Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife Part 115

'Not much of that. It was Violet. I would have stopped her writing if I could.'

Perhaps this downfall of the heroism with which she had been endowing his resistance, was one of the most cruel blows of all.

'If he marries Mrs. Finch, he must at least pay off what he owes me;'

and he began perplexing himself with reckonings. Theodora saw his brow drawn together, and his lips moving, and begged him to desist and try to sleep.

'You have interrupted me--I have lost it!' and he tried again. 'No, I can't get it right. There is a lot of papers in my writing-case. You'll see to it. It will be something for Violet and the children. Mind the claim is sent in;' and again he strove to explain, while she entreated him to put such things out of his mind; and it ended in such violent coughing, that Lord Martindale heard, came in, and with a look that told her how ill she managed, sent her to bed, where she vexed herself for hours at Arthur's seeming to dwell only on his gaming debts, instead of on what she longed to see occupying his mind. Her elasticity seemed to have been destroyed by her illness, and she had lost the vigour which once would have made her rise against depression. The reappearance of Percy and of Lord St. Erme seemed only to have wearied and perplexed her; and she lay awake, feeling worn, confused, and hara.s.sed, and only wishing to hide her head and be at rest.

Arthur had a bad night, and was not so well in the morning, and while Lord Martindale was wondering why Theodora could not have been more cautious, the letters came in--one from Brogden--making it evident that Lady Martindale was so unwell and dispirited, that she ought not to be left alone any longer. Lord Martindale, therefore, decreed that Theodora should return, taking with her the three eldest children. And she could make no objection; she ought to submit to be pa.s.sively disposed of; and, grievous as it was to leave her brother and Violet, there was compensation in avoiding her former suitors.

Lady Elizabeth came in almost at the same time as Lord Martindale went out, after breakfast. She was in great distress. Poor Emma treated the whole as a calumny; and when shown the absolute certainty that Mark was at Paris, daily calling on Mrs. Finch, remained persuaded that his cousin had perverted him from the first, and was now trying to revive her pernicious influence when he might have been saved; or that perhaps he was driven to an immediate wealthy marriage by his honourable feeling and his necessities. It was all her own fault for not having taken him at once. Lady Elizabeth had hardly been able to prevent her from writing to revoke the year's probation, and offer him all that was needed to satisfy his creditors.

Theodora could not help exclaiming, that she thought Emma would have had more dignity.

'So I told her, my dear; but it seemed to be no consolation. I do not feel secure that, though she has promised me not to write, Theresa Marstone may not.'

'Is Miss Marstone still in his favour?'

'I can still less understand her view,' said Lady Elizabeth, with a grave, sad simplicity, almost like satire; 'she says it only convinces her that the Church of England does not know how to treat penitents.'

Theodora could not help laughing, and Lady Elizabeth nearly joined her, though sighing and saying that such talk gave her other fears for Emma.

She dreaded that Miss Marstone was unsettled in her allegiance to her Church, and that her power over Emma was infusing into her her own doubts.

'It is very sad--very strange! I cannot understand it,' said Theodora.

'I had always believed that such innocence and lowliness as Emma and Violet have was a guard against all snares; yet here is Emma led astray by these very excellences!'

'My dear,' said Lady Elizabeth, 'I think it is the want of that lowliness that is at the root with my poor child. It is a dangerous thing for a girl to throw herself into an exclusive friendship, especially when the disapproval of her own family is felt. I tried, but I never could like Theresa Marstone; and now I see that she liked to govern Emma, and depreciated my judgment--very justly, perhaps; but still I was her mother, and it was not kind to teach her to think doing as I wished a condescension.'

'So Emma sold all her senses to her friend?'

'Yes, and Miss Marstone keeps them still. Theresa taught her to think herself wiser than all, and their own way of talking the proof of goodness.'

'Ay! their pa.s.swords.'

'Just so, and I do believe it was that kind of vanity that took from her her power of discerning and the instinctive shrinking from evil.'

'It is very easy to make simplicity silliness,' said Theodora. 'I beg your pardon, Lady Elizabeth, I did not mean to blame her, but I was thinking how truly you spoke.'

'And now, may I ask to see Mrs. Martindale; or will it be too much for her?'

'She will be glad, but she was tired with coming down to Lord St. Erme.

And now, Arthur's bad night! Oh! Lady Elizabeth, you come from your griefs to ours. It is a shame to make you share them!'

'I do not think so,' said Lady Elizabeth. 'There is a tract of Hannah More's showing that to bear another's burden lightens our own; and all old people will tell you that many troubles together weigh less heavily than a single one.'

Theodora could not think so; each of her cares seemed to make the others worse, till the mere toil and vexation of Helen's lessons became serious; and yet, when the children were dismissed for their walk, she felt unable to profit by her leisure, otherwise than by sighing at the prospect of missing the power of looking in at Arthur from hour to hour.

She had not roused herself to occupation, when, to her dismay, Lord St.

Erme was admitted. She began to say her father was not at home.

'Yes,' he said, 'I met him.'

He means mischief! thought Theodora.

'He tells me that you are going away!'

'I believe so,' said Theodora. 'My mother is not well, and we cannot both be spared from home.'

'Will you forgive me?' said the Earl, still standing, and with downcast eyes, and heightened complexion. 'I know this is no fit time, but I could not part without one allusion. I would not hara.s.s you for worlds.

A word from you, and I drop the subject.'

'Oh! pray, then, say no more!' was her breathless entreaty.

He turned in silence, with a mournful gesture of farewell, and laid his hand on the door. She perceived her unkindness to one who had every claim to honour and consideration--one who had remembered her in well-nigh the hour of death.

'Stay,' she said; 'I did not speak as I ought.'

'I know I presumed too far,' said Lord St. Erme, pausing; 'I ask your pardon for disturbing you. It was selfish; but I could not let you go without once adverting to the subject--'

There was a tremor of voice, an eager look, that made her fear that the crushed hope was reviving, and she hastened to say, 'The best thing would be that you should think no more about me.'

'Impossible!' he vehemently cried; then, catching himself up, and speaking in the same deferential tone as at first, 'I owe you far too much to cease to think of you.'

'It is a great pity,' said Theodora; 'I never deserved such feelings, and they make me wish more and more that all could be undone.'

'No! no!' exclaimed Lord St. Erme, his eyes lighting and his cheek glowing, while his fair young features wore a look that was all poet and knight. 'Would I see what is past undone? It was the turning-point of my life--the call to arms. Hitherto, life had been to me a dream in an enchanted garden, with the same secret weariness and dissatisfaction!

I dread the thought of the time and means I lavished away, fancying because it was not vice it was not dissipation. It was then that I became unworthy of you. It was you who taught me where lies modern chivalry, and made my folly and conceit cease to despise the practical; showed me--may I quote German to you once more?--that "Das Leben ist keine l.u.s.tfahrt sondern theils eine kampfes, theils eine Pilger-weise."

I took up my staff, at first, I own, in hopes of winning you--'

'You did not persevere merely for that reason?'

'No; when my eyes were once opened to the festering sin and misery around, when I saw the evil nourished at my own door by my neglect, and perceived that those dependent on me were doomed to degradation and oppression that I might gratify my craving for art,--then, indeed, I was appalled! Those paintings and statues seemed to cry out to me that human souls had been sacrificed to them! The toil and devotion of a life would be too little to atone! Oh! that it were more able and effective. Means and judgment go but a little way!'

'Your heart and happiness are in the work,' said Theodora, seeing how he was carried away by his feelings.

'Yes. There is a sense like the labourer's at his daily task, and though there is the mountain of things undone, there is the hope that all are not wilfully neglected. It is for this that I longed to thank you. When I was in danger, I knew what it would have been to wait for death before I thought of--of the way of peace. I blessed you in my heart then--I thank you now.'

'Thank Him who has brought good out of evil, was all Theodora could say.

He bowed his head gravely, and continued: 'Now, thank you again for having listened. It has been a great satisfaction to me to acknowledge my obligations. Do not suppose I came to London intending to distress you with my pertinacity, or with any idea of having earned your favour.

I was obliged to come; and when once near you, I could not bear to separate without, at least, entreating to know whether the former obstacle exists.'

'It does,' said Theodora, looking down; 'I believe it always will. I lament more than I can express, my conduct towards you; and what you have told me grieves me more in one way, though in another it is most consoling. You have the true secret of peace, and I know all must be well with you. If you had done otherwise, it would have been far worse for me. Tell Lucy I have not forgotten her. I am sure she has the true light-hearted sort of happiness.'

'She has, indeed,' said Lord St. Erme; and he entered into a description of his sister's doings; her perfect content with their seclusion, and her influence over the dependants. So eager did he grow in his favourite subject, the welfare of his people, that he seemed to have forgotten what had brought him to Cadogan-place, and Theodora was convinced that though the being brought into contact with her had for the time renewed the former attachment, it was in reality by no means the prominent thought of his life. His duties and the benefit of his colliers were what engrossed his mind; and with his sister to render his home happy, everything else was secondary. When it did occur to him to think of love, it was for Theodora; but he had no more time for such thoughts than most other busy practical men.

He discoursed upon his schools and reading-rooms till the children came in, and then bade her good-bye, quite as if he had talked himself back into an every-day state of feeling.

Was Theodora mortified? She went to her own room to a.n.a.lyze her sensations, but was almost immediately followed by Johnnie, coming to tell her that the owl-man was in the drawing-room.