Heartsease; Or, The Brother's Wife Part 118

'Now, and for ever, unless with your mother's consent, I hope,' said Theodora.

Emma did not answer, and they proceeded for some distance, Theodora wondering what could be her companion's frame of mind, and what she ought to do next. So far, it was the sort of compulsion she had been wont to employ in the unscrupulous hours of childhood; but this was no gain--Emma's reason ought to be convinced, and of this she had little hope. Miss Brandon was the first to break silence. That word subterfuge rankled, as it must in any honourable mind, and she began--'I wish you would do Theresa justice. No one can have a greater contempt than she for anything underhand.'

Theodora tried not to laugh, and could not help pitying the fond affections that were blind to every fault in the beloved object.

'Ah!' said Emma, in answer to her silence, 'you think this bears the appearance of it; but you may be certain that Theresa is absolutely sure to act conscientiously.'

'Some people follow their conscience--some drive it.'

'Now, do let me explain it,' entreated Emma, and talking eagerly and rather mistily, she told in many more words than were needful how Theresa had serious doubts as to what she termed Anglicanism, reckoning against it every laxity in doctrine or in discipline that came to her knowledge, and admiring everything in other branches of the Church.

Emma, taking all for granted that Theresa said, was strongly of the same mind, and while both made high professions of attachment to their own communion, they were in a course of dwelling on all the allurements held out in other quarters. By some astonishing train of reasoning, frequent in persons in a state of excitement and self-deception, they had persuaded themselves that Mark Gardner's return to his evil courses had been for want of a monastery to receive him; and their tendency to romance about conventual inst.i.tutions had been exaggerated by the present state of Emma's spirits, which gave her a desire to retire from the world, as well as a distaste to the projects in which she had lately given her false lover but too large a share. 'Peace dwells in the cloister,' she sighed.

'You have the essentials of such a life in your power,' said Theodora.

'Not the fixed rule--the obedience.'

'Oh! Emma! your mother!'

'I want discipline--Church discipline as in primitive times,' said Emma, impatiently.

'The most primitive discipline of all is, "honour thy father and mother,"' returned Theodora.

There was a silence. Theodora resumed--'I know how one would rather do anything than what is required. Violet taught me then that we must not choose our cross.'

Another s.p.a.ce, then Emma said, 'And you call it a subterfuge?'

'Can you honestly call it otherwise? Don't bewilder us with explanations, but simply say what you would have thought of it six years ago.'

For Emma not to send forth a vapour of words was impossible, but they did not satisfy even herself. Those short terse sentences of Theodora's told upon her, and at last she did not deny that she should not have thought it right if Theresa had not prompted it.

'Is she more likely to be right, or is the Catechism?'

'The Catechism?'

'To be TRUE and just in all my dealings.'

'She did not think it wrong.'

'No, of course not, but if it is wrong, and she does not think it so, does that make her a safe guide?'

'You want to set me against her!'

'I want you to cease to give her a power over you, which is unsafe for any human being.'

'You have been talking to mamma.'

'I have been seeing how unhappy she is about you; but since I have talked to yourself I have seen far more danger.'

'Poor mamma!'

'May I tell you how your history appears to a looker-on? I know it will be painful, but I think it will be good for you.'

'Well!'

'You began beautifully. It was delightful to see how you and your mother went on in perfect confidence, ready to work at everything good together, and she sympathizing in all your projects, only bringing wise caution to restrain your ardour.'

'Yes, we were very happy then,' sighed Emma; 'but mamma wished me to go into society.'

'And wisely. Remember, in the conventual system, a girl cannot be a novice till she has had six months in which to see the world. It was right that you should count the cost. Besides, society in moderation is the best way to keep one's mind from growing narrow. Well, then, you met Miss Marstone, and she excited your imagination. She is really clever and good, and I don't wonder at your liking her; but I cannot think that she has done right in cultivating your exclusive preference till she has detached you from your mother.'

'She did not always think with her.'

'No, but a sound friend would always place the duty to your mother foremost. You made a Pope of her, believed all she said, did as she pleased, and she was flattered, and absorbed you more and more, till really you both came to treating Lady Elizabeth's opinion as a nonent.i.ty. Can you deny it?'

'No.'

More would have been said, but Theodora would not hear, and went on.

'See the consequence. She made a fearful mistake, and but for your mother and your remaining regard to her authority, where should you have been now? All this misery could not have been if you had been safe under Lady Elizabeth's wing.'

'No!' faintly said Emma.

'And now, when your mother has saved you, and her heart is aching to comfort you, and take you back to the safe old nest where all your duties and schemes lie, Miss Marstone tries to keep you from her; and fancies she is doing the best and most conscientious thing by teaching you to elude her, and go where, to one in your state of mind, is temptation indeed. Oh! Emma, she may think it right; but are you acting kindly by the mother who has only you?'

Theodora was very glad to see tears. 'I cannot bear to go home!'

presently said Emma.

'Have you thought how badly all the poor people must be getting on without you? All your children--it is half a year since you saw them!'

Emma groaned.

'Yes, it is bad enough at first. You have had a heavy trial indeed, poor Emma; but what is a trial but something to try us? Would it not be more manful to face the pain of going home, and to take up your allotted work? Then you would be submitting, not to a self-made rule, but to Heaven's own appointment.'

Was Emma's mind disengaged enough for curiosity, or did she want to quit the subject! She said--'You have had a trial of this kind yourself?'

Theodora had a struggle. To tell the whole seemed to her as uncalled for as painful; and yet there must be reciprocity if there is to be confidence, and she could not bear to advise like one who had never erred. She therefore confessed how her happiness had been wrecked by her own fault, and related the subsequent misery; how Violet had repelled the disposition to exalt her rather than her parents, and had well-nigh forced her abroad, and how there in the dreary waste a well of peace had sprung up, and had been with her ever since.

Short as Theodora tried to make the story she so much disliked, it lasted till they were almost at home. It had its effect. To be thrown over upon Lady Martindale and Mrs. Nesbit at Baden could not but appear to Emma a worse lot than to be left to her own mother and Rickworth, which, after all, she loved so well; and the promise of peace to be won by following appointed paths was a refreshing sound.

She had, this whole time, never thought of her mother's feelings, and the real affection she entertained was once more awake. Besides, to see how Theodora represented their scheme, not only shook her faith in Theresa, but alarmed her sense of right on her own account. In short, though she said no word, there was a warmth in her meeting with Lady Elizabeth, on their return, that gave Theodora hopes.

Next morning came a note.

'My Dear Theodora,--I have decided to go home at once. I could not rest without Theresa's explanation, so I have written to her, and I had rather have it by letter than in person. I talked till two o'clock last night with mamma, and we go home at twelve to-day. Tell Violet we will come in for a few moments to take leave.

'Your affectionate,

'E. E. B.'