Heartsease or Brother's Wife

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  'I will stay while you go,' whispered Violet, though she longed to keep him, for that presence filled her with trembling, and promising speedy return, he departed.

  For some minutes she could venture nothing, and the silence in which she heard only the beatings of her own heart seemed more than she could bear; but at last she collected herself, and an impulse suddenly occurring to her, she ventured to touch her mother-in-law, and said, 'Theodora has been asking for you.'

  Lady Martindale shook her head. 'I cannot come, I cannot leave her.'

  'Poor Theodora is so much hurt!' pleaded Violet; 'you will be surprised to see how she is scorched! Such arms and hands, that she cannot help herself--and she wants cold applications continually.'

  Lady Martindale once looked attentive, but a glance at her aunt brought back her face of silent misery. Violet was perplexed, but strove on--'Poor Theodora! I hope you will come to her. She wants care very much. Did you know that it was in saving her that she was so sadly burnt?'

  'No: was it?'

  'Yes; she snatched her out through the burning curtains. That was the way Theodora's hair was all burnt off, and her arms are so blistered!' continued Violet, controlling her trembling, and speaking as when she was persuading one of the children--'Poor Theodora! Will you not come and see her?'

  'Where is she?'

  'She is at the parsonage. They are ready to take us.'

  'Oh, no! I cannot go. You go to her.'

  'Pray, pray come with me. Theodora is so ill! It would do her so much good to see you; and we are afraid of her being anxious or distressed, lest she should have fever. Won't you come?'

  A motion, as if she could not bear this, made Violet fear she must desist, and she paused for a short interval, then said, 'SHE was very fond of Theodora.'

  'Oh! Yes, yes--'

  'She would not like her to be left so long.'

  'I thought you were taking care of her.'

  'Oh, yes! but I cannot be the same as you would. One always wants one's mother so much in illness.'

  'She was always a mother to me!' The tears came at last, and she wept unrestrainedly; while Violet hung over her with soft caressing words of sympathy that cannot be detailed, till the first grief had had its course, and she again tried the experiment of repeating Theodora's name, and saying how much she was suffering.

  Lady Martindale did not reply, but suffered Violet to put on her cloak, and gradually lead her from the room, saying at each pause something of 'poor Theodora.'

  The deed was done; it might be by importunity, but it was worth achieving, even at the risk of being vexatious. Lord Martindale could hardly believe his eyes when he saw his wife on her way to the carriage, and Theodora was equally astonished when she appeared at her bedside.

  It was a new thing to see one, hitherto healthy and independent, so completely prostrated; and no more was needed to awaken the natural affection so long stifled or thrust aside. Lady Martindale was greatly shocked, and, perhaps magnifying her daughter's illness, had no room for any other thought. She wished to do everything for her herself--would hardly admit Violet's assistance--and took every care, with skilfulness that was marvellous in one trained to ineffectiveness.

  To Theodora her attendance was a new and exquisite repose. It was the first taste of her mother's love, and made her content to be helpless; as there she lay, murmuring thanks, and submitting to be petted with a grateful face of childlike peace, resting in her mother's affection, and made happy by the depth of warm feeling in her father's words.

  'It is a good speculation to be ill,' said she, with a smile of strong feeling when they had bidden her good night, and left her to Violet, who was to sleep on a mattress on the floor.

  CHAPTER 4

  Will you walk into my parlour?' said a spider to a fly. MARY HOWITT

  And where was Arthur?

  Spending the day with his sporting friends, much to his own satisfaction, till in the evening, greatly against his will, he was taken out to dine with an old Mr. Randall, of Gothlands, the master of the hounds.

  His nieces, the Misses Marstone, were the ladies of the house--well- dressed people, a little 'passees', but apparently not having found it out. Arthur watched the arrivals hoping that the order of precedence might not consign him to the flow of talk, of which he had already had quite a sufficiency, when, to his surprise, two ladies, evidently at home, entered together.

  One--thin, sallow, spectacled--was, as he knew, an inhabitant; but the other--small, slight, and retiring, and, in spite of clinging unfresh muslin and shrinking figure, with the unmistakable air of high breeding, was a most unexpected sight. At least, thought he, here was one lady who would not bore him, and making his way to her, he inquired for Lady Elizabeth. Emma, on the other hand, asked after Violet; and it was curious that both questions were put and answered with constraint, as if each was conscious of being something like a truant.

  Another surprise. 'Mr. Gardner.' In walked Mark himself, and, after shaking hands with the elder Miss Marstone, came towards Emma and her friend, and was received with cordial familiarity. He entered into conversation with Arthur, drawing a little further from Miss Brandon at each step, till having brought him close to old Mr. Randall, and placed him under the infliction of a long prose about the hounds, he retreated, and was soon again in conversation with the two friends, Emma's face raised and lighted up with eagerness.

  Colonel Martindale had no escape from the head of the table and the eldest of the Misses Marstone. Resigning himself to his fate, he made talk; and, though now broader, redder, and somewhat coarser in feature and complexion than he had been a few years ago, he looked so gay and unencumbered, that his neighbour speculated as to whether he could be the eldest son, and resolved to discover what her sister, Sarah Theresa, knew of him.

  'It is so pleasant when friends meet unexpectedly,' said she. 'I did not know you were acquainted with either of our guests.'

  'Miss Brandon is a near neighbour of my father, and a great friend of Mrs. Martindale.'

  Death to any incipient scheme of Miss Marstone; but she smiled on, and remarked, 'A very amiable girl, and a beautiful place, is it not, Rickworth?'

  'Very pretty, a fine property,' said Arthur, talking as if in his sleep, for he had caught Mark Gardner's voice saying something about an oratory.

  'My sister is often staying there,' proceeded the lady. 'You know Miss Brandon's scheme of restoring the Priory?'

  'I did not know that was anything more than talk.'

  'I used to think so,' said Miss Marstone; 'but both she and my sister Sarah treat it quite seriously, and Mr. Gardner is their prime counsellor.'

  Arthur started, and with difficulty refrained from laughing.

  'Ah! I believe he has been a little wild, but that is all over now. He has taken quite a different turn now, and given up everything of that sort--throws himself into all their views.'

  'Indeed!' said Arthur, who knew to his cost that if the reform had taken place at all, it must have been of extremely recent date.

  'O, yes, I assure you. He is staying with the curate, Mr. Silworth.'

  'Ha! that is an old name at school.'

  'Yes; he was an old schoolfellow--a very good man, to whose persuasions everything is owing.'

  She pointed him out, and the first glance was a revelation to Arthur, who recognized him as the boy who, at school, had been the most easily taken in. He soon understood the state of affairs. Mark, clever, gentlemanly in appearance, and apt at catching the tone of the society around him, was making a bold stroke--had persuaded his kind-hearted, simple friend to believe him a sincere penitent, and to introduce him as such to the ladies at Gothlands, from whom he caught the talk most pleasing to them. At present it was all ecclesiastical aesthetics, and discontent with the existing system, especially as regarded penitence; by and by, when his hold should be secure, he would persuade the heiress that she had been the prime instrument in his conversion, and that she had gained his heart.

  A
bit of rhapsody from Miss Sarah Theresa, and poor Emma's embellished and animated countenance, were sufficient indications that they were smoothly gliding into the snare; and accustomed as Arthur was to see Mark Gardner in a very different aspect, he was astonished at his perfect performance of his part--the humility and deference befitting the sense of his errors, and conversation so entirely at home in all their peculiar language and predilections, that Arthur was obliged to feel for the betting-book in his own pocket to convince himself that he was still deeply involved with this most admirable and devoted of penitents. He could not help, as he took leave, giving a knowing look, conveying how easily he could spoil his game.

  However, Arthur was in reality much annoyed. Of late years his easy temper had well-nigh surrendered itself to the ascendency of Mark Gardner; and though dissatisfied, remorseful, and anxious, he had allowed himself to be led farther and farther into extravagance. The sight of his home excited regrets, therefore he shunned it; and though weary and discontented in his chains, he was devoid of force or will to break them, and a sort of torpor seemed to make it impossible for him to resist Mark Gardner. Their money matters were much entangled. They had entered into a partnership for keeping horses for the turf, and there was a debt shared between them, the amount of which Arthur dreaded to investigate.

  That Gardner should obtain a rich wife would be the greatest relief to Colonel Martindale; but he had rather it should have been any heiress in the world but Emma Brandon. He had a friendly feeling towards her, and a respect for her mother, that made him shrink from allowing her to become a victim, especially when he would himself be the gainer; and, on the other hand, he could not endure to betray a friend,--while he knew that his wife, his father, and his sister would be horrified at his secrecy.

  After a night spent in execrating the dinner-party, he received a call from Mr. Gardner, who, without being aware that he took any interest in Miss Brandon, came to put him upon his guard, but found him less manageable than usual. Arthur made a formidable description of Lady Elizabeth's discretion, underrated the value of Rickworth, and declared that it would be so tied up that Mark would gain nothing but a dull, plain little wife. Not thus deterred, Mark only asked of him discretion; and when, trying to cloak his earnest under faltering jest, he declared that he had a regard for the Brandons, and should get into a scrape with his father, his friend held out the allurement of freedom from his difficulties, but was obliged to touch on this lightly, for Arthur's honour was ready to take fire at the notion of being bought. It ended in Gardner's treating the matter as if he had engaged not to betray him, and being hardly gainsaid, otherwise than by a sort of bantering proviso, that in case of an appeal direct, he could not be expected to vouch for Mark's entire and disinterested reformation.

  With an intense dislike to the world in general, Arthur was considering how to prevent his wife from meeting Lady Elizabeth, and how to be out of the way before the report should spread of Mark's addresses, when everything else was driven from his mind by the arrival of the papers, with the announcement of the fire at Martindale.

  The safety of the infant family of the Honourable Lieutenant-Colonel Martindale was the first news that met his eye; next, that of the death of Mrs. Nesbit,--the chief thought that occupied him in his hasty homeward journey.

  He had been taught to think himself her heir; and though never forgiven for his marriage, hoped that the will might not have been altered, and considered that, whether it were in his favour or not, so large a property coming into the family could not fail to render his circumstances more easy, by enabling his father to augment his allowance, which, though ample in itself, appeared far from sufficient to a man with expensive tastes and an increasing family. The hope of independence, and of not being obliged to wish success to Gardner, was an opening into liberty and happiness.

  By night he was at the parsonage, and Violet in his arms as soon as the door was opened. That moment was perfect--he was so eagerly tender, so solicitous lest she should have been injured by terror or exertion, so shocked at her peril in his absence. In the fulness of her heart she even asked him to come and see the children safely asleep.

  'Now? What should I do that for?'

  There was no unkindness, but the full felicity of the evening was marred.

  There was no room for him at the parsonage, and an apartment in the empty house had been fitted up for him, so that she only saw him for an hour of confused talk over the events of the fire, and Theodora's condition, which was very uncomfortable; for though the fever was slight, the burns and bruises were in an unsatisfactory state, and eyes, arms, and hands of very little use. She was patient, and resolute as ever, and so grateful to her nurses that waiting on her was a pleasure.

  In fact, attendance on her was the only resource for occupying Lady Martindale, who, when not thus engaged, was listless and dejected, attending to nothing that passed around her, and sometimes giving way to inconsolable bursts of grief. It was as if her aunt had been her one idea in life, and without her she could turn to nothing else. Violet was very anxious to prevent the children from molesting her, and in much dread of their troubling her, now that all were in such close quarters. It was trying to be engaged with Theodora, and to hear the little feet and voices where they were not intended to be.

  But when she was able to hasten to the rescue, she beheld Helen in Lady Martindale's lap, and Johnnie by her side, all three intent on making bouquets; and all apologies and proposals to fetch them away were replied to by assurances of their goodness, and the pleasure afforded by their company.

  It appeared that while playing in the garden, the little brother and sister had been, as it were, fascinated by watching her fixed melancholy figure in the drawing-room. Again and again they had peeped in at the window, striving to forget, but ever attracted by the sweet compassion of their hearts; till at last, after much pausing and whispering, they had betaken themselves to the corner of the garden where Cousin Hugh had given permission to gather as they liked, and at the expense of his own small fingers, Johnnie had pulled the first bud of sweet-brier. Lady Martindale had felt a soft touch, and heard a little timid, coaxing voice--'Grandmamma, may we? Would you like this little, young rose?' while towards her was raised a face delicate and glowing with pale pink like the bud itself.

  Grandchildren and flower were at once in her bosom. Warm, womanly child-love had been forced down to a far corner of her heart; but there it was, and like the rod piercing to the hidden spring, that fragrant gift of love touched it home, and thenceforth it was such fondling as Violet almost feared might be spoiling, especially of Helen; who, however unruly or exacting she might be, seemed only to endear herself the more, and was visibly far more her grandmother's darling than her gentle, well-behaved brother. This new affection for the children opened her heart to their mother, on whom she leant more than she knew. To her she talked of all her aunt's unwearied fondness and care, ever since she had come into her hands an orphan in her infancy. There had been real and entire devotion to each other on the part of the aunt and niece; and the affection she had been able to inspire, together with the solemn feelings towards the newly dead, gave her memory a softness that almost enabled Violet to think of her in Lady Martindale's point of view, forget her harshness, and the worldly pride for her niece and her family, to which she had sacrificed their best happiness.

  It was a melancholy retrospect. Mrs. Nesbit might be said to have perfectly succeeded in the object of her life. She had formed her beloved niece, like the fabled image of snow, moulded by the enchanter and animated by no will but his, and had seen her attain the summit of her wishes, universally admired and distinguished for every talent and grace; while still completely under her influence, and as affectionate and devoted as ever. Could any desire be more fully attained? But there had ever been further craving, disappointment, combats, hatred, avarice, disgust; and with all around that could make old age happy and honourable, it had been a querulous melancholy struggle for power, spent in clu
tching at the toys that had no pleasure in them--in trying to force worldly advantages on those who cared not for them, then revenging their indifference as a personal insult. She had sunk into the grave without any one having the power to regret her save that one fond, faithful niece, the one creature she had always regarded with genuine unselfish affection.

  Lord Martindale, whose wife she had ruled, and whose children had been made unhappy by her, could hardly help owning to himself that her death was a relief to him; and Arthur barely made a fair show of moderate respect, in his anxiety for the property that would free him from embarrassment. His first inquiry was whether the will were burnt. No, it was in the hands of a lawyer, who would bring it on the day of the funeral. Lord Martindale might look reprovingly at Arthur's eagerness, but the matter was no less important to him. He had begun life with an expenditure as large as his income could bear; and as his children had grown up, and unprosperous times had come, he had not been able to contract his expenses. Of late he had almost been in difficulty as to the means of meeting the calls for the year, economy was a thing unknown and uncomprehended by his wife; and the giving up the house in London had been the only reduction he could accomplish. No one else in the family had an idea of self-denial except Theodora, who, perceiving how matters stood, had refused to have a maid of her own, and had begged him no longer to keep a horse for her. Some change ought to be made, but he had gone on in this unsatisfactory manner, trusting that at Mrs. Nesbit's death all would be straight. Her West Indian estates and accumulation of wealth must be bequeathed either to his wife or among his children; and in either case he would be set at ease--either relieved from supporting Arthur, or enabled to do so without difficulty.

  The funeral took place in full grandeur. Lady Martindale had made it a special request that every one would mourn as if for her mother, and it was just one of the occasions when pomp was needed to supply the place of grief.

  The only real mourner shut herself up in her own room, whither Theodora begged Violet to follow her. She found her stretched on her bed, abandoned to grief. It was the sense of orphanhood; the first time she had come so close to death and its circumstances, and it was overpowering sorrow; but Violet had better learnt how to deal with her, and could venture to caress and soothe--entreat her to remember how much was left to love her--and then listen to what Lady Martindale began as the rehearsal of her aunt's care to shield her from sorrow; but Violet soon saw it was the outpouring of a pent-up grief, that had never dared to come forth. The last time the vault had been opened it had been for the infant she had lost, and just before for the little girls, who had died in her absence. 'My dear,' she said, 'you do not know how it is all brought back to me. It is as if your three darlings were the same I left when we went abroad. Your sweet Helen is exactly like my precious little Anna, whom I little thought I was never to see again! Oh, my babies!'