so anxious to get rid of me!’
‘I only wish to consult your happiness, my dear child.’
‘And that always was in fancying myself necessary,’ said Theodora, gaily, though there was a trembling in her voice; and when she went up to her own room, she hid her face in her hands, and felt as if life was very dreary and uninteresting, and as if it was a miserable exile to be sent into the country just now, to have to force cheerful conversation for her mother, and to be wearied with Helen’s wild spirits. ‘But have I not deserved everything? And after my brother has been spared so far, how can I repine at any selfish trouble?’
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