Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife Part 100

'Ay, Johnnie,' said Lord Martindale, pausing to take him on his knee. 'Cousin Hugh could tell you how we went on together there! Such jackdaws' nests as used to be in the chimneys--'

'I do believe,' said his cousin, 'you have more regret at this moment for the old house than for this one!'

'Well! when I think of going home, the old red pediment with the white facings always comes into my mind, as it used to look up the avenue, when we came back for the holidays. Those old shields with the martlets--see, Johnnie, like that--' holding up the crest on a spoon, 'where the martins used to build their nests over the windows, were such as I never saw anywhere else. I found one of them lying about at the farm the other day.'

'Do you remember the hornet's nest in the wall of the garden--?'

'What a garden that was! They have never found any pear equal to that jargonelle, where you ate twenty the first day of the holidays. What do you think of that, Johnnie?'

'Ay, Johnnie, and I can tell you of something grandpapa did,' retorted Mr. Hugh Martindale; and to Violet's diversion, the two old cousins continued to make Johnnie an excuse for bringing up their boyish memories, which seemed to rise on them the more vividly, now that the great mansion no longer obstructed their view. It was complete oblivion of everything else, and seemed to do infinite good to Lord Martindale, but soon it was interrupted; Lady Elizabeth had driven over to beg to carry the whole party back to Rickworth with her, or at least to take home Violet and the children; but this could not be; Violet could not leave Theodora, and though Lord Martindale pressed her to consult her own comfort by removing, he was evidently gratified by her begging to be allowed to remain at the parsonage. He then returned to his wife, and Lady Elizabeth, after offers of every service in her power, took leave, while Violet returned to her charge.

Theodora awoke with less fever than they had ventured to hope, and quite composed, though much surprised with her first acquaintance with illness, and not even comprehending that she could not get up, till the pain of the attempt corroborated Violet's a.s.surance.

'How base it is,' said she, 'not to be able to do a few hours' work without having to take to one's bed. I flattered myself I was not so despicably weak, for a woman.'

'You might be satisfied,' said Violet, her heart too full to say more.

'Not while your Sarah walks about as if nothing had happened.'

'Where should any of us be but for you?' said Violet, bending over her.

'There's not an inch of me fit for kissing!' exclaimed Theodora, turning away.

'Lord Martindale will soon come to tell you what he thinks of it.'

'Papa! Where is he? I don't remember him since we went down to Armstrong's. Yes, I do though!' she paused, 'but I can't think of it. Crying would be worse. What a queer thing fainting is! I used to speculate what it was like.'

'How do you like it?' said Violet, perceiving her mood.

'Tolerably, in some respects; but it makes one's memory hazy. What has become of mamma? I suppose she is afraid of the sight of my visage.'

'Oh! no, no!'

'My aunt, of course! How could I forget! Mrs. Armstrong spoke of her being ill. Was it another stroke!' said Theodora, alarmed as her recollection returned, and Violet was obliged to tell the whole.

'My poor mother!' said Theodora, gravely, 'I wish I could help--'

There was a knock at the door. Miss Standaloft stood hesitating and making signs to Violet.

'Is there any news of Mrs. Nesbit?' asked Theodora. 'There can be only one thing to hear. Is it over?'

It was, and the end had been quiet. Theodora drew a long breath, and repeated, 'Poor mamma!'

'Do you want me? Do you think I might go to her!' said Violet. 'She has no one with her but the gentlemen.'

'I should be very glad if you were there. Only don't hurt yourself, or Arthur will be angry; and to have you to nurse would be more than could be borne. My poor aunt! I think she softened at the last, and she loved us all very much at one time.'

'I am glad she was kind to Johnnie,' said Violet.

Miss Altisidora was induced to sit on the other side the curtain, intending to call Sarah if anything was wanted, and Violet walked across the park, dreading to enter for the first time the presence of the shadow of death, fearing in her lowliness to intrude or presume, but drawn onwards by the warmhearted yearning to perform a daughter's part, if perchance her husband's mother could derive the least solace from her attentions.

She crossed the trodden gra.s.s, and gazed on the ruin of the abode that had once almost oppressed her with its grandeur. Past away! and with it, she whose hopes and schemes were set on the aggrandizement of the family--she had gone where earthly greatness was weighed in its true balance! And the lime trees budded, new and young in their spring greenness, as when the foundation-stone was laid!

Violet thought how she had been taught to look on this as her boy's inheritance, and therewith came the prayer that he might win his true inheritance, made without hands, ever spring-like and beyond the power of the flame! She looked up at the sh.e.l.l, for it was no more, she only recognized the nursery windows by their bars; the woodwork was charred, the cement blackened by the fire, where yesterday Helen's and Annie's faces had been watching her return! A sick horror pa.s.sed over her as she thought how much had depended on Theodora's watchful night, and imagined what might have awaited Arthur!

Then with hopeful, grateful antic.i.p.ation, she looked to his coming, and his greeting after such perils endured in his absence. 'O, will not thankfulness bring him those thoughts! It must! He must join with me, when he owns the mercy and sees our children safe. Oh! then blessings on this night's danger! Let me see, he will learn it from the paper!

When can he come? Oh! how his looks and one word from him will reward Theodora!'

She felt as if her happy antic.i.p.ation had been selfish when she came near the cottage with its blinded windows. Lord Martindale was speaking to some one, but turned at once to her. 'You here, my dear? You have heard?'

'Yes, I have; but Theodora and I thought as Lady Martindale has no maid here, that I had better come and see if I could do anything for her. Can I?' said she, with her humble sweetness.

'I cannot tell, my dear,' he answered. 'She attends to nothing, and has not been able to shed tears. We cannot rouse her. Indeed, I am sorry you came; you ought to be resting.'

'O, no, we both wished it. Should I be troublesome to her?'

'No, indeed, my dear child,' said he, affectionately. 'It is a great relief to me that you should be with her, for here is much that I must attend to, and I wish nothing so much as to get her to the parsonage.

The carriage is waiting, but she will not hear of coming away, and I do not know how to leave her here.'

So saying, he led her into the room; Violet gave one shrinking glance towards the bed, while the chill of awe shot through her veins; but the chief thought was needed for her who sat rigid and motionless, with fixed tearless eyes, and features in cold stillness more than ever like marble. Violet felt as if that deathly life was more painful to look upon than death itself, and her hand trembled in Lord Martindale's grasp; he pressed it closer, and going up to his wife, said, 'Anna, my dear, here is our child Violet so kind as to come and see you.'

Lady Martindale made a courteous movement, as if by mechanism, but without looking up. He was delaying, unable to leave them thus, though he was much wanted below stairs.

'I will stay while you go,' whispered Violet, though she longed to keep him, for that presence filled her with trembling, and promising speedy return, he departed.

For some minutes she could venture nothing, and the silence in which she heard only the beatings of her own heart seemed more than she could bear; but at last she collected herself, and an impulse suddenly occurring to her, she ventured to touch her mother-in-law, and said, 'Theodora has been asking for you.'

Lady Martindale shook her head. 'I cannot come, I cannot leave her.'

'Poor Theodora is so much hurt!' pleaded Violet; 'you will be surprised to see how she is scorched! Such arms and hands, that she cannot help herself--and she wants cold applications continually.'

Lady Martindale once looked attentive, but a glance at her aunt brought back her face of silent misery. Violet was perplexed, but strove on--'Poor Theodora! I hope you will come to her. She wants care very much. Did you know that it was in saving her that she was so sadly burnt?'

'No: was it?'

'Yes; she s.n.a.t.c.hed her out through the burning curtains. That was the way Theodora's hair was all burnt off, and her arms are so blistered!'

continued Violet, controlling her trembling, and speaking as when she was persuading one of the children--'Poor Theodora! Will you not come and see her?'

'Where is she?'

'She is at the parsonage. They are ready to take us.'

'Oh, no! I cannot go. You go to her.'

'Pray, pray come with me. Theodora is so ill! It would do her so much good to see you; and we are afraid of her being anxious or distressed, lest she should have fever. Won't you come?'

A motion, as if she could not bear this, made Violet fear she must desist, and she paused for a short interval, then said, 'SHE was very fond of Theodora.'