Kitabı oku: «Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife», sayfa 26
Sitting well was not, however, one of his perfections; he could not be induced to show his face to a stranger, and turned from toys and pictures, with arms stretched out to his aunt, and piteous calls for mamma: to Theodora’s further despair Arthur came in, and stood amazed, so that she had to unfold her plans, and beg him to keep the secret. He smiled, saying she might as well take a picture of a washed-out doll; but that Violet would be sure to like it.
Meantime the child was presenting a golden opportunity; fixed in rapt contemplation of his father, and gazing motionless, with one little foot doubled under him, and one tiny white arm drooping over the crimson sofa cushion. Miss Piper sketched as if for her life. Theodora directed Arthur’s attention to his little son. He spoke to him, and was surprised and pleased at the plainness of the reply, and the animated spring of gladness. In another minute he was sitting on the floor, most successfully entertaining the child, while Miss Piper could hardly help drawing that handsome black head in contrast with the small, white creature, whose morsels of hands were coaxing his brown red cheeks; and Theodora looked on, amused to see how papa succeeded in drawing out those pretty, hesitating smiles, so embellishing to the little face, that had generally more than the usual amount of baby gravity.
They were in full debate whether he should be represented smiling or grave; the aunt wishing the latter as the habitual expression, the father declaring that ‘the fellow was only fit to be seen smiling like his mother;’ when suddenly there was an announcement—
‘Lady Lucy Delaval and Lord St. Erme.’
Arthur hardly had time to start up from the ground, his colour deepening with discomfiture as he glanced at the disarray of the room, littered with playthings, displaced cushions, newspapers, with which he had been playing bo-peep, drawing materials, all in as much confusion as the hair, which, in an unguarded moment, he had placed at the mercy of Johnnie’s fingers.
Theodora comprehended the sharp click with which he rang the nursery bell, and the half frown with which he watched in dread of a cry, while Lady Lucy tried to make friends with Johnnie.
The drawing was brought under discussion, but he held aloof after one look, which Theodora perceived to be disapproving, though she did not know that the reason was that the smile, somewhat overdone by Miss Piper, had brought out one of old Mr. Moss’s blandest looks. Meantime Lord St. Erme talked to the little artist, giving her some valuable hints, which she seized with avidity, and then quietly retreated.
Arthur tried to talk to Lady Lucy; but she was very young, not yet come out, timid, and, apparently, afraid of something that she had to say, watching Miss Martindale as earnestly as she dared; while Lord St. Erme spoke eagerly, yet as if he hardly knew what he was saying, of art, music, books, striving in vain to obtain one of the looks of yesterday.
It warmed Theodora’s heart to feel herself the object of such enthusiastic admiration, but she preserved her look of rigid indifference. It was a long visit; but at last the brother made the move, looking at his sister, as if to remind her of something.
‘Oh, Miss Martindale,’ said she, with an effort, ‘we thought you must be staying in a great deal. Would you be so kind, now and then, as to walk with me?’
This was an alarming request, and not very easy to refuse. Theodora said something of seeing about it, and hoping—
‘It would be such a treat,’ said Lady Lucy, growing bolder, as the two gentlemen were speaking to each other. ‘My aunt is gone to her brother’s little parsonage, where there is no room for me, and my governess had to go home, luckily, so that we are quite alone together; and St. Erme said perhaps you would be so kind sometimes as to walk with me—’
Theodora smiled. ‘I hope we may meet sometimes,’ said she. ‘If my sister was down-stairs perhaps we might; but I am engaged to her.’
Thus ended the visit, and Arthur, hastily throwing the cushions back into their places, demanded, ‘What on earth could possess those folks to come here now!’
‘It was an inconvenient time,’ said Theodora.
‘Dawdling and loitering here!—a man with nothing better to do with his time!’
‘Nay,’ said Theodora, touched by the injustice; ‘Lord St. Erme is no man not to know how to dispose of his time.’
‘Whew!’ whistled Arthur; ‘is the wind gone round to that quarter? Well, I thought better of you than that you would like a fellow that can do nothing but draw, never shoots over his own moors, and looks like a German singer! But do put the room tidy; and if you must have the nursery down here, put it into the back room, for mercy sake!’
He went away, having thus stirred her feelings in the St. Erme direction, and he left them to take their chance for the rest of the day. She took a solitary walk; on her return saw a hat in the hall, and asking whether Mr. Harding was there, was told no, but that Mr. Gardner was with Captain Martindale. And after long waiting till Arthur should come to dinner, he only put in his head, saying, ‘Oh, Theodora, are you waiting? I beg your pardon, I am going out to dinner. You can sit with Violet; and if she should want me, which she won’t, James knows where to find me.’
Theodora scorned to inquire of the servant whither his master was gone; but her appetite forsook her at the sight of the empty chair, and the recollection of the warning against Mark Gardner.
This was not her last solitary dinner. Arthur had engagements almost every day, or else went to his club; and when at home, if he was not with Violet, he sat in his own room, and would never again assist at the sittings, which were completed under less favourable auspices, soon enough to allow time for the framing before the mamma should come down-stairs. Her recovery proceeded prosperously; and Theodora was quite sufficiently in request in her room to be satisfied, and to make it difficult to find a spare afternoon to go and order one of her favourite oak frames.
However, she was at length able to make the expedition; and she was busy in giving directions as to the width of margin, when from the interior of the shop there came forward no other than the Earl of St. Erme.
They shook hands, and she sent her excuses to Lady Lucy for having been too much occupied to call, asking whether she was still in town.
‘Only till Thursday,’ he said, ‘when I take her to join my aunt, who is to show her the Rhine.’
‘Do not you go with them?’
‘I have not decided. It depends upon circumstances. Did not I hear something of your family visiting Germany?’
‘Perhaps they may,’ said Theodora, dryly. He began to study the portrait, and saw some likeness, but was distressed by something in the drawing of the mouth.
‘Yes,’ said Theodora, ‘I know it is wrong; but Miss Piper could not see it as I did, and her alterations only made it worse, till I longed to be able to draw.’
‘I wonder if I might venture,’ said Lord St. Erme, screwing up his eye, and walking round the picture. ‘I am sure, with your artist eye, you must know what it is not to be able to keep your hands off.’
‘Not I,’ said Theodora, smiling. ‘Pencils are useless tools to me. But it would be a great benefit to the picture, and Miss Piper will fancy it all her own.’
‘You trust me, then?’ and he turned to ask for a piece of chalk, adding, ‘But is it not too bold a measure without the subject?’
‘He is in the carriage, with his nurse;’ and Theodora, unable to resist so material an improvement to her gift, brought him in, and set him up on the counter opposite to a flaming picture of a gentleman in a red coat, which he was pleased to call papa, and which caused his face to assume a look that was conveyed to the portrait by Lord St. Erme, and rendered it the individual Johnnie Martindale, instead of merely a pale boy in a red sash.
Theodora was too much gratified not to declare it frankly, and to say how much charmed his mother would be; and she was pleased by a remark of Lord St. Erme, that showed that his poet mind comprehended that wistful intelligence that gave a peculiar beauty to Johnnie’s thin white face.
She thought to pay off her obligations by an immediate visit to his sister, while she knew him to be safe out of the way; and, driving to Mrs. Delaval’s, she sent her nephew home, intending to walk back.
Lady Lucy was alone, and she found her a gentle, simple-hearted girl, with one sole affection, namely, for the brother, who was the whole world to her; and taking Miss Martindale, on his word, as an object of reverence and admiration. It was impossible not to thaw towards her: and when Theodora spoke of the embellishment of the portrait, she needed no more to make her spring up, and fetch a portfolio to exhibit her brother’s drawings. Admirable they were; sketches of foreign scenery, many portraits, in different styles, of Lady Lucy herself, and the especial treasure was a copy of Tennyson, interleaved with illustrations in the German style, very fanciful and beautiful. Theodora was, however, struck by the numerous traces she saw of the Lalla Rookh portrait. It was there as the dark-eyed Isabel; again as Judith, in the Vision of Fair Women; it slept as the Beauty in the Wood; and even in sweet St. Agnes, she met it refined and purified; so that at last she observed, ‘It is strange how like this is to my mother.’
‘I think it must be,’ said Lady Lucy; ‘for I was quite struck by your likeness to St. Erme’s ideal sketches.’
Rather annoyed, Theodora laughed, and turning from the portfolio, asked if she did not also draw?
‘A little; but mine are too bad to be looked at.’
Theodora insisted, and the drawings were produced: all the best had been done under Lord St. Erme’s instruction. The affection between the brother and sister touched her, and thinking herself neglectful of a good little girl, she offered to take the desired walk at once. While Lady Lucy was preparing, however, the brother came home, and oh! the inconvenient satisfaction of his blushing looks.
Yet Theodora pardoned these, when he thanked her for being kind to his sister; speaking with a sort of parental fondness and anxiety of his wish to have Lucy with him, and of his desire that she should form friendships that would benefit her.
Never had he spoken with so much reality, nor appeared to so much advantage; and it was in his favour, too, that Theodora contrasted this warm solicitude for his young sister with the indifference of her own eldest brother. There was evidently none of the cold distance that was the grievance of her home.
‘Lady Lucy is almost out of the school-room,’ she said. ‘You will soon be able to have her with you in the country.’
‘There are certainly some considerations that might make me resolve on an English winter,’ said Lord St. Erme.
‘Every consideration, I should think.’
‘Fogs and frosts, and clouds, that hang like a weight on the whole frame,’ said Lord St. Erme, shivering.
‘Healthy, freshening mists, and honest vigorous frosts to brace one for service,’ said Theodora, smiling.
‘O, Miss Martindale!’ cried Lady Lucy, entering, ‘are you persuading St. Erme to stay all the year in England? I do so wish he would.’
‘Then you ought to make him,’ said Theodora.
‘If Miss Martindale were to express a wish or opinion—’
She saw it was time to cut him short. ‘Every one’s opinion must be the same,’ she said.
‘O,’ cried Lucy, ‘of course Italy is pleasanter. It is selfish to wish to keep him here; but if I had my will, we would live together at Wrangerton, and have such nice poor people.’
‘A “chateau en Espagne” indeed, my little sister. Wrangerton is a most forlorn place, an old den of the worst period of architecture, set down just beyond the pretty country, but in the programme of all the tourists as a show place; the third-rate town touching on the park, and your nice poor people not even the ordinary English peasantry, but an ill-disposed set of colliers.’
Theodora looked, but did not speak.
‘Miss Martindale thinks me a laggard, but she hears my excuse.’
‘If they are ill-disposed,’ said Theodora, in her low, severe voice (she could not help it), ‘it is for want of influence from the right quarter.’
‘My agent tells me they are perfectly impracticable.’
‘Knights of old liked something impracticable.’ She was almost ready to check herself; but there was something inspiriting in the idea of awakening this youth, who seemed to catch at her words as if she were a damsel sending forth a champion. His reply was—
‘Those were days worth living for. Then the knight’s devoir was poetry in real life.’
‘Devoir is always poetry in real life,’ said Theodora. ‘What is it but the work ready to hand? Shrinking from it is shrinking from the battle. Come, Lady Lucy, I will not detain you.’
Lord St. Erme seemed about to say something as he shook hands, but it did not come. The walk was passed by the simple-hearted Lucy discoursing of the events by which she counted her eras, namely, his visits. Her perfect brother was her only theme.
CHAPTER 20
Yet learn the gamut of Hortensio.
—Taming of the Shrew
Mrs. Nesbit was recommended to spend some months at Baden Baden; and Theodora formed a design, which highly pleased Arthur and Violet, of spending this time, while the family were absent, and while Arthur was in Scotland, as hostess at Martindale to Violet and the children.
After seeing Arthur off to Windsor for the next fortnight, Theodora had begun writing to propose the scheme to her father, when she was interrupted by the announcement of Lord St. Erme.
To visit her alone was a strong measure, and she put on a panoply of dignified formality. He began to say he had brought a German book, to show her a poem of which their conversation had reminded him.
‘I understand very little German,’ said she, coldly. ‘I once had a German governess whom I disliked so much that I took a disgust to the language.’
‘There is so much that is beautiful and untranslatable in its literature, that I am sure it would recompense you.’
‘I do not like the German tone of mind. It is vapoury and unreal.’
‘I should like to show you cause to alter your opinion, but—’
‘This is English,’ said Theodora, as her eye fell on a paper of verses that marked the place.
‘Ah, Lucy made me put it in. A few lines that occurred to me after watching Mrs. Martindale’s little boy.’
Thankful that they were not inspired by Venus’s little boy, she glanced over them, and saw they were in his best style, simple and pretty thoughts on the child’s content, wherever he traced any symbol of his father.
‘Poor little Johnnie is highly flattered,’ she said. ‘His mamma will be delighted.’
He begged her attention to the German poem, she glanced onward as he read, watching for shoals ahead, and spied something about a “hochbeseeltes madchen” inspiring a “Helden sanger geist”, and grew hotter and hotter till she felt ready to box his ears for intoning German instead of speaking plain English, and having it over. A cotton umbrella arose before her eyes, she heard the plashing gravel, and an honest voice telling her she was a grand creature in great need of being broken in.
The critical stanza had commenced, the reader’s voice trembled; Theodora did not heed, her mind was in the avenue at home. An opening door startled them.
‘Mr. and Mrs. Albert Moss.’
Her brother’s brother-in-law! the son and partner of Lord St. Erme’s steward! Was it thus his suit was to be checked?
There was no recognition; he went on reading his German to himself, while Albert presented Mrs. Albert Moss, resplendent in bridal finery, and displaying her white teeth in a broad smile, as with a nod, half-gracious, half-apologetic, she said, ‘I fear we interrupt a lesson; but we will not inconvenience you; we will go at once to our dear convalescent.’
‘Thank you, you do not interrupt me, and I do not think my sister is dressed yet. Indeed, I doubt whether I ought to allow her to see any one.’
‘O, you cannot be so cruel!’ cried Mrs. Moss, holding up her hands; ‘one little peep! our only day in town.’
‘Yes,’ said Albert. ‘I could not but gratify my Louisa’s anxiety to be introduced to her new relatives.’
‘I am afraid you must be disappointed, for my brother is with his regiment at Windsor, and my sister is still so weak that she ought to have no excitement.’
‘And we have only a few hours in town. The inexorable claims of business have recalled us to Wrangerton.’
The Earl looked up surprised, as if the word had recalled him from the clouds.
‘You have been in Wales, I think,’ said Theodora. ‘Were you pleased?’
‘Oh, I was enraptured!’ exclaimed the bride; ‘the sublime and romantic could be carried no higher! It makes me quite discontented with our home scenery.
‘Your sister would not approve of that,’ said Theodora to Albert;’ she can bear no slight to Helvellyn.’
‘I forget—is there a view of Helvellyn from Wrangerton?’ said Lord St. Erme, still somewhat dreamily.
Mrs. Moss started at hearing such good English from the German master, and patronizingly said, ‘Yes. Helvellyn is monarch of our picturesque. Do you ever come northwards?’
‘Not so often as, perhaps, I ought. I am afraid I know more of the Alps than of Helvellyn.’
‘I am sure,’ continued the voluble lady, ‘if ever you thought of such a scheme when the season is over, it would be well worth your while. I could reckon up many respectable families, who with such introductions—let me see, there are the Joneses, and the Dunlops, and the Evelyns, to say nothing of my new sisters, the Miss Mosses.’
‘I have no doubt it is a very good neighbourhood,’ said Lord St. Erme, rising. ‘I must go, or we shall miss the train. Can you tell me how soon you expect Lord Martindale?’
‘About the tenth or eleventh,’ said Theodora.
‘Thank you. Then I must wish you good-bye—’
‘And I must thank you in my sister’s name for the pleasure she will take in what you have done for her little boy. Remember me to Lady Lucy.’
That name was a revelation to Albert, and the door had scarcely closed before he exclaimed—‘Surely, Miss Martindale, that could not be Lord St. Erme!’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Well!’ cried Mrs. Moss, ‘there was something decidedly the aristocrat in his moustache!’
Albert could not recover from his vexation at having missed such a chance, and was nearly setting off in pursuit of his lordship. Theodora was glad to escape for a moment, on the plea of seeing whether Violet could receive a visit.
In her absence the bride began—‘I can’t see that she is so handsome, after all! And I should be ashamed to wear such a dress as that!’
‘Distinguished people have freaks, my love. Bless me! if I had but known the Earl!’
‘I see how it is,’ said the wife; ‘a proud Countess we shall have.’
‘If one of the girls had but been here! Every one of them is prettier than this Miss Martindale. Who knows?’
‘Ah! I shall take care in a friendly way to let your sister know how her own family feel at her keeping aloof—’
‘I do not believe it is her fault, poor child,’ said Albert. ‘Martindale has set this haughty young lady to keep guard over her—’
‘We shall see,’ said the bride. ‘I am not used to be refused, and once with your sister, I will discover all her secrets.’
Fortunately for Violet, Theodora had found her so much exhausted by the fatigue of dressing, that she thought it safest, considering what a bride it was, not to divulge her presence in the house; and she came down with this intelligence, trying to compensate for it by civility, and by showing the children.
Mrs. Moss was not easily repulsed, she begged Miss Martindale to reconsider her verdict.
‘I must not relent; I am accountable to the doctor and to my brother.’
‘It shall not be your fault. You shall know nothing of it. I will find my way. Ah! I’m a giddy young thing. Nothing can stop me!’ and she stepped forward, laughing affectedly, and trying to look arch.
‘I cannot permit this. It might do serious harm,’ said Theodora, obliged to stand in her path, and to put on such a look of haughty command, that she was positively subdued and frightened, and went back to her seat in a meek state of silence, whence she only recovered to overwhelm poor Johnnie with her attentions. He cried and was sent away, and Mrs. Moss was obliged to be satisfied with the baby, though she looked as dignified and as little to be taken liberties with as any Martindale of them all.
They lingered on, hoping to weary out Miss Martindale’s patience, or that some chance might reveal their presence to Violet; but in vain; Theodora’s politeness was exemplary, and she endured Mrs. Albert Moss’s familiarity so well, that when at length they departed, the last words were a parting whisper, ‘Good morning, Miss Martindale. If we had known what we interrupted—but ah! I have gone through those things so lately, that I know how to feel for you, and can keep your secret.’
‘There is no subject of secrecy that I know of,’ said Theodora, more coldly than ever.
Hateful woman! Poor Violet! There, now, it will be all over the country that I am engaged to him! I must take him now, or I hope he will give it up on discovering my connections! Then I can despise him. Foolish man! why could he not say what he wanted? I should have got rid of him then; I was in the mood! However, he is out of the way for the present. Now to make the best of it with Violet.
Violet was grieved, both for her own sake and the vexation at home, but she so sweetly acquiesced in its having been right, and was so sure that her sister meant nothing but kindness, that Theodora, knowing that she herself could not have submitted with anything like patience, admired and loved her more than ever.
The gentleness and quietness of her demeanour were a refreshment to Theodora’s tossed and undecided mind; and in administering to her comfort and pleasure, the anxieties and remorse subsided into a calm like her own. How delightful was the day of her introduction to Johnnie’s portrait; her admiration, and tearful gratitude to the kind deviser of the gift, were the greatest pleasure Theodora had known for months; the discussion of every feature, the comparison of Johnnie with it, the history of the difficulties, and of his papa’s assistance, seemed a never-ending treat to both giver and receiver. The poem, too; it was very amusing to see how she could hardly believe that original verses could possibly be written on her boy, and then when set to guess whose they were, she began with a hesitating ‘Miss Marstone is the only person near who makes verses, and these are too pretty to be hers.’
‘Ah! if you would follow Emma’s advice, and call the baby Osyth, after the first Prioress, you might have a chance from that quarter.’
It could not be Mr. Fotheringham, the only poet she could think of, and she could only beg to be told.
‘There is one whom a Wrangerton woman should not forget.’
‘Lord St. Erme! You ARE laughing at me, Theodora. He never even saw Johnnie!’
Theodora explained the two meetings, anxious to see her way of thinking. ‘It is a wonderful thing!’ was her first remark. ‘Who would have told me how it would be three years ago? They are very pretty.’
‘I do not think you like them the better for being his,’ said Theodora.
‘I ought,’ said Violet; ‘no other great man ever seems to me so grand as our own Earl.’
‘I want your real feeling.’
‘You know,’ said Violet, smiling, ‘I cannot think them done only for Johnnie’s sake—’
‘And, therefore, they do not please you.’
‘Not exactly that; but—if you don’t mind my saying so, I feel as if I had rather—it might be better—I don’t want to be ungrateful, but if you were getting into a scrape for the sake of pleasing me, I should be sorry. Forgive me, Theodora, you made me say so.’
‘You are consideration itself,’ said Theodora, affectionately. ‘Never mind, he is out of the way. We will let him go off poetizing to Germany; and under your wing at home, I will get into no more mischief.’
That was a pleasant prospect, and Violet reposed on the thought of the enjoyment of Martindale without its formidable inhabitants; trying in it to forget the pain of parting with her husband for a month, and her longings to spend it at her own home, and see Johnnie strengthened by Helvellyn breezes; while to Theodora it seemed like the opening into peace and goodness.
One forenoon, Violet, on coming down-stairs, found her sister writing extremely fast, and seeing an envelope on the table in Lord Martindale’s writing, asked if it was his answer to Theodora’s plan.
‘Yes.’
‘Ah!’ said Violet, perceiving something was amiss, ‘they have spared you to me a long time already.’
‘Don’t be uneasy,’ said Theodora; ‘I’ll settle it.’
‘But,’ exclaimed Violet, ‘I could not bear that you should be with me if they want you.’
‘That is not it; papa has something in his head; I will settle it.’
Violet knew what was indicated by the over-erectness of Theodora’s head. To be the cause of family discussion was frightful, but she had a nervous dread of thwarting Theodora.
‘I wish you would not look at me,’ exclaimed Theodora.
‘I beg your pardon,’ sighed she.
‘What’s the use of that when I know you are not satisfied, and do not trust me?’
‘Don’t be angry with me,’ implored Violet, with a quivering voice, and tears of weakness in her eyes. ‘I cannot help it. I do not want to interfere, but as it is for me, I must beg you to tell me you are not pressing to stay with me when Lady Martindale wishes for you.’
‘No one ever wants me. No, but papa thinks that you and I cannot be trusted together. He says he cannot leave me with one who has so little authority.’
That indignant voice contrasted with the gentle answer, ‘I do not wonder; I have always thought if I had been older and better able to manage—’
‘No such thing!’ exclaimed Theodora; ‘you are the only person who ever exercised any control over me.’
‘O, hush! you do not know what you are saying.’
‘It is the truth, and you know it. When you choose, every one yields to you, and so do I.’
‘Indeed, I did not know it,’ said Violet, much distressed. ‘I am very sorry if I am overbearing; I did not think I was.’
Theodora fairly laughed at such a word being applied to the mild, yielding creature, who looked so pale and feeble. ‘Very domineering, indeed!’ she said. ‘No, no, my dear, it is only that you are always right. When you disapprove, I cannot bear to hurt and grieve you, because you take it so quietly.’
‘You are so very kind to me.’
‘So, if papa wishes me to come to good, he had better leave me to you.’
‘I don’t think that ought to be,’ said Violet, feebly.
‘What, not that you should be my only chance—that you should calm me and guide me when every one else has failed—’
‘Theodora, dear, I do not think I ought to like to hear you say so. It cannot be safe for you to submit to me rather than to your father.’
‘He never had any moral power over me. He never convinced me, nor led me to yield my will,’ said Theodora, proud perhaps of her voluntary submission to her gentle sister-in-law, and magnifying its extent; but Violet was too right-minded, in her simplicity, to be flattered by an allegiance she knew to be misplaced.
‘I should not like baby to say so by and by,’ she whispered.
‘There’s an esprit de corps in parents,’ cried Theodora, half angrily; ‘but Helen will never be like me. She will not be left to grow up uncared for and unloved till one-and-twenty, and then, when old enough for independence, be for the first time coerced and reproached. If people never concern themselves about their children, they need not expect the same from them as if they had brought them up properly.’
‘That is a sad thought,’ pensively said the young mother.
‘I declare you shall hear the letter, that you may own that it is unreasonable—unbearable!’ And she read—
‘“I have been considering your request to spend the time of our absence at home with Mrs. Martindale, but I cannot think fit to comply with it. Arthur’s income is fully sufficient to provide change of air for his family; and he ought not to expect always to leave his wife on other people’s hands, while he is pursuing his own diversions.”’
Theodora was glad to see that this did rouse Violet’s indignation.
‘Oh! he does not know. Do tell him it was all your kindness! Tell him that Arthur is not going for long. He must not think such things.’
‘He thinks much more injustice,’ said Theodora. ‘Listen:—“After so long an absence, it is high time you should rejoin us; and, considering what has occurred, you cannot be surprised that I should be unwilling to leave you with one so young and of so little authority over you. Though I acquit her of all blame for your indiscretions—” (There, Violet, I hope you are much obliged to him!) “I should not have consented to your remaining with her up to the present time, if it had not been a case of urgent necessity, as I wish to have you under my own eye.” (As if he had ever made any use of it?) “You might as well be alone here as with her; and, after your late conduct, I cannot put the confidence in your prudence that I should desire. Violet has, I have no doubt, acted amiably; and her youth, inexperience, and gentleness fully excuse her in my eyes for having been unable to restrain you; but they are reasons sufficient to decide me on not leaving you with her at present. We shall be in London on Monday, the 11th, and I wish you to be in readiness to join us when we embark for Ostend on the following evening. Give my kind love to Violet, and tell her I am glad she is going on well, and that I am much pleased with my grand-daughter’s intended name.” There, Violet, what do you think of that?’
‘Pray make him understand that Arthur wanted a change very much, and will not be long gone.’
‘Arthur! You cannot feel for any one else!’
‘I did not mean to be selfish!’ said Violet, sorry for having seemed to be wanting in sympathy.
‘No, indeed! You never think what would become of you left alone, with two babies that cannot walk!’
‘Never mind me, I shall manage very well, I don’t like to have a disturbance made on my account. I cannot think how you can hesitate after such a letter as this.’
