Kitabı oku: «Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife», sayfa 31
CHAPTER 2
St. Osyth’s well is turned aside.
—CRABBE
On the first convenient day, Lord Martindale sent Violet to call at Rickworth Priory, a visit which she was the more desirous of making, as Emma’s correspondence, after languishing for awhile, had ceased, excepting that she sent a fresh allegory of Miss Marstone’s to Johnnie on each birthday; and the Brandons having given up coming to London for the season, she scarcely knew anything about them, excepting through Theodora, who reported that they retired more and more from society, and that Miss Marstone was much with them.
Theodora would have accompanied Violet, but she was sure that her absence would be a boon to Emma, whom she had of late tried in vain to draw out; and, besides, one of the housemaids was ill, and Theodora, whom her Cousin Hugh called the mother of the maids, wished not to be away at the doctor’s visit. So little Johnnie was his mother’s only companion; but she was disappointed in her hopes of introducing him to his godmother. To her surprise Lady Elizabeth was alone, Emma was at Gothlands with her friend Miss Marstone.
‘They were very kind in asking me,’ said Lady Elizabeth, ‘and so was Emma about leaving me; but I do not wish to be a drag upon her.’
‘Oh! how can you say so?’ exclaimed Violet.
‘It did not suit,’ said Lady Elizabeth. ‘The uncle, old Mr. Randal, is an old-fashioned, sporting squire, and the other Miss Marstones are gay ladies. I felt myself out of my element when I was there before; but now I almost wish I was with her.’
‘You must miss her very much, indeed.’
‘It is what we must all come to, my dear,’ said Lady Elizabeth, looking at the young mother, with her boy leaning against her knee, deep in a book of illustrations. ‘You have a good many years to look forward to with your little flock; but, one way or other, they will go forth from us.’
Lady Elizabeth thought Johnnie too much absorbed to hear; but Violet found his hand lightly squeezing hers.
‘I thought you at least had kept your daughter,’ she said.
‘Emma will be five-and-twenty in the autumn.’
‘But, oh! Lady Elizabeth, I thought—’
‘I cannot tell, my dear. I hope Emma’s arrangements may be such that we may go on together as before.’
‘How do you mean?’ exclaimed Violet, confounded.
‘Her judgment is sound,’ continued Lady Elizabeth, ‘if she will only use it; and when it comes to the point, Miss Marstone’s may be the same.’
‘Is she gone to Gothlands to settle her plans?’
‘Yes; I could not well have gone with her, for we have four little orphan girls in the house, whom I could not well leave to the servants. That is quite as I wish, if the rest could be added without Theresa Marstone making this her home, and introducing all the plans they talk of.’
‘She could not introduce anything to make you uncomfortable!’
‘It is not so much comfort that I mean, my dear. I do not think that I should object to giving up some of the servants, though in my time it was thought right to keep up an establishment. Perhaps a family of women are not called upon to do things in the same style, and there is no doubt that our means may be better employed. We have too many luxuries, and I would not wish to keep them. No, if it was entirely Emma’s doing. I should be satisfied; but there is more influence from Miss Marstone than I quite like. I cannot fully rely on her judgment, and I think she likes to manage.’
‘She could never presume to manage in your house!’
‘Emma’s house, my dear.’
‘But that is the same.’
Lady Elizabeth sighed, and made a movement with her head, then said, ‘All that they think right and conscientious they will do, I am sure, but the worst of it is that Theresa has friends who are not of our Communion, and she does speak strongly of things that do not accord with her notions. I cannot go along with her, and I must confess she sometimes alarms me.
‘And does Emma think with her entirely?’
‘I fear—I mean I think she does; and, by the bye, my dear, do you know anything of a Mr. Gardner?’
‘I do know a Mr. Mark Gardner.’
‘That is his name. He is staying in the neighbourhood of Gothlands, and seems very deep in their counsels. I am afraid he is leading them farther than Theresa Marstone herself would have gone.’
‘Oh, then, he cannot be the same person. I meant a very different style of man, a cousin to those Miss Gardners who used to be friends of Theodora.’
‘Ah! I meant to ask you about Miss Gardner and Percival Fotheringham. What! you have not heard?’
‘No, nothing. What do you mean?’
‘Married.’
‘Married! No, never!’
‘I thought you would have known, all about it, and I was anxious to hear what kind of connection it was for Percival.’
‘Do tell me, how did you hear of it? When was it?’
‘Not long ago, in Italy. I heard of it the other day from my nephew, Edward Howard, who is just returned, and he told me that Mrs. Finch was leading a dashing life at Florence, and that her sister had just married Mr. Fotheringham, “the author.”’
‘O, I do not know how to think it possible! Yet it is such an uncommon name.’
‘Do you know whether his name is Antony?’
‘Yes, it is his first name. I remember Arthur’s laughing at him for being ashamed of it, as he said.’
‘That confirms it. I asked Edward if the Christian name was Percival, and he said it was Antony, and some such name, but he could not be sure.’
‘Ah! there would be a confusion owing to his being always called Percy.’
‘He said, too, that it was a good match for Miss Gardner, as he was heir to an estate in Yorkshire.’
‘Worthbourne! Then I am afraid it must be too true. The author, too!’
‘So Edward was told.’
‘I must write and ask John Martindale. He will be sure to know the whole history.’
The rest of the visit and the homeward drive were like a dream. Violet was lost in amazement, compassion, and disappointment, and in the debate how Theodora should be informed. Should she wait till there were further particulars to confirm it! But when she thought it over, there seemed no more wanting. She knew that Percy had been thinking of visiting Italy a year ago, and the name, the authorship, and connection with Worthbourne swept away all doubt. As to making inquiries, she did not know Arthur’s present address; and even if she had had it, she would have shrunk from saying anything that should lead to one additional conversation with Mark Gardner; besides which, Arthur had a fashion of never answering any question asked by letter.
Nor could Violet venture to delay. It was better that such tidings should come from sympathizing lips than through the gossip of the neighbourhood; and Theodora ought to be aware of them as soon as possible, that she might no longer cherish the shade of her affection. Alas! that he should have done this at the very moment when she had truly become worthy of him, or, at least, of what he had once been!
At night, when Theodora came to linger over her fire, the intelligence was reluctantly and hesitatingly spoken; Violet’s eyes were bent down, for she knew how little that spirit could brook that its suffering should be marked.
Theodora stood up before her, at her full height, with flashing eye and indignant voice: ‘Do you think I believe it? No, indeed! I may have lost him for ever, but he would never lose himself. I scorn this as I did Jane Gardner’s own story that you were going to marry him to your sister. I knew you both too well.’
Violet put her arm round Theodora. ‘Dearest, I am the more afraid that we must believe this, because he was not always constant. He did think of Annette.’
‘Think of her! What do you mean! Did he make her an offer!’
‘Yes. I would never have told you if I did not think it might help you in this.’
‘I don’t want help,’ said Theodora, raising her head and turning from Violet. ‘Let him do as he likes.’
But, ere she had made two steps towards the door, her breast heaved with a convulsive sob. She threw herself on the ground, and rested her face on Violet’s lap. The sobs came at long intervals, with a tight, oppressed sound. Much alarmed, Violet caressed her, and tried to soothe her with gentle words, and at last they unlocked her lips.
‘It is not myself! Oh, no! I knew I had forfeited him long ago. I had proved myself unworthy. I had no right to hope. But that he should have changed—let his clear sense be blinded by her art! He, to whom I could have looked up all my life!—who was so noble in rejecting me!’
The large drops had gathered and flowed, seeming to scald their course down her cheeks. ‘O Violet! I wish your sister had married him! Then he would have been happy—he would not have degraded himself. Oh! what change can have come over him?’
‘You know Lady Fotheringham was fond of Jane Gardner, and he might have taken her upon her word.’
‘As if Percy would see with any old woman’s eyes, when once he came in contact with her! No, I see but one explanation. It must have been I who lowered his estimate of woman. Well I might do so, when I treated like a toy the happiness he had confided to me. I, on whom he had fixed his ardent soul for so many years past. No wonder he learnt to hold all women cheap alike! O, that summer of madness! If I have dimmed the brightness of that noble nature!’
‘Dear, dear Theodora, what can I say to comfort you? She may be altered; he may have improved her.’
‘She is not capable of it,’ said Theodora; ‘there is nothing in her but time-serving and selfishness. And he, with that large true heart, so detesting falsehood—he must either be wretched or deceived—debased! No, there is no comfort—there never will be.’
‘Except the best sort,’ tenderly whispered Violet. Theodora rested her head on her hands, and remained perfectly still for some moments, then looked up, and spoke in a depressed voice.
‘I cannot talk any more. I feel shattered from head to foot. I must be quiet.’
‘Then, dearest, pray go to bed at once, and I will come and see you.’
‘I cannot. I undertook to give Maria her draught at one o’clock. May I stay here while you go to bed?’
‘Anything, dearest, dearest sister.’
‘Only let me be in the room with you, and be quiet.’
She would not, as Violet entreated, lie down on the bed beside her, but remained seated on the floor, her eyes riveted on the fire, never looking round, her face stupefied, her hands hanging motionless, like one stunned; and when Violet’s anxious gaze was closed by irresistible sleep, that dark head was still motionless before the fire.
Her mind was indeed a blank, sensible of nothing but the effect of the shock. The phrase now and then occurred, ‘Percy is married to Jane;’ but her perceptions were so sluggish that she scarcely knew that it concerned her. She seemed to have forgotten who Percy was, and to shrink from recalling the remembrance. There was a repose in this state of stupor which she was reluctant to break; and after the great clock, so melancholy in the silence, had tolled half-past twelve, her sensations were absorbed in the dread of hearing One! the summons to exertion.
The single note pealed out, and died quivering slowly away; she rose, lighted her candle, and quitted the room, feeling as if the maid’s illness and the doctor’s directions belonged to some period removed by ages.
CHAPTER 3
This house of splendour and of princely glory
Doth now stand desolated, the affrighted servants
Rush forth through all its doors. I am the last
Therein.
—Wallenstein
Theodora was no sooner in the gallery than she was recalled to the present. There was a strange gleam of light reflected on the avenue. Roused at once to action, she hurried towards the window. The fire was within the house. She pushed open the door leading to Mrs. Nesbit’s apartments. Light was flashing at every chink of the bed-room door. She threw it back. Out rolled a volume of smoke, the glare of flame burst on her, the curtains were blazing! ‘Aunt! Aunt Nesbit, are you there? she cried, in tones low with horror and choked with smoke; she plunged between the burning curtains, felt that she had a hold of something, dragged it out, found it move and gasp, bore it from the room, and, depositing it on a couch in the gallery, only then could perceive that it was indeed Mrs Nesbit, uninjured, though half-suffocated.
Mrs. Garth, who slept in the adjoining room, with the door open, had been waked by her call, and came running out. An old soldier, she had full self-possession, and was at once effective, and it was well, for she exclaimed, ‘Miss Martindale, you are on fire,’ just as the light and the scorching were revealing the same to herself. There was no time for personal terror, barely for pain, the fire was crushed out between them by the help of a woollen table-cover, they scarcely knew how, they only saw that the draught had increased the blaze in the room, and dense clouds of smoke came bursting out upon them.
Mrs. Nesbit clung terrified to her niece, but Theodora, with a word or two of encouragement, freed herself from her grasp, and leaving her to Mrs. Garth’s care, flew up the nursery stairs. She must have the children in their mother’s sight before the alarm should reach her. Sarah’s first waking impulse was to growl, that Master Johnnie would catch his death of cold, but the next moment she was equal to any emergency; and the little ones were at their mother’s door just as she was opening it, thinking the noise more than Maria’s illness could occasion, and setting forth to see whether there was anything amiss in the nursery. Theodora put Annie into her arms. ‘All safe. It is only the north wing. Don’t be frightened. Stay where you are.’
Violet could only obey, thankful at having her three around her, and trying to keep her terror from being visible enough to increase Johnnie’s exceeding alarm, or to frighten Helen out of her happy state of inquisitive excitement and curiosity.
Theodora had hurried to call her parents. They were already in motion. Lord Martindale’s first care was for Violet and the children, Lady Martindale’s for her aunt, and almost instantly she was embracing and supporting the pale shrunken figure, now feebly tottering along the gallery, forsaken by Mrs. Garth, who had gone back to secure her own valuables.
By this time, the gallery was full of screaming maids, whom Sarah had, with difficulty, prevented from leaping at once from attic windows; and staring men, hallooing for water, which no one brought, except little Helen, who, escaping from her mother’s room, ran barefooted into the midst, holding aloft the water-bottle triumphantly, and very indignant at being captured, and carried back in the butler’s arms.
The fire was spreading so fast that Lord Martindale decided on removing all the helpless to the gardener’s house at the end of the pleasure ground. He came himself to call Violet, told her not to be alarmed, and, taking his grandson in his arms, led the way. Mrs. Nesbit was carried on a mattress between two of the servants, Lady Martindale walking beside her, absorbed in trying to guard her from injury or alarm; Annie, asleep and unconscious, was in her mother’s arms, and Theodora carried the amused and chattering Helen. At the foot of the stairs, Violet exclaimed, ‘My cross, I must not leave it!’ and would have turned, but Theodora prevented her. ‘I know where it is,’ she said, ‘I am going to see how they are moving Maria;’ and putting Helen into the nearest pair of arms, she ran back.
Harrison’s successor, Mr. Armstrong and his wife were on foot, and ready to receive them. Their spare bed was for Mrs. Nesbit, in their own the three children were placed. In all his haste, Lord Martindale paused till he could lay his little shivering ice-cold charge in the bed, and see him hide his head in his mother’s bosom. ‘Good boy!’ he said, ‘I told him not to cry for you, and he has not made a sound, though I have felt him trembling the whole way. Take care of him.’
Little did she need the recommendation, though it sent a thrill of gladness through her that it should have been made at such a time. She had great apprehension of the effect of the shock on the child’s tender frame and timid nature, his obedience and self-command seeming almost to enhance the excess of terror. The shuddering horror and convulsive clinging were beyond control, and were renewed whenever a fresh glare broke out from the burning house; to turn him away from the window, or to put up blinds and curtains made it worse, for the shadows of the trees, flickering mysteriously, seemed still more terrific. His sister screamed with excitement and delight at each brighter burst of flame, till she suddenly laid down her head and fell fast asleep; but still his nervous trembling continued at intervals, and his mother could not leave him, nor cease from saying consoling words of his heavenly Guardian, the only means that soothed him, especially when his sighing exclamation recurred, ‘O, if papa was but here!’ the tune to which her heart was throbbing throughout that dreadful night. She felt guilty of being useless, but he was her first care, and her power of real service was small: so she could only hang over him, and as she watched the healthful sleep of her little girls, join her prayers and thanksgivings with his, that all papa’s treasures were safe. Not till the flames were dying down, morning twilight showing cold and gray, and Sarah coming in with bundles of rescued garments, was Johnnie’s mind free enough to unclasp his hand, and show something fast held in it. ‘Aunt Helen’s cross, mamma; I thought I might keep hold of it, because I was frightened.’
Her caresses lulled him at last to sleep, while she grieved at Theodora’s having gone in search of the cross. She knew of her safety from Sarah, who reported that she had been working like any ten; but she had not yet seen her, and the silence and suspense became oppressive.
Theodora had hardly spent a moment in seeking the cross, she tied on Violet’s bonnet over the hair falling round her, hurried to assist in carrying the sick maid to a bed made up for her at the stables, and then, missing the dumb page from among the servants, she rushed back to look for him, dashed up the stairs through thick smoke, found him asleep, and crossing a floor that almost burnt her foot, she shook him awake, and saw him too in safety. She bethought her of her brother John’s possessions, now that the living were all secure; she hurried into the work, she tore down his prints and pictures, carried them and his books out,—desks, drawers, weights she would never have dreamt of lifting, were as nothing to her. Many times did her father meet her, exclaim and urge her to desist, and to go to Armstrong’s; she said she was just going: he went in one of the thousand directions in which he was called at once, and presently again encountered her, where he least expected it, coming out of a cloud of smoke with a huge pile of books in her arms! On she worked, regardless of choking, blinding smoke—regardless of the glare of flame—never driven from the field but by a deluge from a fire-engine; when stumbling down-stairs, guided by the banisters, she finally dismayed her father, who thought her long ago in safety, by emerging from the house, dragging after her a marble-topped chess table, when half the upper windows were flashing with flame.
Then he locked her arm into his, and would not let her stir from his side.
Water had been the great deficiency. Fire-engines were slow in coming, and the supply from the fountains was as nothing, so that the attempt had necessarily been to carry out property rather than to extinguish the fire. Sarah, after coolly collecting all that belonged to her mistress or the children, had taken the command of Miss Altisidora Standaloft, (who usually regarded her as vulgarity personified,) scolded away her hysterics, and kept guard over her, while she packed up her lady’s jewels and wardrobe, not until then allowing her the luxury of shrieking at every jet of flame. The other servants and the villagers had worked with hearty goodwill below stairs; and when Theodora had time to look around, the pleasure-ground presented a strange scene. Among the trodden plants and shrubs lay heaps of furniture, sofas, chairs lying tumbled here and there, with plate, pictures, statues, ornaments heaped in wild confusion, crowds of people, in every variety of strange dishabille, gathered round; two long lines of them handing bucket after bucket, with machine-like regularity, from the fountain; others removing the furniture from the terrace; cushions, ormolu, fine china, handed out of the lower windows; the whole seen by the wild lurid light that flashed from the windows above, strangely illuminating the quiet green trees, and bringing out every tiny leaf and spray by its fierce brilliancy, that confused every accustomed shadow, while the clouds of smoke rolled down as if to wither all around.
And above the rushing roaring sound! the thunder of falling ceilings; the red light within some familiar windows; the gray sky reflected in others, till, after a few uncertain flickers, the glow awoke in them also. Then arose the whiter gusts of vapour, when water, hissing and boiling, contended with fire.
In vain! the flame surmounted! Shouts, cries! Lord Martindale pushing nearer, calling to all for heaven’s sake to come out, leave all, only come out; men rushing from the doors, leaping from the lower windows; one dark figure emerging at the moment before a tremendous crash shook the earth beneath their feet; the fire seemed for a moment crushed out, then clouds of smoke rose wilder and denser, yellowed by the light of the morning; the blaze rushed upwards uncontrolled, and the intensity of brightness, behind and above the walls, glared on the mass of awe-struck faces. There was not a movement, not a word, not a sound, save that of the roaring flame.
The first voice was Lord Martindale’s: ‘Are all out? Is every one safe?’
‘Yes, my lord, all but the claret of 1826,’ said that last to escape, half-clad, grimy, and singed, only in courteous voice, the butler.
‘Thank God!’ said Lord Martindale, fervently. ‘And, Simmonds, thank you for what you have done to-night;’ and he heartily shook the butler’s hand.
‘Oh, my lord, if it had been more! If that claret was but safe, I should feel I had done my duty,’ said Simmonds, almost overcome, but giving place to Mr. Hugh Martindale, who, just released from a chain of buckets in the kitchen yard, was coming up to wring his cousin’s hand, say there seemed no more to be done, and repeat his congratulations on the safety of life and limb. But a fresh alarm arose, lest the fire might extend to the stabling; and in watching the horses led out, the spreading of wet tarpaulins on the roof, the engines playing on the burning mass in the house, and the flames rising with diminishing fierceness in the intervals of the bursts of steam, there was such intense excitement that no one could think of aught but the sight before them.
At last there was a touch on Lord Martindale’s arm; a message from the gardener’s house that he must come directly: Mrs. Nesbit was in a fit.
The morning dewiness and calmness of the garden had a curious effect, as they walked hastily through it, out of sight of the confusion on the lawn; everything looked so blue and pale, especially Violet, who came down to meet them.
‘I have sent for Mr. Legh,’ she said. ‘It is very terrible. She is quite insensible, but—’
She broke off suddenly. Theodora had sat down, untied her bonnet, then tried to rise, but tottered, and sank senseless on the floor.
Her father lifted her, so as to place her with her head on Violet’s lap. Violet removed the bonnet, the hair came with it, burnt off in masses, the very eyelashes and brows were singed, the forehead, cheeks, and neck frightfully reddened and blistered. Lord Martindale took her hands to chafe them: they were bleeding, and purple from bruises, the arms scorched and burnt—injuries overlooked in the excitement, but ready to repay themselves after her five hours’ violent and incessant exertion. It was a frightfully long swoon; and her father, almost in despair, had sent a second messenger for medical aid before Violet could look up consolingly, and direct his attention to the signs of returning animation. She presently half opened her eyes, perceived in whose arms she lay, and who was bending over her—she heard his fond words; but reviving no further, closed her eyes, without attempting to speak.
Lord Martindale could no longer delay going up-stairs. There the scene was most distressing; there was complete insensibility, with a tendency to convulsive movement, a condition so plainly hopeless that he would fain have removed his wife, hitherto so unaccustomed to any spectacle of suffering. But Lady Martindale was not to be detached from her who had absorbed her affection from infancy. Wrapped in that one idea, she hardly heard his representations of their daughter’s state, and, with piteous looks, repelled his assurances that her care was unavailing, and ought to be relinquished to Mrs. Garth and the maids. He was obliged at length to desist, and returned just as Violet and Mr. Martindale had succeeded in moving Theodora to a slippery horse-hair sofa. She looked up and replied, ‘Better, thank you,’ to his first inquiry; but when asked if she was in pain, was forced to answer, ‘Yes, not much,’ and closed her eyes, as if she only wished not to be disturbed.
They held council over her: Mr. Martindale urged taking her at once to his parsonage; he would find the carriage, and Violet should bring her, leaving the children to follow under Sarah’s charge when they should awake. Violet only demurred at leaving Lady Martindale; but Lord Martindale authoritatively told her, that it was not fit for her to be in Mrs. Nesbit’s room, and he should be much obliged to her to see Theodora properly taken care of.
The transit was serious, every one longed to have it over, but dreaded the arrival of the carriage, which came before it was expected. Resolute as ever, Theodora astonished them by springing at once on her feet, disdaining aid, but she had hardly taken a step, before she faltered, and was just falling, when her father caught her in his arms and carried her to the carriage, where Violet was ready to uphold her sinking head. Mr. Martindale took the short way, and was at home before them, to lift her out, and transport her at once to her room. Since the marriage of Pauline, Theodora had given up a personal attendant, and no ladies’ maids were forthcoming, except Miss Standaloft, whose nerves could not endure the sight of Mrs. Nesbit, far less of Miss Martindale, so the whole business of undressing fell upon Violet, and the rector’s little under-maid, who, having been a school-girl, was of course devoted to Miss Martindale. A difficult task it was, for besides the burns, bruises, and faintness, every muscle and sinew were so strained and tender from the violent exertion, and the blows she had unconsciously received, that the gentlest touch and slightest movement were severely painful. Violet was most grateful for her never-failing resolution. Every move was made unhesitatingly the moment it was requisite, and not a complaint was uttered, scarcely even a confession of suffering; on anxious inquiry, ‘Never mind, it can’t be helped,’ was the utmost reply, given in a blunt, almost annoyed manner, as if she could not bear to be disturbed out of that silence of endurance.
In the same manner, between stupefaction and fortitude, the surgeon’s visit was gone through, and Violet heard from him that there was no serious consequence to be apprehended, provided fever could be averted. Violet, much alarmed as to the effect of the tidings of the previous night, thought it right to mention that she had undergone a severe shock, and perceived that he thought it greatly increased the chance of serious illness; but he could do nothing but insist on tranquillity; and, as Theodora had now fallen into an exhausted sleep, he returned to his other patient.
The hours seemed to have forgotten their reckoning; it was to Violet as if she had been years without looking after her children, and when she found it was only half-past nine, she was dismayed to think of the length of day yet to come. Leaving Theodora’s sleep to be guarded by the little maid, she ventured down. The dumb boy was watching, with tearful eyes, at the foot of the stairs, his whole face one question about Miss Martindale. Answering him reassuringly on the slate, she opened the dining-room door, and a refreshing sight met her eyes. Round the breakfast-table sat her own three, from their glossy heads to their little shining shoes, in order trim, as if no disaster had ever come near them;—little Annie on Cousin Hugh’s knee; Helen’s tongue going as fast as ever; Johnnie in shy good behaviour. A general cry of joy greeted her, and they were in an instant around her, telling of the wonders of the lawn, how the dying gladiator was lying on the blue damask bed, and the case of stuffed humming-birds on the top of the kitchen dresser, and the poor peacock so frightened that he hid himself in the laurels, and would not come near them.
All alarms had gone away like a dream of the night, and the day had dawned on the happy creatures in all its freshness and newness, which their elders would fain have shared, but the necessity of attending to them had something reviving in it, and Violet could not look at them without renewed thrills of thankfulness. It was like rescued mariners meeting after a shipwreck, when her father-in-law came in and embraced her and the children affectionately, with a special caress for Johnnie, ‘the best little boy he ever saw.’ He looked worn and depressed, and Violet hastened to help Mr. Martindale in setting breakfast before him, while he anxiously bade her rest, hoped she had not been hurt by all she had undergone; and asked for Theodora, whose illness, and his wife’s despair at her aunt’s condition, were the chief actual distress. For the rest, he was so thankful that no life had been lost, as to have hardly a thought to bestow on the ruin and destruction.
