Heartsease or Brother's Wife

by Шарлотта Мэри Йондж

  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?'

  CHAPTER 12

  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.