Heartsease or Brother's Wife

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  Lady Fotheringham was relieved to hear this, and added that she might have trusted to Jane. Violet was surprised to find that Miss Gardner held a very high place in Lady Fotheringham's esteem, and was supposed by her to take most watchful, motherly care of her headstrong younger sister. She had made herself extremely agreeable at Worthbourne, and had corresponded with Lady Fotheringham ever since; and now Violet heard that Jane had thought the marriage with Mr. Finch a great risk, and would willingly have dissuaded her sister from it; but that Georgina had been bent upon it! 'thinking, no doubt, poor girl, that riches and gaiety would make her happy! I wish we could have made it pleasanter to her at Worthbourne!'

  'She has spoken very affectionately of you.'

  'Ah, poor child! she had met with little kindness before. She used to pour out her griefs to me. It was that wretched Mark who broke her heart, and after that she seemed not to care what became of her. But I am a little comforted by your account. I will try to see her to-morrow, poor dear. Percy was hoping I should be able, although I think that he is quite right not to visit them himself.'

  Violet agreed to all, and was pleased at the notion of the good old lady's influence being tried on one evidently amenable to right impressions. As far as she herself was concerned, the visit was very gratifying, and when the leave-taking came, it seemed as if they had been intimate for years.

  Violet sat pondering whether the dulness of Worthbourne and the disappointment of her first love had been the appointed cross of Georgina Gardner, cast aside in impatience of its weight. And then she tried to reconcile the conflicting accounts of Jane's influence in the matter, till she thought she was growing uncharitable; and after having tried in vain to measure the extent of Percy's annoyance, she looked from the window to see if carriages seemed to be returning from Epsom, and then with a sigh betook herself to the book Theodora had provided for her solitude.

  She had long to wait. Arthur and his sister came home later than she had expected, and did not bring the regale of amusing description that they had promised her.

  Arthur was silent and discontented, and went to his smoking-room. Theodora only said it had been very hot, and for the first time really looked tired, and owned that she was so. It had been hard work, first to draw Arthur into Mrs. Finch's party, against which he exerted all his lazy good-humoured "vis inertia"--undertaking to show her everything, and explain all to her, be at her service all the day, if only she would keep away from them and their nonsense. But when their carriage was found, and Arthur was dragged into the midst of them, a still harder task arose. She was frightened to see Mark Gardner conversing with him, while he looked eager and excited, and she hastened to interrupt, put forth every power of attraction, in the resolve entirely to monopolize Mr. Gardner; and for a long time, at the expense of severe exertion in talking nonsense, she succeeded. But some interruption occurred; she missed Mr. Gardner, she missed Arthur; they were waited for; she wondered and fretted herself in vain, and at length beheld them returning in company-heard Mrs. Finch gaily scolding them, and understood that there had been bets passing!

  She called it fatigue, but it was rather blank dread, and the sense that she had put herself and others in the way of evil.

  It was possible that Arthur might have been only a spectator; or, if not, that he might have known where to stop. He had bought his experience long ago, at high cost; but Theodora was but too well aware of his unsteadiness of purpose and facile temper; and in spite of his resolutions, it was a fearful thing to have seen him in such a place, in such company, and to know that almost against his own desire she had conducted him thither for the gratification of her self-will.

  Vainly did she strive to banish the thought, and to reassure herself by his manner. She knew too well what it was wont to be when he had been doing anything of which he was ashamed. One bet, however, was no great mischief in itself. That book which Percy had given to her spoke of 'threads turning to cords, and cords to cables strong.' Had she put the first thread once more into the hand of the Old Evil Habit'?

  If she would confess the sin to herself and to her God, with earnest prayer that the ill might be averted, perhaps, even yet, it might be spared to them all.

  But the proud spirit declared there was no sin. She had merely been resolute and truthful. So she strengthened herself in her belief in her own blamelessness, and drove down the misgiving to prey on the depths of her soul, and sharpen her temper by secret suffering.

  In the morning she accompanied Violet to call on Lady Fotheringham, sullen, proud, and bashful at the sense of undergoing inspection, and resolved against showing her best side, lest she should feel as if she was winning Worthbourne for Percy.

  That majestic ill-humour was wasted--Lady Fotheringham was not at home; but Violet left a note begging her to come to luncheon the next day. It passed, and she appeared not: but at twelve on Saturday, Percy's tread hurried up-stairs and entered the back drawing-room, where Theodora was sitting.

  Sounds of voices followed--the buzz of expostulation; tones louder and louder--words so distinct that to prevent her anxious ears from listening, Violet began to practise Johnnie in all his cries of birds and beasts.

  All at once the other room door was opened, and Theodora's stately march was heard, while one of the folding leaves was thrown back, and there stood Percy.

  Before a word could be spoken, he snatched up the child, and held him up in the air to the full reach of his arms. Doubtful whether this was to be regarded as play, Johnnie uttered 'Mamma,' in a grave imploring voice, which, together with her terrified face, recalled Mr. Fotheringham to his senses. With an agitated laugh he placed the boy safely beside her, saying, 'I beg your pardon. What a good little fellow it is!'

  Violet asked him to ring for the nurse; and by the time Johnnie had been carried away, he had collected himself sufficiently to try to speak calmly.

  'Do her parents know what is going on?' he said. 'I do not speak for my own sake. That is at an end.'

  'Oh!' exclaimed Violet.

  'I told her I could not be made a fool of any longer, and when she answered "Very well," what could that mean?'

  'I am very much grieved that it has come to this,' sighed Violet.

  'How could it come to anything else?' he said, his face full of sorrow and severity. 'I was mad to suppose there was any hope for such a temper of pride and stubbornness. Yet,' he added, softening, and his quick, stern eyes filling with tears, 'it is a noble nature,- -high-minded, uncompromising, deeply tender, capable of anything. It has been a cruel wicked thing to ruin all by education. What could come of it? A life of struggle with women who had no notion of an appeal to principle and affection--growing up with nothing worthy of her love and respect--her very generosity becoming a stumbling-block, till her pride and waywardness have come to such an indomitable pitch that they are devouring all that was excellent.'

  He paused; Violet, confused and sorrowful, knew not how to answer; and he proceeded, 'I have known her, watched her, loved her from infancy! I never saw one approaching her in fine qualities. I thought, and still think, she needs but one conquest to rise above all other women. I believed guidance and affection would teach her all she needed; and so they would, but it was presumption and folly to think it was I who could inspire them.'

  'O, Mr. Fotheringham, indeed--'

  'It was absurd to suppose that she who trifles with every one would not do so with me. Yet, even now, I cannot believe her capable of carrying trifling to the extent she has done.'

  'She was in earnest,--oh! she was!'

  'I would fain think so,' said he, sadly. 'I held to that trust, in spite of the evidence of my senses. I persuaded myself that her manners were the effect of habit--the triumph of one pre-eminent in attraction.'

  'That they are! I don't even think she knows what she does.'

  'So I believed; I allowed for her pleasure in teasing me. I knew all that would come right. I ascribed her determination to run after that woman to a generous reluctance t
o desert a friend.'

  'Indeed, indeed it is so!'

  'But how am I to understand her neglect of my aunt--the one relation whom I have tried to teach her to value--my aunt, who was the comfort of my sister and of her brother--who had suffered enough to give her a claim to every one's veneration! To run away from her to the races, and the society of Mark Gardner and Mrs. Finch! Ay, and what do you think we heard yesterday of her doings there, from Gardner's own mother? That she is giving him decided encouragement! That was the general remark, and on this, poor Mrs. George Gardner is founding hopes of her son settling down and becoming respectable.'

  'Oh! how terrible for you to hear! But it cannot be true. It must be mere report. Arthur would have observed if there had been more than her usual manner.'

  'A pretty manner to be usual! Besides, Jane Gardner did not deny it.'

  'Jane Gardner?'

  'Yes. My aunt called at Mrs. Finch's, but saw neither of them; but this morning, before she went, Miss Gardner called. I did not see her. I was out with Pelham, and my aunt spoke to her about all this matter. She answered very sensibly, regretted her sister's giddy ways, but consoled my aunt a good deal on that score, but--but as to the other, she could not say, but that Mark was a great admirer of-- of Miss Martindale, and much had passed which might be taken for encouragement on Wednesday by any one who did not know how often it was her way!'

  'It is a pity that Miss Gardner has had to do with it,' said Violet. 'When I have been talking to her, I always am left with a worse impression of people than they deserve.'

  'You never have a bad impression of any one.'

  'I think I have of Miss Gardner. I used to like her very much, but lately I am afraid I cannot believe her sincere.'

  'You have been taught to see her with Theodora's eyes. Of course, Mrs. Finch despises and contemns prudence and restraint, and the elder sister's advice is thrown aside.'

  'You never saw Jane Gardner?'

  'Never;--but that is not the point here. I am not acting on Jane Gardner's report. I should never trouble myself to be jealous of such a scoundrel as Mark. I am not imagining that there is any fear of her accepting him. Though, if such a notion once possessed her, nothing would hinder her from rushing on inevitable misery.'

  'Oh, there is no danger of that.'

  'I trust not. It would be too frightful! However, I can look on her henceforth only as John's sister, as my little playmate, as one in whom hopes of untold happiness were bound up.' He struggled with strong emotion, but recovering, said, 'It is over! The reason we part is independent of any Gardner. She would not bear with what I thought it my duty to say. It is plain I was completely mistaken in thinking we could go through life together. Even if there was reason to suppose her attached to me, it would be wrong to put myself in collision with such a temper. I told her so, and there is an end of the matter.'

  'It is very, very sad,' said Violet, mournfully.

  'You don't think I have used her ill.'

  'Oh, no! You have borne a great deal. You could do no otherwise; but Arthur and John will be very much vexed.'

  'It is well that it is known to so few. Let it be understood by such as are aware of what has been, that I bear the onus of the rupture. No more need be known than that the break was on my side. We both were mistaken. She will not be blamed, and some day'--but he could not speak calmly--' she will meet one who will feel for her as I do, and will work a cure of all these foibles. You will see the glorious creature she can be.'

  'The good will conquer at last,' said Violet, through her tears.

  'I am convinced of it, but I fear it must be through much trial and sorrow. May it only not come through that man.'

  'No, no!'

  'Then good-bye.'

  They shook hands with lingering regret, as if unwilling to resign their relationship. 'You will explain this to Arthur, and give him my thanks for his friendliness; and you--accept my very best thanks for your great kindness and sympathy. If she had known you earlier-- But good-bye. Only, if I might venture to say one thing more--you and Arthur will not give me up as a friend, will you?'

  'Oh!' exclaimed Violet, as well as her tears would permit, 'I am sure we are but too glad--'

  He pressed her hand gratefully, and was gone; while overwhelmed with the agitation she sank weeping on the sofa, only conscious that they all were in some sort guilty of a great injury to Mr. Fotheringham. In this state of distress she was found by Theodora, who came down so lofty and composed, that no one could have divined who was the party chiefly concerned in what had taken place.

  Without comment, she treated Violet as for a nervous attack, taking great care of her till the sobs subsided, and there only remained a headache which kept her on the sofa for the rest of the day. Theodora read aloud, but which of them marked the words? Late in the afternoon she put down the book, and wrote a note, while Violet silently marvelled at the unconcern of her countenance.

  'There, I shall take it to the post. You may read it if you like, while I put on my bonnet.' Violet read.

  'MY DEAR MAMMA,--Our engagement is at an end. Mr. Fotheringham tried to exercise a control over my actions to which I could not submit; and in especial was affronted by my going to Epsom with Arthur, instead of staying at home for the chance of seeing Lady Fotheringham. We came to high words, perceived the error of thinking our tempers accorded, and agreed to part. I have no cause of complaint, though I am at this moment much displeased with him; for when he had done with me he went and stormed to poor Violet till he brought on one of her hysterical affections. No one can have acted with kinder or more conscientious intentions than she has done throughout the affair. I do not mean to come away till after her confinement. London is wide enough for him and for me, and I would not leave her on any account. 'Your affectionate daughter,

  'THEODORA A. MARTINDALE.'

  Violet glowed with indignation at such mention of Percy. She never loved him! It is as John thought!

  Theodora, returning, took the note, and began to put it into its envelope without a word.

  'Thank you,' said Violet; 'it is very kind in you to stay with me. It is a great comfort to Arthur.'

  'Is it no comfort to you?' said Theodora. 'If I am in your way, I will go.'

  'Oh! what should I do without you? It makes such a difference to me. I rely upon you to take care of Arthur, and Johnnie, and everything. Only don't do what is not pleasant to you.'

  'I wish to live to be useful. I had rather be useful to you and Arthur than to any one. If you will keep me, I stay.'

  All the rest of the day Violet could only feel that she could not be displeased with one so devoted to her. She wondered what Arthur would say. His comment was--

  'Well, I always expected it. It is a pity! She has thrown away her only chance of being a reasonable woman.'

  'You saw no cause for that horrid report?'

  'Not a bit. She is not so frantic as that comes to. She went on in her old way, only a little stronger than usual; but Percy was quite right not to stand it, and so I shall tell her.'

  However, Theodora kept him from the subject by the force of her imperturbability, and he could only declaim against her to his wife.

  'I don't believe she cared a farthing for him.'

  'I almost fear not. Yet how could she accept him?'

  'He was the biggest fish that had ever come to her bait. She could not have played her pranks on him without hooking him; but he has broken the line, and it serves her right. I only wish she took it to heart! It is a lucky escape for him. What will his lordship think of it?'

  Lord Martindale wrote, evidently in much annoyance, to desire Arthur to send him a full history of the transaction, and after much grumbling, he was obeyed. What he said to his daughter did not transpire, but Violet gathered that the opinion at Martindale was, that she had not age or authority sufficient for the care of the young lady. In this she fully acquiesced, and, indeed, had some trouble in silencing repining speculations on what might have happened if
she had been older, or in stronger health, or more judicious.

  It was a universal failure, and she felt as if they were all to blame, while it terrified her to recollect John's predictions as to the effect on Theodora's disposition.

  Another question was, how Mrs. Finch would feel on the matter. Theodora had written to her, and received one of her warm impulsive answers, as inconsistent as her whole nature; in one place in despair that her friend's happiness had been sacrificed--in another, rejoicing in her freedom from such intolerable tyranny, and declaring that she was the noblest creature and the naughtiest, and that she must see her at once.

  But she never came, and when Theodora called was not at home. Violet had Jane to herself for an unpleasing hour of condolence and congratulation, regrets and insinuations, ending with the by no means unwelcome news that Mr. Finch was tired of London, and that they were going into the country--and not Mark--going to set off in a week's time. Two more calls failed, and Theodora only received a note, in which Mrs. Finch declared herself "abimee desolee" that her husband would drag her off into the country at such short notice, that her world of engagements had hindered her from meeting her best of friends. Then, with a sudden transition to slang, she promised excellent fun in riding, boating, &c., if Theodora would come to see her, and plenty of admirers ready to have their heads turned, ending rather piteously with 'Who knows but I might take a turn for good? I know I wish I could, if it was not so horridly tiresome. You won't forget your poor G. F.'

  CHAPTER 18

  Oh! woman is a tender tree, The hand must gentle be that rears, Through storm and sunshine, patiently, That plant of grace, of smiles and tears. A. CLEVELAND COX