Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife

‘It must. The kindest thing by both of us is to cut this as short as possible.’

‘In that, as in all else, I obey. I know that a vain loiterer, like myself, had little right to hope for notice from one whose mind was bent on the noblest tasks of mankind. You have opened new views to me, and I had dared to hope you would guide me in them; but with you or without you, my life shall be spent in them.’

‘That will be some consolation for the way I have treated you,’ said Theodora.

His face lighted up. ‘My better angel!’ he said, ‘I will be content to toil as the knights of old, hopelessly, save that if you hear of me no longer as the idle amateur, but as exerting myself for something serviceable, you will know it is for your sake.’

‘It had better be for something else,’ said Theodora, impatiently. ‘Do not think of me, nor delude yourself with imagining you can win me by any probation.’

‘I may earn your approval—’

‘You will earn every one’s,’ she interrupted. ‘Put mine out of your head. Think of life and duty, and their reward, as they really are, and they will inspirit you better than any empty dream of me.’

‘It is vain to tell me so!’ said the Earl, looking at her glancing eye and earnest countenance. ‘You will ever seem to beckon me forwards.’

‘Something better will beckon you by and by, if you will only begin. Life is horrid work—only endurable by looking after other people, and so you will find it. Now, let us have done with this. Wish your sister good-bye for me, and tell her that I beg her to forgive me for the pain I have given you. I am glad you have her. She will make you happy—I have only tormented those I loved best; so you are better off with her. Good-bye. Shake hands, to show that you forgive me.’

‘I will not harass you by pertinacity,’ said poor Lord St. Erme, submissively. ‘It has been a happy dream while I was bold enough to indulge in it. Farewell to it, though not, I trust, to its effects.’

Lingering as he held her hand, he let it go; then, returning to the grasp, bent and kissed it, turned away, as if alarmed at his own presumption, and hastened from the room.

She flung herself into her father’s chair to consider of seeing Lady Lucy, of writing to Violet, of breaking the tidings to her aunt, of speaking to her Cousin Hugh; but no connected reflection could be summoned up—nothing but visions of an Athenian owl, and green cotton umbrella. At length the sound of the opening door made her start up.

‘Have I interrupted you?’ asked her cousin. ‘I thought I should find your father here.’

‘I do not know where he is,’ said Theodora. ‘Can I do anything for you? Oh! I beg your pardon; I had forgotten it was time to read to you.’

‘You know I always hoped that you would not make it a burden.’

‘If you knew the relief it is to be of any sort of use,’ returned she, hastily setting his chair, and fetching the books.

Perhaps her attention wandered while she read, for they had hardly finished before she looked up and said, ‘That always puts me in mind of Arthur’s wife. The ornament of a meek and quiet spirit is so entirely her adorning—her beauty only an accessory.’

‘Yes; I wish I knew her,’ said Mr. Martindale.

‘Oh! how I wish she was here!’ sighed Theodora.

‘For any special reason?’

‘Yes; I want her to soften and help me. She seems to draw and smooth away the evil, and to keep me from myself. Nothing is so dreary where she is.’

‘I should not have expected to hear you, at your age, and with your prospects, talk of dreariness.’

‘That is all over,’ said Theodora. ‘I have told him that it cannot be. I am glad, for one reason, that I shall not seem to deceive you any more. Has papa told you what he thinks my history!’

‘He has told me of your previous affair.’

‘I wonder what is his view?’

‘His view is one of deep regret; he thinks your tempers were incompatible.’

Theodora laughed. ‘He has a sort of termagant notion of me.’

‘I am afraid you do no justice to your father’s affection and anxiety.’

‘It is he who does me no justice,’ said Theodora.

‘Indeed, I do not think that can be your sister’s teaching,’ said Mr. Martindale.

‘I wish she was here!’ said Theodora, again. ‘But now you have heard my father’s story, you shall hear mine;’ and with tolerable fairness, she related the history of the last few months. The clergyman was much interested in the narrative of this high-toned mind,—‘like sweet bells jangled,’ and listened with earnest and sorrowful attention. There was comfort in the outpouring; and as she spoke, the better spirit so far prevailed, that she increasingly took more blame to herself, and threw less on others. She closed her confession by saying, ‘You see, I may well speak of dreariness.’

‘Of dreariness for the present,’ was the answer; ‘but of hope. You put me in mind of some vision which I have read of, where safety and peace were to be attained by bowing to the dust, to creep beneath a gateway, the entrance to the glorious place. You seem to me in the way of learning that lesson.’

‘I have bent to make the avowal I thought I never could have spoken,’ said Theodora.

‘And there is my hope of you. Now for the next step.’

‘The next! what is it?’

‘Thankfully and meekly to accept the consequences of these sad errors.’

‘You mean this lonely, unsatisfactory life?’

‘And this displeasure of your father.’

‘But, indeed, he misjudges me.’

‘Have you ever given him the means of forming a different judgment?’

‘He has seen all. If I am distrusted, I cannot descend to justify myself.’

‘I am disappointed in you, Theodora. Where is your humility?’

With these words Mr. Martindale quitted her. He had divined that her feelings would work more when left to themselves, than when pressed, and so it proved.

The witness within her spoke more clearly, and dislike and loathing of her proceedings during the last year grew more strongly upon her. The sense of her faults had been latent in her mind for months past, but the struggle of her external life had kept it down, until now it came forth with an overpowering force of grief and self-condemnation. It was not merely her sins against Mr. Fotheringham and Lord St. Erme that oppressed her, it was the perception of the wilful and rebellious life she had led, while making so high a profession.

Silently and sadly she wore through the rest of the day, unmolested by any remark from the rest of the family, but absorbed in her own thoughts, and the night passed in acute mental distress; with longings after Violet to soothe her, and to open to her hopes of the good and right way of peace.

With morning light came the recollection that, after all, Violet would rejoice in what she had just done. Violet would call it a step in the right direction; and she had promised her further help from above and within, when once she should have had patience to take the right move, even in darkness. ‘She told me, if I put my trust aright, and tried to act in obedience, I should find a guide!’

And, worn out and wearied with the tossings of her mind, Theodora resolved to have recourse to the kind clergyman who had listened to her confidence. Perhaps he was the guide who would aid her to conquer the serpents that had worked her so much misery; and, after so much self-will, she felt that there would be rest in submitting to direction.

She sought him out, and joined his early walk.

‘Help me,’ she said; ‘I repent, indeed I do. Teach me to begin afresh, and to be what I ought. I would do anything.’

‘Anything that is not required of you, Theodora, or anything that is?’

‘Whatever you or Violet required of me,’ said she, ‘that I would do readily and gladly, cost me what it might.’

‘It is not for me to require anything,’ said Mr. Martindale. ‘What I advise you is to test the sincerity of your repentance by humbling yourself to ask your father’s forgiveness.’

He watched her face anxiously, for his hopes of her almost might be said to depend upon this. It was one of those efforts which she made with apparent calmness. ‘You and Violet ask the same thing,’ she said; ‘I will.’

‘I am glad to hear you say this. I could not think you going on right while you denied him the full explanation of your conduct.’

‘Did you mean that I should tell him all?’ exclaimed Theodora.

‘It would be a great relief to his mind. Few fathers would have left you such complete liberty of action, consented to your engagement, and then acted so kindly and cautiously in not forcing on you this, for which he had begun to wish ardently. You have grieved him extremely, and you owe it to him to show that this has not all been caprice.’

I have promised,’ repeated Theodora.

‘Your second effort,’ said Mr. Martindale, encouragingly. They were nearly opposite an hotel, where a carriage was being packed. Theodora turned, he understood her, and they walked back; but before they could quit the main road, the travellers rolled past them. Lord St. Erme bowed. Theodora did not look up; but when past asked if any one was with him.

‘Yes; his sister.’

‘I am glad of it,’ said Theodora. ‘She is an excellent little thing, the very reverse of me.’

Without failure of resolution, Theodora returned to breakfast, her mind made up to the effort, which was more considerable than can be appreciated, without remembering her distaste to all that bore the semblance of authority, and the species of proud reserve that had prevented her from avowing to her father her sentiments respecting Mr. Fotheringham, even in the first days of their engagement; and she was honest enough to feel that the manner, as well as the subject of conversation, must show the sincerity of her change. She would not let herself be affronted into perverseness or sullenness, but would try to imagine Violet looking on; and with this determination she lingered in the breakfast-room after her mother and cousin had left it.

‘Papa,’ said she, as he was leaving the room, ‘will you listen to me?’

‘What now, Theodora?’ said poor Lord Martindale, expecting some of those fresh perplexities that made him feel the whole family to blame.

It was not encouraging, but she had made up her mind. ‘I have behaved very ill about all this, papa; I want you to forgive me.’

He came nearer to her, and studied her face, in dread lest there should be something behind. ‘I am always ready to forgive and listen to you,’ he said sadly.

She perceived that she had, indeed, given him much pain, and was softened, and anxious for him to be comforted by seeing that her fault, at least, was not the vanity and heartlessness that he supposed.

‘It was very wrong of me to answer you as I did yesterday,’ she said. ‘I know it was my own fault that Lord St. Erme was allowed to follow us.’

‘And why did you consent!’

‘I don’t know. Yes, I do, though; but that makes it worse. It was because my perverse temper was vexed at your warning me,’ said Theodora, looking down, much ashamed.

‘Then you never meant to accept him!’ exclaimed her father.

‘No, not exactly that; I thought I might,’ said she, slowly, and with difficulty.

‘Then what has produced this alteration?’

‘I will tell you,’ said she, recalling her resolution. ‘I did not know how much I cared for Percy Fotheringham. Yesterday there came a foolish report about his forming another attachment. I know it was not true; but the misery it gave me showed me that it would be sin and madness to engage myself to another.’

Lord Martindale breathed more freely. ‘Forgive me for putting the question, it is a strange one to ask now: were you really attached to Percy Fotheringham?’

‘With my whole heart,’ answered Theodora, deliberately.

‘Then why, or how—’

‘Because my pride and stubbornness were beyond what any man could bear,’ she answered. ‘He did quite right: it would not have been manly to submit to my conduct. I did not know how bad it was till afterwards, nor how impossible it is that my feelings towards him should cease.’

‘And this is the true history of your treatment of Lord St. Erme!’

‘Yes. He came at an unlucky moment of anger, when Violet was ill, and could not breathe her saving influence over me, and I fancied—It was very wrong, and I was ashamed to confess what I have told you now.’

‘Have you given him this explanation?’

‘I have.’

‘Well, I am better satisfied. He is a most generous person, and told me he had no reason to complain of you.’

‘Yes, he has a noble character. I am very sorry for the manner in which I have treated him, but there was nothing to be done but to put an end to it. I wish I had never begun it.’

‘I wish so too!’ said Lord Martindale. ‘He is grievously disappointed, and bears it with such generous admiration of you and such humility on his own part, that it went to my heart to talk to him, especially while feeling myself a party to using him so ill.’

‘He is much too good for me,’ said Theodora, ‘but I could not accept him while I contrasted him with what I have thrown away. I can only repent of having behaved so badly.’

‘Well! after all, I am glad to hear you speak in this manner,’ said her father.

‘I know I have been much to blame,’ said Theodora, still with her head bent down and half turned away. ‘Ever since I was a child, I have been undutiful and rebellious. Being with Violet has gradually brought me to a sense of it. I do wish to make a fresh beginning, and to ask you to forgive and bear with me.’

‘My dear child!’ And Lord Martindale stepped to her side, took her hand, and kissed her.

No more was needed to bring the drops that had long been swelling in her eyes; she laid her head on his shoulder, and felt how much she had hitherto lost by the perverseness that had made her choose to believe her father cold and unjust.

There was another trial for the day. The departure of Lord St. Erme and his sister revealed the state of affairs to the rest of the world; Mrs. Delaval came to make Lady Martindale a parting visit, and to lament over their disappointment, telling how well Lord St. Erme bore it, and how she had unwillingly consented to his taking his sister with him to comfort him at that dull old place, Wrangerton.

Lady Martindale, as usual, took it very quietly. She never put herself into collision with her daughter, and did not seem to care about her freaks otherwise than as they affected her aunt. Mrs. Nesbit, who had thought herself on the point of the accomplishment of her favourite designs, was beyond measure vexed and incensed. She would not be satisfied without seeing Theodora, reproaching her, and insisting on hearing the grounds of her unreasonable conduct.

Theodora was silent.

Was it as her mother reported, but as Mrs. Nesbit would not believe, that she had so little spirit as to be still pining after that domineering, presuming man, who had thrown her off after she had condescended to accept him?

‘I glory in saying it is for his sake,’ replied Theodora.

Mrs. Nesbit wearied herself with invectives against the Fotheringhams as the bane of the family, and assured Theodora that it was time to lay aside folly; her rank and beauty would not avail, and she would never be married.

‘I do not mean to marry,’ said Theodora.

‘Then remember this. You may think it very well to be Miss Martindale, with everything you can desire; but how shall you like it when your father dies, and you have to turn out and live on your own paltry five thousand pounds! for not a farthing of mine shall come to you unless I see you married as I desire.’

‘I can do without it, thank you,’ said Theodora.

Mrs. Nesbit burst into a passion of tears at the ingratitude of her nephews and nieces. Weeping was so unusual with her that Lady Martindale was much terrified, sent Theodora away and did her utmost to soothe and caress her; but her strength and spirits were broken, and that night she had another stroke. She was not in actual danger, but was a long time in recovering even sufficiently to be moved to England; and during this period Theodora had little occupation, except companionship to her father, and the attempt to reduce her temper and tame her self-will. Mr. Hugh Martindale went to take possession of the living of Brogden, and she remained a prisoner at Baden, striving to view the weariness and enforced uselessness of her life, as he had taught her, in the light of salutary chastisement and discipline.

PART III

     Heartsease In thy heart shall spring      If content abiding,     Where, beneath that leafless tree,      Life’s still stream is gliding.     But, transplanted thence, it fades,      For it bloometh only     Neath the shadow of the Cross,      In a valley lonely.     —J. E. L.

CHAPTER 1

     Love, hope, and patience, these must be thy graces,     And in thine own heart let them first keep school.     —COLERIDGE

The avenue of Martindale budded with tender green, and in it walked Theodora, watching for the arrival of the sister-in-law, scarcely seen for nearly four years.

Theodora’s dress was of the same rigid simplicity as of old, her figure as upright, her countenance as noble, but a change had passed over her; her bearing was less haughty; her step, still vigorous and firm, had lost its wilfulness, the proud expression of lip had altered to one of thought and sadness, and her eyes had become softer and more melancholy. She leaned against the tree where the curate had brought her the first tidings of Arthur’s marriage, and she sighed, but not as erst with jealousy and repining.

There was, indeed, an alteration—its beginning may not be traced, for the seed had been sown almost at her birth, and though little fostered, had never ceased to spring. The first visible shoot had been drawn forth by Helen Fotheringham; but the growth, though rapid, had been one-sided; the branches, like those of a tree in a sea-wind, all one way, blown aside by gusts of passion and self-will. In its next stage, the attempt to lop and force them back had rendered them more crooked and knotty, till the enterprise had been abandoned as vain. But there was a soft hand that had caressed the rugged boughs, softened them with the dews of gratitude and affection, fanned them with gales from heaven, and gently turned them to seek training and culture, till the most gnarled and hardened had learnt patiently to endure the straightening hand and pruning knife.

Under such tranquil uneventful discipline, Theodora had spent the last four years, working with all her might at her labours in the parish, under Mr. Hugh Martindale, and what was a far more real effort, patiently submitting when family duties thwarted her best intentions. Parish work was her solace, in a somewhat weary life, isolated from intimate companionship.

She had, indeed, Mr. Hugh Martindale for a guide and adviser, and to her father she was a valuable assistant and companion; but her mother was more than ever engrossed by the care of Mrs. Nesbit; her eldest brother was still in the West Indies and Arthur only seen in fleeting visits, so short that it had never been convenient for his family to accompany him, nor had Theodora even been spared to attend Violet, when a little girl, now nearly two years old, had been added to her nursery.

Letters ill supplied the lack of personal intercourse: Theodora did not write with ease, and Violet could not pour herself out without reciprocity; so that though there was a correspondence, it languished, and their intimacy seemed to be standing still. Another great and heavy care to Theodora was a mistrust of Arthur’s proceedings. She heard of him on the turf, she knew that he kept racers; neither his looks nor talk were satisfactory; there were various tokens of extravagance; and Lord Martindale never went to London without bringing back some uncomfortable report.

Very anxious and sad at heart, she hoped to be better satisfied by judging for herself; and after long wearying for a meeting, her wishes were at length in the way of fulfilment—Arthur’s long leave was to be spent at home.

The carriage turned in at the lodge gates. She looked up—how differently from the would-be careless air with which she had once watched! But there was disappointment—she saw no brother! In a moment Violet had descended from the carriage, and warmly returned her embrace; and she was kissing the little shy faces that looked up to her, as all got out to walk up the avenue.

‘But where is Arthur?’

‘He is soon coming,’ said the soft sweet voice. ‘He would not let us wait for him.’

‘What! Has he not got his leave?’

‘Yes; but he is going to stay with some of his friends. Mr. Herries came yesterday and insisted.’

Theodora thought there was a mournful intonation, and looked anxiously at her face. The form and expression were lovely as ever; but the bright colouring had entirely faded, the cheeks were thin, and the pensive gentleness almost mournful. A careworn look was round the eyes and mouth, even while she smiled, as Theodora gave a second and more particular greeting to the children.

Johnnie was so little changed that she exclaimed at finding the same baby face. His little delicate features and pure fair skin were as white as ever; for not a spring had gone by without his falling under the grasp of his old enemy the croup; and his small slight frame was the more slender from his recent encounter with it. But he was now a very pretty boy, his curls of silken flax fringing his face under his broad-leafed black hat, and contrasting with his soft dark eyes, their gentle and intelligent expression showing, indeed, what a friend and companion he was to his mother; and it was with a shy smile, exactly like hers, that he received his aunt’s notice.

‘And Helen, my godchild, I have not looked at her! Where are you?’

But the tread of country turf seemed to have put wildness into little Helen. She had darted off, and hidden behind a tree, peeping out with saucy laughter flashing in her glorious black eyes, and dimpling in the plump roseate cheeks round which floated thick glossy curls of rich dark chestnut. Theodora flew to catch her; but she scampered round another tree, shouting with fun, till she was seized and pressed fast in her aunt’s arms and called a mischievous puss, while Theodora exulted in the splendour of her childish beauty, exuberant with health and spirits. The moment she was released, with another outcry of glee, she dashed off to renew the frolic, with the ecstasy of a young fawn, while the round fat-faced Annie tumbled after her like a little ball, and their aunt entered into the spirit of the romp, and pursued them with blitheness for the moment like their own. Johnnie, recovering his mamma’s hand, walked soberly beside her, and when invited to join in the sport, looked as if he implored to be excused. Violet, rather anxiously, called them to order as they came near the house, consigned Annie to Sarah, and herself took Helen’s hand, observing, gravely, that they must be very good.

‘One thing,’ she half-whispered; ‘I once had a hint from Miss Piper that Mrs. Nesbit did not like Lady Martindale to be called grandmamma. What do you think?’

‘What nonsense! Mamma ought to be proud of her grandchildren, and my aunt will probably never see them or hear them at all. She never comes out of the room.’

‘Indeed! Is she so much more infirm?’

‘Yes, very much aged. Her mind has never been quite itself since the last stroke, though I can hardly tell the difference, but I think it has softened her.’

‘I suppose Lady Martindale is very much with her!’

‘Almost always. She seems to cling to our presence, and I am never quite secure that Mrs. Garth does not domineer over her in our absence, but with all my watching I cannot discover. My aunt says nothing against her, but I sometimes fancy she is afraid of her.’

‘Poor Mrs. Nesbit. She must be altered indeed!’

‘She is altered, but I never am clear how far it is any real change, or only weakness. One comfort is, that she seems rather to like Cousin Hugh’s coming to read to her twice a week. How he will delight in these creatures of yours.’

‘Ah! we know him,’ said Violet. ‘You know he comes to us if he is in London. How pleasant it must be for you.’

‘Ah, very unlike the days when poor Mr. Wingfield used to come to ask me how to manage the parish,’ said Theodora, between a laugh and a sigh. ‘When did you hear from John?’

‘His godson had a letter from him on his birthday.’