Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife

‘O, Johnnie! that was an honour! Could you write and answer him?’

‘Mamma helped me,’ whispered the boy, while eyes and mouth lengthened into a bright blushing smile.

‘Steady, Helen, my child! Quiet!’ exclaimed Violet, as the little girl’s delight grew beyond bounds at the sight of the peacock sunning himself on the sphinx’s head, and Johnnie was charmed with the flowers in the parterre; and with ‘look but not touch’ cautions, the two were trusted to walk together hand-in-hand through the gravelled paths.

‘The spirits will break out in little skips!’ said Theodora, watching Helen. ‘She preserves her right to be called a splendid specimen! What a pair they are!’

‘Poor Helen! I shall be in dread of an outbreak all the time we are here,’ said Violet; ‘but she means to be good, and every one cannot be like Johnnie.’

‘Ah! Johnnie one speaks of with respect.’

‘I don’t know what I should do but for him,’ said Violet, with her sad smile; ‘he is so entirely my companion, and I suppose he seems more forward in mind from being so much in the drawing-room.’

‘Well! he is come to a time of life to merit his papa’s notice.’

‘More than the rest,’ said Violet; ‘but unluckily he is a little bit of a coward, and is afraid when papa plays with him. We make resolutions, but I really believe it is a matter of nerves, and that poor Johnnie cannot help it.’

‘What! Arthur is rough and teasing?’

‘He does not understand this sort of timidity; he is afraid of Johnnie’s not being manly; but I believe that would come if his health would but be stronger. It is very unlucky,’ said Violet, ‘for it vexes papa, and I think it hurts Johnnie, though I am always forced to blame him for being so silly. One comfort is, that it does not in the least interfere with Johnnie’s affection—he admires him almost as he used when he was a baby.’

They were at the foot of the steps, where Charles Layton, now a brisk page, was helping to unpack the carriage, more intelligently than many a youth with the full aid of his senses.

Lord Martindale met them with his grave kind welcome, which awed even Helen into quiet and decorum, though perhaps, from the corners of her eyes, she was spying the Scagliola columns as places for hide-and-seek. She opened them to their roundest extent as her grandmamma came down-stairs, and she tried to take shelter behind her brother from the ceremonious kiss, while Johnnie tightly squeezed his aunt’s hand, and Lady Martindale was quite as much afraid of them as they could be of her.

So began the visit—a very different one from any Violet had hitherto paid at Martindale. Theodora’s room was now her chief resort in the morning, and there Johnnie went through his lessons with almost too precocious ease and delight, and Helen was daily conquered over Mrs. Barbauld. There they were sure to be welcome, though they were seldom seen downstairs. Johnnie used to appear in the space before dinner, very demure and well-behaved, and there seemed to be a fellow-feeling arising between him and his grandfather, who would take possession of him if he met him out-of-doors, and conduct him to any sight suited to his capacity; but who was so much distressed at his forwardness in intellect and his backwardness in strength, that Violet hardly dared to hold a conversation about him for fear of a remonstrance on letting him touch a book.

One day Mrs. Nesbit suddenly said to Theodora, ‘Arthur’s wife and children are here, are not they?’

‘Yes; Violet would have come to see you, but we doubted if you were equal to it.’

‘I have nothing to say to Mr. Moss’s daughter, but bring that eldest boy here, I want to see him.’

Theodora stepped out into the gallery, where Johnnie was often to be found curled up in the end window, poring over and singing to himself the “White Doe of Rylstone”, which he had found among his uncle’s books.

She led him in, exhorting him not to be shy, and to speak out boldly in answer to Aunt Nesbit; but perhaps this only frightened him more. Very quiet and silent, he stood under his aunt’s wing with eyes cast down, answering with a trembling effort the questions asked in that sharp searching tone.

‘His mother all over!’ she said, motioning him away; but, the next day, she sent for him again. Poor Johnnie did not like it at all; he could hardly help shuddering at her touch, and at night begged his mamma not to send him to Aunt Nesbit; for he could not bear it without her. She had to represent that Aunt Nesbit was old and ill, and that it would be unkind not to go to her: but then came the difficult question, ‘Why don’t you go, mamma?’ However, when his compassionate feelings were aroused, he bore it better; and though he never got beyond standing silently by her chair for ten minutes, replying when spoken to, and once or twice reading a few sentences, or repeating some verses, when Theodora thought it would please her, it was evident that his visit had become the chief event of her day. One day she gave him a sovereign, and asked what he would do with it. He blushed and hesitated, and she suggested, ‘Keep it, that will be the wisest.’

‘No,’ came with an effort, and an imploring glance at Aunt Theodora.

‘Well, then, what? Speak out like a man!’ Still reluctant, but it was brought out at last: ‘Cousin Hugh told us about the poor sick Irish children that have no potatoes. May I give it to him to send them?’

‘Never mind the Irish children. This is for yourself.’

‘Myself?’ Johnnie looked up, bewildered, but with a sudden thought, ‘Oh! I know, Aunt Theodora, won’t it buy that pretty work-basket to give mamma on her birthday? She said she could not afford it. And Helen wanted the great donkey in the shop-window. Oh! I can get Helen the great donkey; thank you, Aunt Nesbit!’

The next day Aunt Nesbit received Johnnie by giving him five sovereigns to take to Cousin Hugh for the Irish, desiring him to say it was his own gift; and while Johnnie scrupulously explained that he should say that she gave it to him to give, she began to instruct him that he would be a rich man by and by, and must make a handsome and yet careful use of his money. ‘Shall I?’ said Johnnie, looking up, puzzled, at his younger aunt.

‘Yes, that you will,’ replied Mrs. Nesbit. ‘What shall you do then?’

‘Oh! then I shall buy mamma and my sisters everything they want, and mamma shall go out in the carriage every day.

‘She can do that now,’ said Theodora, who had expected less commonplace visions from her nephew.

‘No,’ said Johnnie, ‘we have not got the carriage now. I mean, we have no horses that will draw it.’

It was another of those revelations that made Theodora uneasy; one of those indications that Arthur allowed his wife to pinch herself, while he pursued a course of self-indulgence. She never went out in the evening, it appeared, and he was hardly ever at home; her dress, though graceful and suitable, had lost that air of research and choiceness that it had when everything was his gift, or worn to please his eye; and as day after day passed on without bringing him, Theodora perceived that the delay was no such extraordinary event as to alarm her; she was evidently grieved, but it was nothing new. It was too plain that Arthur gave her little of his company, and his children none of his attention, and that her calmness was the serenity of patience, not of happiness.

This was all by chance betrayed; she spoke not of herself, and the nightly talks between the two sisters were chiefly of the children. Not till more than a week had passed to renew their intimacy, did Theodora advert to any subject connected with the events of her memorable stay in London, and then she began by asking, ‘What did I overhear you telling papa about Lord St. Erme?’

‘I was speaking of his doings at Wrangerton.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Oh! they are admirable. You know he went there with that good little Lady Lucy, and they set to work at once, doing everything for the parish—’

‘Do your sisters know Lady Lucy?’

‘Very little; it is only formal visiting now and then. She leads a very retired life, and they know her best from meeting her at the schools and cottages.’

‘Good little girl! I knew there was something in her!’

‘She is always with her brother, walking and riding and writing for him, carrying out all his views.’

‘I saw how he came forward about those poor colliery children. Such a speech, as that, was turning his talents to good account, and I am glad to hear it is not all speechifying.’

‘No, indeed, it is real self-denial. The first thing he did was to take his affairs into his own hands, so that my father has comparatively nothing to do with them. He found them in a bad state, which papa could not help, with him living abroad, and attending to nothing, only sending for money, whatever papa could say. So there was a great outlay wanted for church and schools for the collieries at Coalworth, and nothing to meet it, and that was the way he came to sell off all the statues and pictures.’

‘Did he? Well done, Lord St. Erme!’ cried Theodora. ‘That was something like a sacrifice.’

‘O yes! My sisters say they could have cried to see the cases go by the windows, and I cannot help grieving to think of those rooms being dismantled. I am glad they have kept the little Ghirlandajo, that is the only one remaining.’

‘I honour them,’ said Theodora.

‘And it was for the sake of such a set,’ proceeded Violet; ‘there is a bad Chartist spirit among those colliers, and they oppose him in every way; but he says it is his own fault for having neglected them so long, and goes on doing everything for them, though they are as surly and sullen as possible.

Theodora looked thoughtful. ‘Poor Lord St. Erme! Yes, he has found a crusade! I wish—! Well, I ought to be thankful that good has been brought out of evil. I deserved no such thing. Violet, I wish he would marry one of your sisters!’

‘O no, don’t wish that. I am glad there is no chance of it. Ranks had better not be confounded,’ said Violet, with a sad seriousness of manner.

‘You have just had a wedding in the family. A satisfactory one, I hope?’

‘Yes, I think so. Mamma and Annette like Mr. Hunt very much. They say there is such a straightforward goodness about him, that they are sure dear Olivia will be happy.’

‘Was there any difficulty about it!’

‘Why—Matilda and Albert seemed to think we should not think it grand enough,’ said Violet, half-smiling. ‘He is a sort of great farmer on his own estate, a most beautiful place. He is quite a gentleman in manners, and very well off, so that my father made no difficulty, and I am very glad of it. Olivia is the very person to enjoy that free country life.’ Violet sighed as if town life was oppressive.

‘To be sure! If one could be a farmer’s daughter without the pretension and vulgarity, what a life it would be! That was my favourite notion when I used to make schemes with poor Georgina Gardner. Do you ever hear what she is doing, Violet? They have quite left off writing to me.’

‘Last time I heard of them they were in Italy.’

‘Going on in the old way, I fear. Poor Georgina! she was sadly thrown away. But, at least, that Mark is not with them.’

‘O no,’ said Violet, sighing more deeply this time; ‘he is always about in London.’

‘Ah! you see more of him than you wish, I fear?’

‘I see very little of him. Arthur would not ask him to our house at Chichester for the Goodwood races, and it was such an escape!’

‘I am glad at least Arthur does not trouble you with him.’

Violet sat with her forehead resting on her hand, and there was a short space of thoughtful silence. It resulted in Theodora’s saying, in a sad, low, humble tone, her eyes looking straight into the red fire, ‘Do you ever hear of Mr. Fotheringham?’

‘I believe he is still at Paris,’ said Violet. ‘I only hear of him through John, who said he had been thinking of going to Italy. When he came through London, after Lady Fotheringham’s death, he left his card, but we were at Chichester. Have you seen that last article of his?’

‘What, that on modern novels? I was almost sure it was his, and yet I doubted. It was like and yet not like him.’

‘It was his,’ said Violet. ‘He always has his things sent to me. I am glad you observed the difference. I thought it so much kinder and less satirical than his writings used to be.’

‘It was so,’ exclaimed Theodora. ‘There were places where I said to myself, “This cannot be his; I know what he would have said,” and yet it was too forcible and sensible to have been written by any one else.’

‘The strength is there, but not the sort of triumph in sarcasm that sometimes made one sorry,’ said Violet; ‘and were you not struck by his choice of extracts! I have fancied a different strain in his writings of late.’

Theodora squeezed Violet’s hand. ‘I feared I had hardened him,’ she said. ‘Thank you, good night.’

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.