Herself, almost heartbroken now,
Was bent to take the vestal vow,
And shroud, within St. Hilda’s gloom,
Her wasted hopes and withered bloom.
—SCOTT
Violet, when called to consult with her father-in-law in the outer room, felt a sort of blank apprehension and consternation at the idea of being separated from her children; and a moment’s reflection satisfied her that in one case at least she might rightly follow the dictates of her own heart. She said that she thought Johnnie could not be spared by his papa.
Lord Martindale’s eye followed hers, and through the half-closed door saw Johnnie, sitting on the bed, reading to his father, who listened with amused, though languid attention.
‘I believe you are right,’ he said; ‘though I wish I had the boy in the country doing no lessons. He puts me more in mind of his uncle every day.’
‘One of the highest compliments Johnnie has ever had,’ said Violet, colouring with pleasure; ‘but I am afraid to trust him away from me and Mr. Harding in the winter because of his croup.’
‘Ah! then it cannot be,’ he answered; ‘and I do not think I would take him from his father now, but his sisters must come; they would be too much for you without Theodora.’
Violet could only be mournfully thankful, and the project was in time laid before Arthur.
‘Send my little girls away!’ said he, looking discomfited. ‘Oh! if you wish to keep them’—joyfully exclaimed Violet.
‘I thought that if Theodora went home, Violet would hardly be able to manage them,’ said Lord Martindale.
‘If they are in her way,’ said Arthur, and his eyes smiled at her, knowing what her decision would be.
‘Oh! no, no! It was their grandpapa’s kindness.’ Johnnie and Helen here peeped into the room; Arthur beckoned to them, and said, ‘How should you like to go into the country with Aunt Theodora?’
‘To see grandmamma and the peacock?’ said Lord Martindale. Johnnie clung to his mother’s hand, piteously whispering, ‘Oh! don’t send me away, mamma—I would try to bear it if I ought.’
Helen climbed the bed, and sturdily seated herself close to her papa. ‘I shall not desert my father and mother,’ said she, with great dignity, drawing up her head.
‘No more you shall, my little heroine!’ said Arthur, throwing his arm round her, while she glanced with saucy triumph at her grandfather.
In the silence of night, when Arthur was alone with his father, he said, ‘If those little girls go away now, they will never remember me.’
To this plea there could be no reply; for though the danger was no longer imminent, it was still extremely doubtful whether he would ever leave his room again.
His wish to keep the children made Lord Martindale reconsider of sending Theodora home, and he desired Violet to choose between her and himself. She thought Theodora the most effective, and Arthur seemed to prefer her remaining, so that she found herself disposed of according to her wishes, her father only stipulating that she should not neglect rest, air, or exercise, of which she stood in evident need.
Every one observed her haggard looks on the day when they met for the baptism of ‘Arthur Fotheringham.’ It was a melancholy christening, without the presence of either parent; and so all the little party felt it, and yet, if they could have seen into the recesses of the mother’s heart, they would have found there were causes which made this baptism day better to her than any of the former ones.
The godfather came afterwards to see Arthur, who believed him more than all the doctors when he assured him he was making progress. Arthur began to speak of the debt; he wished before his father went to have a settlement of accounts, take steps for selling his commission, and repaying Percy.
‘No,’ said Percy, ‘wait till you are better and can look about you. Sell your commission indeed, and take the bread out of your children’s mouths! No, if you did choose to do that, it must in honour and justice be divided among all your creditors.’
Arthur was forced to give up.
Emma Brandon had not joined the christening party. Miss Marstone had actually written to Mark Gardner, and had in reply received an acknowledgment of her ‘good offices, which had gone far to enable him to justify the bets that before Christmas he would have a wife with ten thousand pounds a year!’ He did not quite venture to insult Miss Brandon, but sent her a cool message of farewell. The rest of the letter, the friends declared, was evidently by Mrs. Finch’s dictation. They shut themselves up together; Lady Elizabeth was not allowed to help her daughter, and came to Cadogan-place chiefly that she might talk over her troubles with Theodora, who put her into communication with Percy, and from him she heard a brief sketch of Mr. Gardner’s life and adventures, still less disposing her to desire him as a son-in-law.
She was certainly safe from this danger, but her cares were not thus ended. If Emma would have shared her griefs with her, and admitted her attempts at consolation, she would have been more at ease, but as it was, Emma was reserved with her, and attached herself solely to Theresa Marstone, whom she even made a sort of interpreter between her and her mother, so that Lady Elizabeth only knew as much of her mind as her confidante chose to communicate.
Not only was this most painful to her feelings as a mother, but she had serious doubts of the safety of such a companion. The extreme silliness of Theresa’s vanity and exclusiveness had long been visible, and as it was the young lady’s fashion to imagine the defect anywhere but in her own judgment, there were symptoms of the mischief having been by her attributed to the Church of England. As if to console herself for the shock she had sustained, she was turning to a new fancy, for when a woman once begins to live upon excitement, she will seek for the intoxication anywhere.
This perception made Lady Elizabeth resolve that as long as she was mistress of Rickworth, she would not again invite Miss Marstone thither; while Emma was equally determined not to go home without her only friend. Thus the mother and daughter lingered on in London, Theresa often coming to spend the day with Emma, and Lady Elizabeth having recourse to the Martindale family, and trying to make herself of use by amusing the children, sitting in Arthur’s room, or taking Theodora for a walk or drive.
One morning she came in to say that Emma was going to drive to Islington to call upon Miss Marstone, who had gone two days previously to stay with some friends there, and to beg that Theodora would accompany her. Aware that it would be as great a penance to Emma as to herself, Theodora would fain have been excused, but let herself be overruled on Lady Elizabeth’s promise to supply her place at home, and assurance that it would be a positive relief that she should be of the party, even if she did not get out of the carriage, as a check upon the length of time Emma would spend with her friend.
The two unwilling companions set forth, each in her own comer of the carriage, Emma leaning back, her thick blue veil hiding her face; Theodora, who always repudiated veils, sitting upright, her face turned, so as to catch the breeze on her hot temples, wishing she could turn herself into Violet, and possess her power of sweet persuasion and consolation. She could think of nothing to say, and began at last to fear that her silence might appear unkind. She tried to interest Emma by speaking of Johnnie, but she only obtained brief replies, and the conversation had dropped before they left the streets and entered on suburban scenery. Theodora exclaimed at a gorgeous Virginian creeper—
‘Almost as fine as the one at the Priory,’ said she.
Emma looked and sighed.
‘Rickworth must be in high glory. I know nothing prettier than the many-coloured woods sloping into the meadow, with the soft mist rising. You will find home beautiful.’
‘I cannot bear the thought of it,’ said Emma, in an under-tone.
‘How glad your little orphans will be! How many have you?’
‘There are five.’
Theodora saw she hated the subject, but thought it good for her, and went on to tell her of a case at Whitford, cramming the subject into her ear at first against the stomach of her sense, but it could not but exact attention, a widow sinking in a decline after sorrows which, by comparison, made all young lady troubles shrink into atoms. Emma became interested, and began to ask questions.
‘You will go to see the mother? Poor thing, I hope she may be alive to hear of the prospect for her child. I am sorry to be unable to go and see her, and should be so glad to know you near and able to attend to her.’
‘We will write to the housekeeper,’ said Emma.
‘Are you not going back yourself?’
‘I don’t know; I have no heart to think of it.’
‘Emma,’ said Theodora, ‘we need not go on as if we did not understand each other. Violet can attend to you now; I wish you would talk to her. No one can comfort as she can.’
‘I do not wish to tease her with my—’
‘She knows, she longs to help you. Don’t you know how fond of you she always was? You two appreciated each other from the first.’
‘It is of no use. She never entered into my views. She does not understand. It is her situation I blame, not herself. She is a dear creature, and I once had a strong girlish enthusiasm for her.’
‘Once!’ cried Theodora; ‘what has she ever done to lessen enthusiasm for all that is good and lovely?’
Emma hung her head, alarmed; and Theodora more gently insisted, till, by the power which in childhood she had exerted over Emma, she forced out an answer. ‘Forgive me, if I must tell you. I have thought her too fond of going out. It was no wonder, so very young as she was. I do not find fault, but it seemed to dispel an illusion that she was superior to other people. Don’t you remember one party she would go to against warning, that one where she fainted? I could never feel the same for her afterwards.’
Theodora was silent for a few seconds, then exclaimed, ‘O Violet, is there no end to the injuries I have done you? Emma, never judge without seeing behind the curtain. It was my fault. It was when I was crazed with wilfulness. Your mother offered to chaperon me, I was set on going with Mrs. Finch, and as the only means of preventing that, Violet sacrificed herself. I did not know she likewise sacrificed the friendship of the only person, except John, who had been kind to her.’
‘I wish Theresa had known this,’ said Emma.
‘Now YOU know it, will you not turn to Violet for advice and comfort? I know what she can be. If you could guess what she saved me from, you would fly at once to her.’
‘I cannot begin now, I cannot look anywhere that recalls past happiness!’ said Emma, murmuring low, as though the words, in spite of herself, broke from her oppressed heart. ‘Would that I could hide my head! Oh! that I had wings like a dove!’
‘Emma, you have them. They may carry you into what seems to be a wilderness, but go bravely on, and you will be at rest at last.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The wings of duty.’
‘If I only knew where it was.’
‘Your mother, your dependants, your orphans, your beautiful old plan.
Emma only groaned, and held up her hand in deprecation.
‘I have felt it,’ continued Theodora. ‘I know how vain, and vapid, and weary everything seems, as if the sap of life was gone, but if we are content to remain in the wilderness, it begins to blossom at last, indeed it does.’
‘I thought you had had no troubles,’ said Emma, with more interest. ‘They could not have been such as mine.’
‘In one respect they were worse, for they were entirely my own fault.’
‘May I ask, is there no hope for you?’
‘No, said Theodora, ‘I believe there is none. But a certain peaceful feeling, independent of that, came after the desolateness, and has never gone utterly away, though I have had to reap the harvest of the evil that I sowed. Oh! depend upon it, there is nothing like resolutely facing the day’s work.’
Emma made no answer; they had come to the gate of a villa, and Theodora thought she might as well have held her peace, since Theresa would undo the whole.
Miss Marstone was not within, but she had left a note for Miss Brandon. Emma, after reading it, timidly said that Theresa had gone to spend the day with a friend, who was boarding in a convent not far off, and that she wished her to come and make her visit to her there. Then timidly glancing towards her companion, she desired to be driven thither, but Theodora, leaning forward, said, in an authoritative manner, ‘Drive on two miles on the road. We will say where next when we come back.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ she said to Emma, ‘but this is not a step to be taken inconsiderately.’
Emma did not reply; Theodora perceived that her decided manner had terrified her. ‘I am sorry if I was rude,’ she said; ‘I did not mean it, but I thought you were acting precipitately, and that you would be glad to have time to reflect before going to this place without your mother’s knowledge.’
‘It is not precipitately,’ said Emma, faintly.
‘You don’t mean that this was a pre-concerted scheme. If so, pray let me out, and I will go home alone.’
‘No, no, I did not mean exactly—don’t use such words, Theodora. Only sister Mary Angela—Theresa’s great friend—had joined the Roman communion. Theresa wished me to see her and the convent, and said that perhaps I might find her there. If I had told mamma, she would have fancied I should be kidnapped like young ladies in books. I believe you expect it yourself,’ said Emma, giggling hysterically.
‘I think, and she thinks nothing but what is rational,’ said Theodora, coldly, ‘that it is a sad thing to see you taught to resort to subterfuges, and that they can lead into no safe course.’
‘You do not know Theresa, or you would not accuse her of what she would detest.’
‘I speak from what I see. She has arranged in secret that, without your mother’s knowledge, you should by stealth go to a place where you both know Lady Elizabeth would be shocked to hear of you.’
‘I thought you understood the true Catholic spirit,’ said Emma, ‘and were interested in these things.’
‘The Catholic spirit is anything but such treatment of a mother,’ said Theodora. ‘Once for all, do you mean to go to this place, or do you not? I see a cab, and if you go I return home in that.’
‘Of course then I must give it up.’
‘Now, and for ever, unless with your mother’s consent, I hope,’ said Theodora.
Emma did not answer, and they proceeded for some distance, Theodora wondering what could be her companion’s frame of mind, and what she ought to do next. So far, it was the sort of compulsion she had been wont to employ in the unscrupulous hours of childhood; but this was no gain—Emma’s reason ought to be convinced, and of this she had little hope. Miss Brandon was the first to break silence. That word subterfuge rankled, as it must in any honourable mind, and she began—‘I wish you would do Theresa justice. No one can have a greater contempt than she for anything underhand.’
Theodora tried not to laugh, and could not help pitying the fond affections that were blind to every fault in the beloved object.
‘Ah!’ said Emma, in answer to her silence, ‘you think this bears the appearance of it; but you may be certain that Theresa is absolutely sure to act conscientiously.’
‘Some people follow their conscience—some drive it.’
‘Now, do let me explain it,’ entreated Emma, and talking eagerly and rather mistily, she told in many more words than were needful how Theresa had serious doubts as to what she termed Anglicanism, reckoning against it every laxity in doctrine or in discipline that came to her knowledge, and admiring everything in other branches of the Church. Emma, taking all for granted that Theresa said, was strongly of the same mind, and while both made high professions of attachment to their own communion, they were in a course of dwelling on all the allurements held out in other quarters. By some astonishing train of reasoning, frequent in persons in a state of excitement and self-deception, they had persuaded themselves that Mark Gardner’s return to his evil courses had been for want of a monastery to receive him; and their tendency to romance about conventual institutions had been exaggerated by the present state of Emma’s spirits, which gave her a desire to retire from the world, as well as a distaste to the projects in which she had lately given her false lover but too large a share. ‘Peace dwells in the cloister,’ she sighed.
‘You have the essentials of such a life in your power,’ said Theodora.
‘Not the fixed rule—the obedience.’
‘Oh! Emma! your mother!’
‘I want discipline—Church discipline as in primitive times,’ said Emma, impatiently.
‘The most primitive discipline of all is, “honour thy father and mother,”’ returned Theodora.
There was a silence. Theodora resumed—‘I know how one would rather do anything than what is required. Violet taught me then that we must not choose our cross.’
Another space, then Emma said, ‘And you call it a subterfuge?’
‘Can you honestly call it otherwise? Don’t bewilder us with explanations, but simply say what you would have thought of it six years ago.’
For Emma not to send forth a vapour of words was impossible, but they did not satisfy even herself. Those short terse sentences of Theodora’s told upon her, and at last she did not deny that she should not have thought it right if Theresa had not prompted it.
‘Is she more likely to be right, or is the Catechism?’
‘The Catechism?’
‘To be TRUE and just in all my dealings.’
‘She did not think it wrong.’
‘No, of course not, but if it is wrong, and she does not think it so, does that make her a safe guide?’
‘You want to set me against her!’
‘I want you to cease to give her a power over you, which is unsafe for any human being.’
‘You have been talking to mamma.’
‘I have been seeing how unhappy she is about you; but since I have talked to yourself I have seen far more danger.’
‘Poor mamma!’
‘May I tell you how your history appears to a looker-on? I know it will be painful, but I think it will be good for you.’
‘Well!’
‘You began beautifully. It was delightful to see how you and your mother went on in perfect confidence, ready to work at everything good together, and she sympathizing in all your projects, only bringing wise caution to restrain your ardour.’
‘Yes, we were very happy then,’ sighed Emma; ‘but mamma wished me to go into society.’
‘And wisely. Remember, in the conventual system, a girl cannot be a novice till she has had six months in which to see the world. It was right that you should count the cost. Besides, society in moderation is the best way to keep one’s mind from growing narrow. Well, then, you met Miss Marstone, and she excited your imagination. She is really clever and good, and I don’t wonder at your liking her; but I cannot think that she has done right in cultivating your exclusive preference till she has detached you from your mother.’
‘She did not always think with her.’
‘No, but a sound friend would always place the duty to your mother foremost. You made a Pope of her, believed all she said, did as she pleased, and she was flattered, and absorbed you more and more, till really you both came to treating Lady Elizabeth’s opinion as a nonentity. Can you deny it?’
‘No.’
More would have been said, but Theodora would not hear, and went on. ‘See the consequence. She made a fearful mistake, and but for your mother and your remaining regard to her authority, where should you have been now? All this misery could not have been if you had been safe under Lady Elizabeth’s wing.’
‘No!’ faintly said Emma.
‘And now, when your mother has saved you, and her heart is aching to comfort you, and take you back to the safe old nest where all your duties and schemes lie, Miss Marstone tries to keep you from her; and fancies she is doing the best and most conscientious thing by teaching you to elude her, and go where, to one in your state of mind, is temptation indeed. Oh! Emma, she may think it right; but are you acting kindly by the mother who has only you?’
Theodora was very glad to see tears. ‘I cannot bear to go home!’ presently said Emma.
‘Have you thought how badly all the poor people must be getting on without you? All your children—it is half a year since you saw them!’
Emma groaned.
‘Yes, it is bad enough at first. You have had a heavy trial indeed, poor Emma; but what is a trial but something to try us? Would it not be more manful to face the pain of going home, and to take up your allotted work? Then you would be submitting, not to a self-made rule, but to Heaven’s own appointment.’
Was Emma’s mind disengaged enough for curiosity, or did she want to quit the subject! She said—‘You have had a trial of this kind yourself?’
Theodora had a struggle. To tell the whole seemed to her as uncalled for as painful; and yet there must be reciprocity if there is to be confidence, and she could not bear to advise like one who had never erred. She therefore confessed how her happiness had been wrecked by her own fault, and related the subsequent misery; how Violet had repelled the disposition to exalt her rather than her parents, and had well-nigh forced her abroad, and how there in the dreary waste a well of peace had sprung up, and had been with her ever since.
Short as Theodora tried to make the story she so much disliked, it lasted till they were almost at home. It had its effect. To be thrown over upon Lady Martindale and Mrs. Nesbit at Baden could not but appear to Emma a worse lot than to be left to her own mother and Rickworth, which, after all, she loved so well; and the promise of peace to be won by following appointed paths was a refreshing sound.
She had, this whole time, never thought of her mother’s feelings, and the real affection she entertained was once more awake. Besides, to see how Theodora represented their scheme, not only shook her faith in Theresa, but alarmed her sense of right on her own account. In short, though she said no word, there was a warmth in her meeting with Lady Elizabeth, on their return, that gave Theodora hopes.
Next morning came a note.
‘My Dear Theodora,—I have decided to go home at once. I could not rest without Theresa’s explanation, so I have written to her, and I had rather have it by letter than in person. I talked till two o’clock last night with mamma, and we go home at twelve to-day. Tell Violet we will come in for a few moments to take leave.
‘Your affectionate,
‘E. E. B.’
‘There is one thing to be thankful for!’ said Theodora. The visit was very short; Emma hardly spoke or raised her eyes, and Theodora hoped that some of her timidity arose from repentance for her false judgment of Violet. To Theodora, she said—‘You shall see Theresa’s explanation,’ and Theodora deserved credit for not saying it would be a curiosity.
Lady Elizabeth did as she had not done since Theodora was a little child; she put her arm round her neck and kissed her affectionately, murmuring, ‘Thank you, my dear.’
This little scene seemed to brace Theodora for the trial of the evening. Percy had offered to sit up that night with Arthur, and she had to receive him, and wait with him in the drawing-room till he should be summoned. It was a hard thing to see him so distant and reserved, and the mere awkwardness was unpleasant enough. She could devise nothing to say that did not touch on old times, and he sat engrossed with a book the reviewal of which was to be his night’s employment.
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