‘Oh, don’t tell her.’
‘Good night,’ and he leaned over her and kissed her forehead, in a grave grateful way that brought the tears into her eyes as he silently departed.
Her vigil was full of thoughts, and not unprofitable ones. Her best feelings were stirred up, and she could not see Arthur, in this new light, without tenderness untainted by jealousy. Percy had brought her to a sense of her injustice—this was the small end of the wedge, and the discovery of the real state of things was another blow. While watching the placid sleep of the child, it was not easy to harden herself against its mother; and after that first relenting and acknowledgment, the flood of honest warm strong feeling was in a way to burst the barrier of haughtiness, and carry her on further than she by any means anticipated. The baby slept quietly, and the clock had struck two before his first turn on the pillow wakened Sarah, though a thunder-clap would not have broken her slumber. She was at his cradle before he had opened his eyes, and feeding and fondling hushed his weak cry before it had disturbed his mother. Theodora went to her room on good terms with herself.
She had never allowed late hours to prevent her from going to the early service, and as she left her room prepared for it, she met Violet coming out of the nursery. Theodora for once did not attempt to disguise her warmth of heart, and eagerly asked for the little boy.
‘Quite comfortable—almost merry,’ answered Violet, and taking the hand stretched out in a very different way from the formal touch with which it usually paid its morning greeting, and raising her eyes with her gentle earnest look, she said, ‘Dear Theodora, I am afraid you don’t like it, but you must let me this once thank you.’
Theodora’s face was such that Violet ventured to kiss her, then found an arm round her neck, and a warm kiss in return. Theodora ran down-stairs, thinking it a discovery that there was more beauty in those eyes than merely soft brown colour and long black lashes. It was a long time since her heart had been so light. It was as if a cold hard weight was removed. That one softening had been an inexpressible relief, and when she had thrown aside the black veil that had shrouded her view, everything looked so bright and sweet that she could hardly understand it.
The whole scene was new. She had been seldom from home, and only as a visitor in great houses, whither Lady Martindale carried formality; and she had never known the charm of ease in a small family. Here it would have been far more hard to support her cold solitary dignity than in the ‘high baronial pride’ of Martindale. She was pleased to see how well Arthur looked as master of the house, and both he and his wife were so much delighted to make her welcome now that she would allow them, that it seemed extraordinary that a year and three quarters had passed without her ever having entered their house. Violet was, she owned, a caressing, amiable, lovable creature, needing to be guarded and petted, and she laid herself open to the pleasure of having something to make much of and patronize.
After breakfast, Violet installed her in the back drawing-room, promising that she should there be entirely free from interruption, but she had no desire to shut herself up; she was eager to see little Johnnie, and did not scruple to confess it. He was their chief bond of union, and if she was charmed with him now, when feeble and ailing, how much more as he recovered. Even at his best, he was extremely delicate, very small, thin, and fair, so that face and arms, as well as flaxen hair, were all as white as his frock, and were only enlivened by his dark eyes. He was backward in strength, but almost too forward in intelligence; grave and serious, seldom laughing, and often inclined to be fretful, altogether requiring the most anxious care, but exceedingly engaging and affectionate, and already showing patience and obedience to his mother that was almost affecting. Their mutual fondness was beautiful, and Theodora honoured it when she saw that the tenderness was judicious, obviating whines, but enforcing obedience even when it was pain and grief to cross the weakly child.
Moreover, Theodora was satisfied by finding that she had diligently kept up the Sunday-school teaching of the little Brogden maid; and as to her household management, Theodora set herself to learn it; and soon began to theorize and devise grand plans of economy, which she wanted Violet to put in practice at once, and when told they would not suit Arthur, complacently answered, ‘That would not be her hindrance.’
Violet wrote to John that if he could see Theodora and Percy now, he would be completely satisfied as to their attachment and chances of happiness.
CHAPTER 12
I saw her hold Earl Percy at the point
With lustier maintenance than I did look for
Of such an ungrown warrior.
—King Henry IV
As soon as Violet could leave her little boy without anxiety, the two sisters deposited Charles Layton at the Deaf and Dumb Asylum, with hopes that a few years’ training there would enable him to become Miss Martindale’s little page, the grand object of his desires.
Their next and merriest excursion was to Percy’s lodgings, where he had various Greek curiosities which he wished to show them; and Theodora consented to come with her brother and sister in a simple straightforward way that Violet admired.
His rooms were over a toy-shop in Piccadilly, in such a roar of sounds that the ladies exclaimed, and Arthur asked him how much he paid for noise.
‘It is worth having,’ said Percy; ‘it is cheerful.’
‘Do you think so?’ exclaimed Violet. ‘I think carriages, especially late at night, make a most dismal dreary sound.’
‘They remind me of an essay of Miss Talbot’s where she speaks of her companions hastening home from the feast of empty shells,’ said Theodora.
‘Ay! those are your West-end carriages,’ said Percy; ‘I will allow them a dreary dissatisfied sound. Now mine are honest, business-like market-waggons, or hearty tradesfolk coming home in cabs from treating their children to the play. There is sense in those! I go to sleep thinking what drops of various natures make up the roar of that great human cataract, and wake up dreaming of the Rhine falls.
“Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows down the vale of Cheapside.”
Eh, Mrs. Martindale?’
Violet, who always received a quotation of Wordsworth as a compliment to the north, smiled and answered, ‘I am afraid with me it would end in,
“The stream will not flow, the hill will not rise.”’
‘Pish, Violet,’ said her husband, ‘how can you expect to feel like poets and lovers? And halloo! he is coming it strong! “Poems by A.”; “The White Hind and other Poems”; “Gwyneth: a tale in verse”; “Farewell to Pausilippo”, by the Earl of St. Erme. Well done, Percy! Are you collecting original serenades for Theodora? I’ll never betray where they came from.’
‘It is all in the way of trade,’ said Percy.
‘Reviewing?’ said Theodora.
‘Yes; there has been such an absurd amount of flattery bestowed on them that it must provoke any reasonable being. It really is time to put forth a little common sense, since the magazines will have it that earls write better than other people.’
‘Some of the verses in Lord St. Erme’s last volume seem to me very pretty,’ said Violet.
‘There, she is taking up the cudgels for her countryman,’ said Arthur, always pleased when she put herself forward.
‘Which do you mean?’ said Percy, turning on her incredulously.
‘I like those about the Bay of Naples,’ she answered.
‘You do not mean these?’ and he read them in so good-humoured a tone that no one could be vexed, but marking every inconsistent simile and word tortured out of its meaning, and throwing in notes and comments on the unfaithfulness of the description.
‘There! it would do as well for the Bay of Naples as for the farm-yard at Martindale—all water and smoke.’
Arthur and Theodora laughed, but Violet stood her ground, blushingly but resolutely.
‘Anything so read would sound ill,’ she said. ‘I dare say it is all right about the faults, but some parts seem to me very pretty. This stanza, about the fishermen’s boats at night, like sparks upon the water, is one I like, because it is what John once described to me.’
‘You are right, Mrs. Martindale,’ said Percy, reading a second time the lines to which she alluded. ‘They do recall the evening scene; Mount Vesuvius and its brooding cloud, and the trails of phosphoric light upon the sea. I mark these for approval. But have you anything to say for this Address to the Mediterranean?’
He did not this time mar the poem in the reading, and it was not needed, the compound words and twisted epithets were so extravagant that no one gainsaid Arthur’s sentence, ‘Stilts and bladders!’
‘And all that abuse of the savage north is unpardonable,’ said Theodora. ‘Sluggish torpid minds, indeed, frozen by skies bound in mist belts! If he would stay at home and mind his own business, he would not have time to talk such nonsense.’
‘Now,’ said the still undaunted Violet, when the torrent of unsparing jest had expended itself, ‘now it is my turn. Let me show you one short piece. This—“To L.”’
It was an address evidently to his orphan sister, very beautiful and simple; and speaking so touchingly of their loneliness together and dependence on each other, that Mr. Fotheringham was overcome, and fairly broke down in the reading—to the dismay of Violet, who had little thought his feelings so easily excited.
‘Think of the man going and publishing it,’ said Theodora. ‘If I was Lady Lucy, I should not care a rush for it now.’
‘That is what you get by belonging to a poet,’ said Arthur. ‘He wears his heart outside.’
‘This came straight from the heart, at least,’ said Percy. ‘It is good, very good. I am glad you showed it to me. It would never do not to be candid. I will turn him over again.’
‘Well done, councillor,’ cried Arthur. ‘She has gained a verdict for him.’
‘Modified the sentence, and given me some re-writing to do,’ said Percy. ‘I cannot let him off; the more good there is in him, the more it is incumbent on some one to slash him. Authors are like spaniels, et cetera.’
‘Hear, hear, Theodora!’ cried Arthur. ‘See there, he has the stick ready, I declare.’
For in truth Arthur would hardly have been so patient of hearing so much poetry, if it had not been for the delight he always took in seeing his wife’s opinion sought by a clever man, and he was glad to turn for amusement to Percy’s curiosities. Over the mantel-piece there was a sort of trophy in imitation of the title-page to Robinson Crusoe, a thick hooked stick set up saltire-wise with the green umbrella, and between them a yataghan, supporting a scarlet blue-tasselled Greek cap. Percy took down the stick, and gave it into Theodora’s hand, saying, ‘It has been my companion over half Europe and Asia; I cut it at—’
‘By the well of St. Keyne?’ suggested the malicious brother.
‘No, at the source of the Scamander,’ said Percy. It served us in good stead when we got into the desert of Engaddi.’
‘Oh! was that when the robbers broke into John’s tent?’ exclaimed Violet. ‘Surely you had some better weapon?’
‘Not I; the poor rogues were not worth wasting good powder on, and a good English drubbing was a much newer and more effective experiment. I was thenceforth known by the name of Grandfather of Clubs, and Brown always manoeuvred me into sleeping across the entrance of the tent. I do believe we should have left him entombed in the desert sands, if John’s dressing-case had been lost!’
‘What a capital likeness of John,’ said Theodora. ‘Mamma would be quite jealous of it.’
‘It belonged to my sister,’ said Percy. ‘He got it done by an Italian, who has made him rather theatrically melancholy; but it is a good picture, and like John when he looked more young-mannish and sentimental than he does now.’
A hiss and cluck made Violet start. In a dark corner, shrouded by the curtain, sat Pallas Athene, the owl of the Parthenon, winking at the light, and testifying great disapproval of Arthur, though when her master took her on his finger, she drew herself up and elevated her pretty little feathery horns with satisfaction, and did not even object to his holding her to a great tabby cat belonging to the landlady, but which was most at home on the hearth-rug of the good-natured lodger.
‘I always read my compositions to them,’ said Percy. ‘Pallas acts sapient judge to admiration, and Puss never commits herself, applauding only her own music—like other critics. We reserve our hisses for others.’
‘How do you feed the owl, Percy?’
‘A small boy provides her with sparrows and mice for sixpence a dozen. I doubted whether it was cruelty to animals, but decided that it was diverting the spirit of the chase to objects more legitimate than pocket-handkerchiefs.’
‘Ho! so there you seek your proteges!’
‘He sought me. I seized him fishing in my pocket. I found he had no belongings, and that his most commodious lodging-house was one of the huge worn-out boilers near Nine-Elms—an illustration for Watts’s Hymns, Theodora.’
‘Poor little creature!’ said Violet, horrified. ‘What will become of him?’
‘He is doing justice to the patronage of the goddess of wisdom,’ said Percy. ‘He is as sharp as a needle, and gets on in the world—has discarded “conveying,” and promoted himself to selling lucifers.’
‘A happy family theirs will be,’ said Arthur. ‘Cat, owl, and two rival pages!’
So, having duly admired all, curious books, potteries, red and black, tiles and lachrymatories, coins, scraps of ancient armour, a stuffed bee-eater, and the bottled remains of a green lizard that had been a pet at Constantinople—and having been instructed in the difference between various Eastern modes of writing—the merry visit closed; and as the two sisters went home they planned a suit of clothes for the owl’s provider, Theodora stipulating for all the hard and unusual needlework.
CHAPTER 13
I am ashamed that women are so simple
To offer war when they should kneel for peace,
Or seek the rule, supremacy, and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.
—Taming of the Shrew
It was an early season, and Theodora had not been a fortnight at her brother’s before numerous arrivals necessitated a round of visits, to which she submitted without more than moderate grumbling. The first call was on the Rickworth ladies; but it was not a propitious moment, for other visitors were in the drawing-room, and among them Miss Marstone. Emma came to sit by Violet, and was very anxious to hear whether she had not become intimate with Theresa. Violet could not give a good account of herself in this respect; their hours did not suit, and they had only twice met.
‘And is she not delightful?’
‘She is a very superior person’ said Violet, looking down. ‘Do you know her sisters? I liked one of them.’
‘We shall have to call on them, but they are mere ordinary girls—no companions to Theresa. She laments it very much, and has had to make a line for herself. I must come and tell you about it some morning. It is nonsense to meet in this way and think of conversation.
Theodora had, in the meantime, had the exclusive attention of Miss Marstone. ‘So Emma is constant to the Prae-Raffaelite,’ said Theodora, as they drove from the door. ‘What is all this about the Priory?’
‘Did Miss Marstone talk about that?’ said Violet, aghast.
‘She said something about a restoration. What! is it a secret?’
‘I suppose she thought you must know it, since I did. I was much surprised by her beginning about it to me, for when Emma first mentioned it to me, Lady Elizabeth seemed vexed, and begged me never to hint at it.’
‘So Emma wants to make restitution. Well done, little Emma! I did not think it was in her.’
‘It has been her darling scheme for years; but Lady Elizabeth has made her promise to wait till she is five-and-twenty, and not to consider herself pledged.’
‘How like Lady Elizabeth! One respects her like an institution! I hope Emma may hold out, but she has a firebrand in her counsels. I am glad you are not infatuated.’
‘I am sure I don’t know what I think of Miss Marstone. I cannot like her; yet I want to admire her—she is so good.’
‘Let her be as good as she pleases; why should she be silly?’
‘Oh! she is very clever.’
‘When good and clever people are silly, they are the biggest simpletons of all.’
‘Then I don’t think I quite know what you mean by silliness.’
‘Not turning one’s sense to the best advantage, I suppose,’ said Theodora. ‘That Miss Marstone provokes me. If her principles were not right I should not care; but when she has sound views, to see her go on talking, with no reserve, only caring for what is out of the way, it makes one feel oneself turned to ridicule. How can Lady Elizabeth endure it?’
‘I don’t think she likes it, but Emma is so fond of her!’
‘Oh! as to Emma, her poor little imagination is dazzled. It is providential that she has four years to wait! Unless, indeed, there is a reaction, and she marries either a broken-down fox-hunter or a popular preacher.’
Violet’s horrified protests were cut short by the carriage stopping. In returning, they called at Mrs. Finch’s house, to inquire when the family were expected to return from Paris. They had arrived that morning, and Violet said she would make a short visit, and then go home and send the carriage back, but Theodora preferred walking home.
As they were announced, Mrs. Finch started up from a gilded sofa on which she had been reclining, reading a French brochure. Her dress was in the excess of the newest Parisian fashion, such as even to London eyes looked outre, and, as well as her hair, had the disordered look of being just off a journey. Her face had a worn aspect, and the colour looked fixed. Theodora, always either rigidly simple or appropriately splendid, did not like Violet to see her friend in such a condition, and could almost have shrunk from the eager greeting. ‘Theodora Martindale! This is delightful! It is a real charity to look in on us to-day! Mrs. Martindale, how are you? You look better than last time I saw you. Let me introduce you to Mr. Finch.’
Mr. Finch was a little dried-up man, whose ceremonious bow put Violet in mind of the Mayor of Wrangerton. Bending low, he politely gave her a chair, and then subsided into oblivion; while Miss Gardner came forward, as usual, the same trim, quiet, easy-mannered person, and began to talk to Violet, while Mrs. Finch was loudly conversing with Theodora.
The apartment was much in the same style as the lady’s dress, full of gilding and bright colour, expensive, but not producing a good effect; especially as the sofa had been dragged forward to the fire, and travelling gear and newspapers lay about untidily. Altogether there was something unsatisfactory to the feelings of both Theodora and Violet, though Mrs. Finch was very affectionate in her impetuous way, and Miss Gardner gently kind to Violet, asking many questions about her little boy.
Violet soon took leave, and Mr. Finch went down with her to the carriage.
‘That is a fresh complexion that does one good to see!’ cried Mrs. Finch, when she was gone. ‘I am glad to see her in better looks and spirits.’
‘She understands the art of dress,’ said Miss Gardner. Theodora was on the point of making a sharp answer. It was the consequence of having once allowed her brother’s wife to be freely canvassed, and she was glad that an opening door checked the conversation.
There entered a tall fashionable-looking man, with a glossy brown moustache, and a very hairy chin, but of prepossessing and gentlemanlike appearance. He leant over the sofa, and said a few words in a low voice to Mrs. Finch, who answered with nods, and a display of her white teeth in smiles. Raising himself, as if to go, he said, ‘Ah! by the bye, who is that pretty friend of yours that I met Finch escorting down-stairs? A most uncommon style of beauty—’
‘That was Mrs. Martindale,’ said Miss Gardner, rather in haste.
‘Arthur Martindale’s village maid? Ha! Jane, there’s jealousy; I thought you told me—’
‘Georgina!’ exclaimed Jane, ‘you should have introduced Mark to Miss Martindale.’
As Theodora moved her stately neck she felt as if a thunder-bolt had fallen; but the gentleman’s manner was particularly pleasing.
‘It is Jane’s concern,’ said Mrs. Finch, laughing. ‘I leave you to infer why she checks his communications.’
‘There is nothing more awkward than “You told me so,”’ said Mr. Gardner, ‘since the days of “Who is your next neighbour, sir?” I may be allowed some interest in the matter, for your brother is an old school-fellow of mine.’
‘Come!’ exclaimed Georgina, ‘if you stay dawdling here, my letter won’t be written, and my vases won’t come. Fancy, Theodora, such delicious Sevres vases, big enough to hold the Forty Thieves, sky blue, with medallions of Mars and Venus, and Cupids playing tricks—the loveliest things imaginable—came from Versailles—absolutely historical.’
‘Lauzun is supposed to have been hidden in one,’ said Mr. Gardner.
‘I vowed I would have them, and I never fail. Mark has been through fire and water for them.’
‘And I suppose they cost—’ said Theodora.
‘The keep of half-a-dozen starving orphans,’ said Mrs. Finch, triumphantly. ‘Ay, you may look, Theodora; but they are my trophies.’
‘I wish you joy of them,’ said Theodora.
‘So you shall, when you see them; and that she may, off with you, Mark, or the post will go.’
‘My cousin is a despot,’ said Mark, moving off, with a bow to Theodora; Mrs. Finch, following, spoke a few words, and then shut him into the other room.
‘Poor Mark’’ said Jane, in the interval. ‘We have brought him home. He has had a little property left him, and means to clear off his debts and make a fresh beginning. His poor mother is so delighted!’
‘The coast is clear,’ said Mrs. Finch, returning. ‘Now, Theodora, is it true that you are going to be married?’
Point blank questions did not excite Theodora’s blushes; and she composedly answered,
‘Some time or other.’
‘There! I knew it could not be true,’ cried Jane.
‘What is not true?’ said Theodora.
‘Not that you are going to have the curate!’ said Mrs. Finch. ‘Jane, Jane, that has brought the rouge! Oh! I hope and trust it is not the curate.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Theodora, in a grave deliberate voice.
‘That’s a mercy!’ said Mrs. Finch. ‘I had not the slightest confidence in you. I always reckoned on your making some wild choice. Oh! by the bye, do tell me where Percy Fotheringham is to be found. I must have him at our first party. What a charming book that is!’
‘Even at Paris every one is full of it, already,’ said Jane. ‘I feel quite jealous of you, Theodora, for knowing him so well, when we, his cousins, never saw him at all.’
‘Cousins in royal fashion,’ said Theodora, glad that the blush had begun for Mr. Wingfield. ‘What is the exact connection?’
‘You explain, Jane; it is past me. I am content to count kindred with the royal beast.’
‘Lady Fotheringham, his uncle’s wife, is sister to Mark’s mother, my uncle’s wife,’ said Jane. ‘There! I trust that is lucidly done.’
‘That is all, is it?’ said Theodora.
‘Enough for the sending of a card. Tell me where, if you know.’
Theodora named the place.
‘Does he show off well? Mark says he has claws—’
‘I have known him too long to tell how he appears to strangers,’ said Theodora, as the colour mounted again.
‘Do you see much of him?’
‘He comes to Arthur’s house.’
‘You have ventured there?’ said Jane. ‘It was hard not to be able to come for the season otherwise.’
‘I came up to bring the dumb boy to the Asylum. I am staying on because I like it.’
‘Do you mean to go out with her?’
‘When she goes, I do so too, but I am not come for the season. My brother’s regiment is ordered to Windsor, and perhaps I may stay to be with her.’
‘She has more manner than last year,’ said Jane: ‘she is greatly improved in looks. You will believe me, Theodora, all I said to Mark only referred to her paleness.’
‘It won’t do, Jane,’ said her sister; ‘you only make it worse. I see how it is; Theodora has found out that her sister-in-law is a pretty little pet of a thing that does her no harm, and you have got into the wrong box by flattering her first dislike. Yes, yes, Theodora, we know Jane of old; and never could get her to see the only safe way is to tell one’s mind straight out.’
‘I don’t see it established that I did not tell Theodora my real mind,’ said Jane, quietly; ‘I always thought Mrs. Martindale pretty and elegant—’
‘Self-evident,’ said Georgina; ‘but if I had been among you, would not I have told Theodora the poor child was cowed by her dignities, and Mrs. Nesbit and all the rest? Oh, I would have made much of her, and brought her forward. She should have been my queen of Violets: I would have done it last year if that unlucky baby had not come in the way.’
‘And now she does not need patronage,’ said Jane.
‘No; and now Theodora has found her out for herself—a better thing,’ said Mrs. Finch. ‘You look all the better for it! I never saw you look so bright or so handsome, Theodora! You are a happy girl!’—and there was a sigh. Some interruption here occurring, Theodora took her leave, and walked home. She felt ruffled by her visit, and as she came indoors, ran up-stairs and knocked at her sister’s door. The room looked cool and pleasant, and Violet was lying down in her white, frilled dressing-gown, so freshly, purely, delicately neat, and with so calm and sweet a smile, that the contrast marked itself strongly, and Theodora thought no one ever looked more innocent and engaging. ‘I hope you are not tired?’
‘Oh, no; I only thought it wiser to rest, thank you.’
‘I came to tell you that Georgina Finch wants us to go to a party next Tuesday week. There’s nothing to prevent it, is there?’
‘I know of nothing; but Arthur will say—’
‘We are to bring Percy. I meant to have told them of our affair; but I did not think they deserved it just then. I am glad he is no real relation to that Mr. Gardner.’
‘Was it Mr. Gardner who met me going down-stairs?’ said Violet, with an unpleasant recollection of having been stared at. ‘Is he their brother?’
‘No; their cousin. I wonder what you think of them?’ said Theodora, hastily throwing aside her bonnet and gloves, and seating herself.
‘Miss Gardner is very good-natured and pleasing.’
‘Those words are made for her. But what of Georgina?’
‘I hardly know her,’ said Violet, hesitating. ‘This is only the second time I have seen her; and last year I was so unwell that her liveliness was too much for me.’
‘Overpowering,’ said Theodora. ‘So people say. It is time she should steady; but she will not think. I’m provoked with her. I did not like her looks to-day, and yet she has a good warm heart. She is worth a dozen Janes! Don’t prefer Jane to her, whatever you do, Violet!’ Then breaking off, she began earnestly: ‘You see, Violet, those are my oldest friends; I never could care for any girl but Georgina, and we have done such things together as I never can forget. They had great disadvantages; a set of wretched governesses—one worse than the other, and were left entirely to their mercy. My education was no pattern; but it was a beauty to theirs, thanks to my father. I do believe I was the only person with any serious notions that Georgina ever came in contact with, in all her growing up. Their father died just as she was coming out, leaving very little provision for them; and they were shifted about among fine relations, who only wanted to get rid of them, and gave them to understand they must marry for a home.’
‘Poor girls! What a miserable life!’
‘Jane knew she was no beauty, and took to the obliging line. She fawns, and is intimate and popular. I never liked her silkiness, though it creeps into one at the time. Georgina had more in her. I wish you could have seen her at eighteen. She was such a fine, glowing, joyous-looking girl, with those bright cheeks, and her eyes dancing and light hair waving, and exuberant spirits that no neglect or unkindness could daunt—all wild gaiety, setting humbug at defiance, and so good-natured! Oh! dear, it makes one melancholy!’
‘And what made the change?’
‘She had a long, low, nervous fever, as they called it; but I have never known much about it, for it was when we were all taken up with John’s illness. She was very long in recovering, and I suppose her spirit was broken, and that the homelessness grew unbearable; for, whereas she had always declared for honest independence and poverty, the next thing I heard of her was, that she had accepted this miserable money-making old wretch!’
‘Perhaps she liked him.’
‘No, indeed! She despises him, and does not hide it! She is true! that is the best of her. I cannot help caring for Georgina. Poor thing, I hate to see it! Her spirits as high as ever, and with as little ballast; and yet she looks so fagged. She was brought up to dissipation—and does not know where else to turn. She has not a creature to say a word the right way!’
‘Not her sister?’ said Violet. ‘She seemed serious and good.’
‘No one can tell what is the truth in Jane,’ said Theodora; ‘and her sister, who knows her best, is the last person to be influenced by her. Some one to whom she could look up is the only chance. Oh, how I wish she had a child! Anything to love would make her think. But there was something in the appearance of that room I cannot get over.’
‘The confusion of arriving—’
‘No, nothing ever could have made it so with you! I don’t know what it was, but—Well, I do think nothing else prevented me from telling them about Percy. I meant it when I said I would stay after you; and they talked about his book, and asked if I saw much of him, and I faced it out, so that they never suspected it, and now I think it was cowardly. I know! I will go at once, and write Georgina a note, and tell her the truth.’
She went, and after a little interval, Violet began to dress for a party at the house of a literary friend of Lady Martindale’s, where they were to meet an Eastern grandee then visiting London. As she finished, she bethought herself that Theodora had never before had to perform a grand toilette without a lady’s maid; and going to her room, found her, indeed, with her magnificent black tresses still spread over her shoulders, flushed, humiliated, almost angry at her own failures in disposing of them.