Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife

‘Poor John! so it is,’ said Arthur, looking at her, as if beginning to realize what his brother had lost. ‘However, she was not his wife, though, after all, they were almost as much attached. He has not got over it in the least. This is the first time I have known him speak of it, and he could not get out her name.’

‘It is nearly two years ago.’

‘Nearly. She died in June. It was that cold late summer, and her funeral was in the middle of a hail-storm, horridly chilly.’

‘Where was she buried?’

‘At Brogden. Old Mr. Fotheringham was buried there, and she was brought there. I came home for it. What a day it was—the hailstones standing on the grass, and I shall never forget poor John’s look—all shivering and shrunk up together.’ He shivered at the bare remembrance. ‘It put the finishing touch to the damage he had got by staying in England with her all the winter. By night he was frightfully ill—inflammation worse than ever. Poor John! That old curmudgeon of a grandfather has much to answer for, though you ought to be grateful to him, Violet; for I suppose it will end in that boy of yours being his lordship some time or other.’

The next morning was a brisk one with Violet. She wished Arthur not to be anxious about leaving her, and having by no means ceased to think it a treat to see him in uniform, she gloried in being carried to her sofa by so grand and soldierly a figure, and uttered her choicest sentence of satisfaction—‘It is like a story!’ while his epaulette was scratching her cheek.

‘I don’t know how to trust you to your own silly devices,’ said he, laying her down, and lingering to settle her pillows and shawls.

‘Wise ones,’ said she. ‘I have so much to do. There’s baby—and there’s Mr. Harding to come, and I want to see the cook—and I should not wonder if I wrote to mamma. So you see ‘tis woman’s work, and you had better not bring your red coat home too soon, or you’ll have to finish the letter!’ she added, with saucy sweetness.

On his return, he found her spread all over with papers, her little table by her side, with the drawer pulled out.

‘Ha! what mischief are you up to? You have not got at those abominable accounts again!’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said she, humbly. ‘Nurse would not let me speak to the cook, but said instead I might write to mamma; so I sent for my little table, but I found the drawer in such disorder, that I was setting it to rights. Who can have meddled with it!’

‘I can tell you that,’ said Arthur. ‘I ran against it, and it came to grief, and there was a spread of all your goods and chattels on the floor.’

‘Oh! I am so glad! I was afraid some of the servants had been at it.’

‘What! aren’t you in a desperate fright? All your secrets displayed like a story, as you are so fond of saying—what’s the name of it—where the husband, no, it was the wife, fainted away, and broke open the desk with her head.’

‘My dear Arthur!’ and Violet laughed so much that nurse in the next room foreboded that he would tire her.

‘I vow it was so! Out came a whole lot of letters from the old love, a colonel in the Peninsula, that her husband had never heard of,—an old lawyer he was.’

‘The husband? What made her marry him?’

‘They were all ruined horse and foot, and the old love was wounded, “kilt”, or disposed of, till he turned up, married to her best friend.’

‘What became of her?’

‘I forget—there was a poisoning and a paralytic stroke in it.’

‘Was there! How delightful! How I should like to read it. What was its name?’

‘I don’t remember. It was a green railway book. Theodora made me read it, and I should know it again if I saw it. I’ll look out for it, and you’ll find I was right about her head. But how now. Haven’t you fainted away all this time?’

‘No; why should I?’

‘How do you know what I may have discovered in your papers? Are you prepared? It is no laughing matter,’ added he, in a Blue Beard tone, and drawing out the paper of calculations, he pointed to the tear marks. ‘Look here. What’s this, I say, what’s this, you naughty child?’

‘I am sorry! it was very silly,’ whispered Violet, in a contrite ashamed way, shrinking back a little.

‘What business had you to break your heart over these trumpery butchers and bakers and candlestick makers?’

‘Only candles, dear Arthur,’ said Violet, meekly, as if in extenuation.

‘But what on earth could you find to cry about?’

‘It was very foolish! but I was in such a dreadful puzzle. I could not make the cook’s accounts and mine agree, and I wanted to be sure whether she really—’

‘Cheated!’ exclaimed Arthur. ‘Well, that’s a blessing!’

‘What is?’ asked the astonished Violet.

‘That I have cleared the house of that intolerable woman!’

‘The cook gone!’ cried Violet, starting, so that her papers slid away, and Arthur shuffled them up in his hand in renewed confusion. ‘The cook really gone? Oh! I am so glad!’

‘Capital!’ cried Arthur. ‘There was John declaring you would be in despair to find your precious treasure gone.’

‘Oh! I never was more glad! Do tell me! Why did she go?’

‘I had a skrimmage with her about some trout Fitzhugh sent, which I verily believe she ate herself.’

‘Changed with the fishmonger!’

‘I dare say. She sent us in some good-for-nothing wretches, all mud, and vowed these were stale—then grew impertinent.’

‘And talked about the first families?’

‘Exactly so, and when it came to telling me Mrs. Martindale was her mistress, I could stand no more. I paid her her wages, and recommended her to make herself scarce.’

‘When did it happen?’

‘Rather more than a fortnight ago.’

Violet laughed heartily. ‘O-ho! there’s the reason nurse scolds if I dare to ask to speak to the cook. And oh! how gravely Sarah said “yes, ma’am,” to all my messages! How very funny! But how have we been living? When I am having nice things all day long, and giving so much trouble! Oh dear! How uncomfortable you must have been, and your brother too!’

‘Am I not always telling you to the contrary? Sarah made everything look as usual, and I suspect Brown lent a helping hand. John said the coffee was made in some peculiar way Brown learnt in the East, and never practises unless John is very ill, or they are in some uncivilized place; but he told me to take no notice, lest Brown should think it infra dig.’

‘I’m afraid he thought this an uncivilized place. But what a woman Sarah is! She has all the work of the house, and yet she seems to me to be here as much as nurse!’

‘She has got the work of ten horses in her, with the face of a death’s head, and the voice of a walking sepulchre!’

‘But isn’t she a thorough good creature! I can’t think what will become of me without her! It will be like parting with a friend.’

‘What would you part with her for? I thought she was the sheet-anchor.’

‘That she is; but she won’t stay where there are children. She told me so long ago, and only stayed because I begged her for the present. She will go when I am well.’

‘Better give double wages to keep her,’ said Arthur.

‘I’d do anything I could, but I’m afraid. I was quite dreading the getting about again, because I should have to lose Sarah, and to do something or other with that woman.’

‘What possessed you to keep her?’

‘I wasn’t sure about her. Your aunt recommended her, and I thought you might not like—and at first I did not know what things ought to cost, nor how long they ought to last, and that was what I did sums for. Then when I did prove it, I saw only dishonesty in the kitchen, and extravagance and mismanagement of my own.’

‘So the little goose sat and cried!’

‘I could not help it. I felt I was doing wrong; that was the terrible part; and I am glad you know the worst. I have been very weak and silly, and wasted your money sadly, and I did not know how to help it; and that was what made me so miserable. And now, dear Arthur, only say you overlook my blunders, and indeed I’ll try to do better.’

‘Overlook! The only thing I don’t know how to forgive is your having made yourself so ill with this nonsense.’

‘I can’t be sorry for that,’ said Violet, smiling, though the tears came. ‘That has been almost all happiness. I shall have the heart to try more than ever—and I have some experience; and now that cook is gone, I really shall get on.’

‘Promise me you’ll never go bothering yourself for nothing another time. Take it easy! That’s the only way to get through the world.’

‘Ah! I will never be so foolish again. I shall never be afraid to make you attend to my difficulties.’

‘Afraid! That was the silliest part of all! But here—will you have another hundred a year at once? and then there’ll be no trouble.’

‘Thank you, thank you! How kind of you! But do you know, I should like to try with what I have. I see it might be made to do, and I want to conquer the difficulty; if I can’t, I will ask you for more.’

‘Well, that may be best. I could hardly spare a hundred pounds without giving up one of the horses; and I want to see you riding again.’

‘Besides, this illness must have cost you a terrible quantity of money. But I dare say I shall find the outgoings nothing to what the cook made them.’ And she was taking up the accounts, when he seized them, crumpling them in his hand. ‘Nonsense! Let them alone, or I shall put them in the fire at once.’

‘Oh, don’t do that, pray!’ cried she, starting, ‘or I shall be ruined. Oh, pray!’

‘Very well;’ and rising, and making a long arm, he deposited them on the top of a high wardrobe. ‘There’s the way to treat obstinate women. You may get them down when you can go after them—I shan’t.’

‘Ah! there’s baby awake!’

‘So, I shall go after that book at the library; and then I’ve plenty to tell you of inquiries for Mrs. Martindale. Good-bye, again.’

Violet received her babe into her arms with a languid long-drawn sigh, as of one wearied out with happiness. ‘That he should have heard my confession, and only pet me the more! Foolish, wasteful thing that I am. Oh, babe! if I could only make you grow and thrive, no one would ever be so happy as your mamma.’

Perhaps she thought so still more some hours later, when she awoke from a long sleep, and saw Arthur reading “Emilia Wyndham”, and quite ready to defend his assertion that the wife broke open the desk with her head.

CHAPTER 3

   But there was one fairy who was offended because she was not invited to the Christening.—MOTHER BUNCH

Theodora had spent the winter in trying not to think of her brother.

She read, she tried experiments, she taught at the school, she instructed the dumb boy, talked to the curate, and took her share of such county gaieties as were not beneath the house of Martindale; but at every tranquil moment came the thought, ‘What are Arthur and his wife doing!’

There were rumours of the general admiration of Mrs. Martindale, whence she deduced vanity and extravagance; but she heard nothing more till Jane Gardner, a correspondent, who persevered in spite of scanty and infrequent answers, mentioned her call on poor Mrs. Martindale, who, she said, looked sadly altered, unwell, and out of spirits. Georgina had tried to persuade her to come out, but without success; she ought to have some one with her, for she seemed to be a good deal alone, and no doubt it was trying; but, of course, she would soon have her mother with her.

He leaves her alone—he finds home dull! Poor Arthur! A moment of triumph was followed by another of compunction, since this was not a doll that he was neglecting, but a living creature, who could feel pain. But the anticipation of meeting Mrs. Moss, after all those vows against her, and the idea of seeing his house filled with vulgar relations, hardened Theodora against the wife, who had thus gained her point.

Thus came the morning, when her father interrupted breakfast with an exclamation of dismay, and John’s tidings were communicated.

I wish I had been kind to her! shot across Theodora’s mind with acute pain, and the image of Arthur in grief swallowed up everything else. ‘I will go with you, papa—you will go at once!’

‘Poor young thing!’ said Lord Martindale; ‘she was as pretty a creature as I ever beheld, and I do believe, as good. Poor Arthur, I am glad he has John with him.’

Lady Martindale wondered how John came there,—and remarks ensued on his imprudence in risking a spring in England. To Theodora this seemed indifference to Arthur’s distress, and she impatiently urged her father to take her to him at once.

He would not have delayed had Arthur been alone; but since John was there, he thought their sudden arrival might be more encumbering than consoling, and decided to wait for a further account, and finish affairs that he could not easily leave.

Theodora believed no one but herself could comfort Arthur, and was exceedingly vexed. She chafed against her father for attending to his business—against her mother for thinking of John; and was in charity with no one except Miss Piper, who came out of Mrs. Nesbit’s room red with swallowing down tears, and with the under lady’s-maid, who could not help begging to hear if Mrs. Martindale was so ill, for Miss Standaloft said, ‘My lady had been so nervous and hysterical in her own room, that she had been forced to give her camphor and sal volatile.’

Never had Theodora been more surprised than to hear this of the mother whom she only knew as calm, majestic, and impassible. With a sudden impulse, she hastened to her room. She was with Mrs. Nesbit, and Theodora following, found her reading aloud, without a trace of emotion. No doubt it was a figment of Miss Standaloft, and there was a sidelong glance of satisfaction in her aunt’s eyes, which made Theodora so indignant, that she was obliged to retreat without a word.

Her own regret and compassion for so young a creature thus cut off were warm and keen, especially when the next post brought a new and delightful hope, the infant, of whose life John had yesterday despaired, was said to be improving. Arthur’s child! Here was a possession for Theodora, an object for the affections so long yearning for something to love. She would bring it home, watch over it, educate it, be all the world to Arthur, doubly so for his son’s sake. She dreamt of putting his child into his arms, and bidding him live for it, and awoke clasping the pillow!

What were her feelings when she heard Violet was out of danger? For humanity’s sake and for Arthur’s, she rejoiced; but it was the downfall of a noble edifice. ‘How that silly young mother would spoil the poor child!’

‘My brothers’ had always been mentioned in Theodora’s prayer, from infancy. It was the plural number, but the strength and fervency of petition were reserved for one; and with him she now joined the name of his child. But how pray for the son without the mother? It was positively a struggle; for Theodora had a horror of mockery and formality; but the duty was too clear, the evil which made it distasteful, too evident, not to be battled with; she remembered that she ought to pray for all mankind, even those who had injured her, and, on these terms, she added her brother’s wife. It was not much from her heart; a small beginning, but still it was a beginning, that might be blessed in time.

Lord Martindale wished the family to have gone to London immediately, but Mrs. Nesbit set herself against any alteration in their plans being made for the sake of Arthur’s wife. They were to have gone only in time for the first drawing-room, and she treated as a personal injury the proposal to leave her sooner than had been originally intended; making her niece so unhappy that Lord Martindale had to yield. John’s stay in London was a subject of much anxiety; and while Mrs. Nesbit treated it as an absurd trifling with his own health, and his father reproached himself for being obliged to leave Arthur to him, Theodora suffered from complicated jealousy. Arthur seemed to want John more than her, John risked himself in London, in order to be with Arthur and his wife.

She was very eager for his coming; and when she expected the return of the carriage which was sent to meet him at the Whitford station, she betook herself to the lodge, intending him to pick her up there, that she might skim the cream of his information.

The carriage appeared, but it seemed empty. That dignified, gentlemanly personage, Mr. Brown, alighted from the box, and advanced with affability, replying to her astonished query, ‘Mr. Martindale desired me to say he should be at home by dinner-time, ma’am. He left the train at the Enderby station, and is gone round by Rickworth Priory, with a message from Mrs. Martindale to Lady Elizabeth Brandon.’

Theodora stood transfixed; and Brown, a confidential and cultivated person, thought she waited for more information.

‘Mr. Martindale has not much cough, ma’am, and I hope coming out of London will remove it entirely. I think it was chiefly excitement and anxiety that brought on a recurrence of it, for his health is decidedly improved. He desired me to mention that Mrs. Martindale is much better. She is on the sofa to-day for the first time; and he saw her before leaving.’

‘Do you know how the little boy is?’ Theodora could not help asking.

‘He is a little stronger, thank you, ma’am,’ said Brown, with much interest; ‘he has cried less these last few days. He is said to be extremely like Mrs. Martindale.’

Brown remounted to his place, the carriage drove on, and Theodora impetuously walked along the avenue.

‘That man is insufferable! Extremely like Mrs. Martindale! Servants’ gossip! How could I go and ask him? John has perfectly spoilt a good servant in him! But John spoils everybody. The notion of that girl sending him on her messages! John, who is treated like something sacred by my father and mother themselves! Those damp Rickworth meadows! How could Arthur allow it? It would serve him right if he was to marry Emma Brandon after all!’

She would not go near her mother, lest she should give her aunt the pleasure of hearing where he was gone; but as she was coming down, dressed for dinner, she met her father in the hall, uneasily asking a servant whether Mr. Martindale was come.

‘Arthur’s wife has sent him with a message to Rickworth,’ she said.

‘John? You don’t mean it. You have not seen him?’

‘No; he went round that way, and sent Brown home. He said he should be here by dinner-time, but it is very late. Is it not a strange proceeding of hers, to be sending him about the country!’

‘I don’t understand it. Where’s Brown?’

‘Here’s a fly coming up the avenue. He is come at last.’

Lord Martindale hastened down the steps; Theodora came no further than the door, in so irritated a state that she did not like John’s cheerful alacrity of step and greeting. ‘She is up to-day, she is getting better,’ were the first words she heard. ‘Well, Theodora, how are you?’ and he kissed her with more warmth than she returned.

‘Did I hear you had been to Rickworth?’ said his father.

‘Yes; I sent word by Brown. Poor Violet is still so weak that she cannot write, and the Brandons have been anxious about her; so she asked me to let them know how she was, if I had the opportunity, and I came round that way. I wanted to know when they go to London; for though Arthur is as attentive as possible, I don’t think Violet is in a condition to be left entirely to him. When do you go?’

‘Not till the end of May—just before the drawing-room,’ said Lord Martindale.

‘I go back when they can take the boy to church. Is my mother in the drawing-room? I’ll just speak to her, and dress—it is late I see.’

‘How well he seems,’ said Lord Martindale, as John walked quickly on before.

‘There was a cough,’ said Theodora.

‘Yes; but so cheerful. I have not seen him so animated for years. He must be better!’

His mother was full of delight. ‘My dear John, you look so much better! Where have you been?’

‘At Rickworth. I went to give Lady Elizabeth an account of Violet. She is much better.’

‘And you have been after sunset in that river fog! My dear John!’

‘There was no fog; and it was a most pleasant drive. I had no idea Rickworth was so pretty. Violet desired me to thank you for your kind messages. You should see her to-day, mother; she would be quite a study for you; she looks so pretty on her pillows, poor thing! and Arthur is come out quite a new character—as an excellent nurse.’

‘Poor thing! I am glad she is recovering,’ said Lady Martindale. ‘It was very kind in you to stay with Arthur. I only hope you have not been hurting yourself.’

‘No, thank you; I came away in time, I believe: but I should have been glad to have stayed on, unless I made room for some one of more use to Violet.’

‘I wish you had come home sooner. We have had such a pleasant dinner-party. You would have liked to meet the professor.’

It was not the first time John had been sensible that that drawing-room was no place for sympathy; and he felt it the more now, because he had been living in such entire participation of his brother’s hopes and fears, that he could hardly suppose any one could be less interested in the mother and child in Cadogan-place. He came home, wishing Theodora would go and relieve Arthur of some of the care Violet needed in her convalescence; and he was much disappointed by her apparent indifference—in reality, a severe fit of perverse jealousy.

All dinner-time she endured a conversation on the subjects for which she least cared; nay, she talked ardently about the past dinner-party, for the very purpose of preventing John from suspecting that her anxiety had prevented her from enjoying it. And when she left the dining-room, she felt furious at knowing that now her father would have all the particulars to himself, so that none would transpire to her.

She longed so much to hear of Arthur and his child, that when John came into the drawing-room she could have asked! But he went to greet his aunt, who received him thus:

‘Well, I am glad to see you at last. You ought to have good reasons for coming to England for the May east winds, and then exposing yourself to them in London!’

‘I hope I did not expose myself: I only went out three or four times.’

‘I know you are always rejoiced to be as little at home as possible.’

‘I could not be spared sooner, ma’am.’

‘Spared? I think you have come out in a new capacity.’

John never went up his aunt without expecting to undergo a penance.

‘I was sorry no one else could be with Arthur, but being there, I could not leave him.’

‘And your mother tells me you are going back again.’

‘Yes, to stand godfather.’

‘To the son and heir, as they called him in the paper. I gave Arthur credit for better taste; I suppose it was done by some of her connections?’

‘I was that connection,’ said John.

‘Oh! I suppose you know what expectations you will raise?’

John making no answer, she grew more angry. ‘This one, at least, is never likely to be heir, from what I hear; it is only surprising that it is still alive.’

How Theodora hung upon the answer, her very throat aching with anxiety, but hardening her face because John looked towards her.

‘We were very much afraid for him at first,’ he said, ‘but they now think there is no reason he should not do well. He began to improve from the time she could attend to him.’

A deep sigh from his mother startled John, and recalled the grief of his childhood—the loss of two young sisters who had died during her absence on the continent. He crossed over and stood near her, between her and his aunt, who, in agitated haste to change the conversation, called out to ask her about some club-book. For once she did not attend; and while Theodora came forward and answered Mrs. Nesbit, she tremulously asked John if he had seen the child.

‘Only once, before he was an hour old. He was asleep when I came away; and, as Arthur says, it is a serious thing to disturb him, he cries so much.’

‘A little low melancholy wailing,’ she said, with a half sob. But Mrs. Nesbit would not leave her at peace any longer, and her voice came beyond the screen of John’s figure:—

‘Lady Martindale, my dear, have you done with those books! They ought to be returned.’

‘Which, dear aunt?’ And Lady Martindale started up as if she had been caught off duty, and, with a manifest effort, brought her wandering thoughts back again, to say which were read and which were unread.