‘Did you give up hope?’ asked Lord Martindale.
‘For myself I did. The confined air oppressed me so much, even before the sense of hunger came on, that it seemed to take away all power of thought and action.’
‘Yet you did think?’ said Violet.
‘I was obliged, for the men were more confounded and helpless at first, though, when once directed, nothing could be more resolute and persevering! Brave fellows! I would not but have had it happen! One seldom has such a chance of seeing the Englishman’s gallant heart of obedient endurance. It was curious to observe the instinctive submission. Some were men who would not for worlds have touched their hats to me above ground; yet, as soon as I tried to take the lead, and make them think what could yet be done, they obeyed instantly, though I knew almost nothing compared to them, and while they worked like giants, I could hardly move.’
‘Was it very acute suffering?’
‘For the last two days it was, but it was worse for those who had to work. I was generally faint and drowsy, and could hardly rouse myself to speak a word of encouragement, which was what they wanted. They fancied it was vain to work towards the old shaft, but I was sure none of them could live to be dug out from above, and that it would be wrong to let them cease. I think, as well as I recollect, that speaking was the worst pain of all. But it is no harm to know what the poor undergo.’
‘Hardly to such extremity,’ said Violet.
‘Well, I know I shall never turn indifferently away again when I hear, “We are starving.” A man feels little for what he has not experienced.’
‘I suppose,’ said Lord Martindale, ‘that it has put an extinguisher on Chartism?’
‘There are some determined village Hampdens still, but I think the fellow-feeling it has excited has done good. I have not been able to go among them since, but they have indefatigably come to inquire for me. The first Sunday I was able to come down-stairs, I found the hall door beset with them in their best, looking like a synod of Methodist preachers. Poor Lucy shocked my aunt by running about crying, and shaking hands with their great horny fists. I fancy “our young lady,” as they call her, is the strongest anti-chartist argument.’
Though talking in this animated manner he was far from strong, and went away early, looking thoroughly tired. Theodora had stitched away throughout the conversation in silence; but Violet knew, by the very fixity of her eye, that she was feeling it deeply and there was consciousness in the absence of word or look, with which she let the Earl bid her good night. It was a strange thing to have been in part the means of forming so noble a character, and yet to regard her share in it with nothing but shame.
Self-reproachful and unhappy, Theodora went to take her turn of watching her brother for the first part of the night. She could not have borne to be told, what was in fact the case, that he was generally more uncomfortable under her care than that of any one else, chiefly because there was not the restraint either of consideration for his wife, or of the authority of his father. Besides, she was too visibly anxious, too grave and sad, to find anything cheerful with which to divert his attention; and he was sure to become restless and exacting, or else depressed, either as to his illness or his affairs.
To-night he had discovered Lady Elizabeth’s visit, and was anxious to know whether Gardner had broken with Miss Brandon. Theodora would not encourage his talking; and this teased him, only making him say more till she had told all, adding, ‘O Arthur! what a comfort it must be that this is brought upon you by your having tried to save Emma!’
‘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 harassed, 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 passively 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 passwords.’
‘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 harass 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 Lustfahrt 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 analyze her sensations, but was almost immediately followed by Johnnie, coming to tell her that the owl-man was in the drawing-room.
‘Another who is consoled!’ thought she. ‘Humiliating, indeed, it is to see such complete cures. There is no need to be absurd and conscious at this meeting! But here I do, indeed, need forgiveness—how my heart aches to ask it—his mere pardon for my offences! If I could only have it out with him without compromising womanly proprieties! That can’t be; I must bear it!’
On the stairs she heard Helen’s voice. ‘He came yesterday, to the evening dinner, but I don’t like him.’
‘Why not?’ asked Percy.
‘Because he says I am just like Aunt Theodora, and I am not.’
Theodora knew whom she meant. Lord St. Erme had been much struck by her little niece’s resemblance, and Helen resented the comparison as an indignity to her beauty. She felt extremely annoyed at Percy’s hearing this; then recollected it did not signify to him, and entered just as he was telling little Miss Vanity that she was the silliest child he had ever the honour of meeting.
There was some constraint, on her part, in the short conversation on Arthur’s health that ensued, before he went up; and he only returned to the drawing-room for a moment, to assure her that he thought Arthur much better than when he had last seen him.
‘He avoids me! he cannot endure me!’ she thought, and yet she felt doubly averse to the idea of returning to Brogden.
Lord Martindale came in with a look of expectation on his face which grieved Theodora, for she knew her refusal would be a disappointment to him. He sent the children away, paused for her to begin, and at last asked: ‘Well, my dear, has Lord St. Erme been here?’
‘Yes papa;’ and it was plain enough how it had been. Lord Martindale sighed. The rest being equal, it was not in human nature not to prefer an Earl to an almost penniless author. ‘I would not urge you on any account,’ he said; ‘but I wish it could have been otherwise.’
‘So do I, most heartily,’ said Theodora.
‘It is very different now,’ said Lord Martindale. Four years ago I could hardly have wished it. Now, I think most highly of him, and I should have been rejoiced to have seen his constancy rewarded.’
‘I am ashamed and grieved,’ said Theodora. ‘He did, indeed, deserve better things. He is a noble character; and I cannot honour or esteem him enough, nor sufficiently regret the way I treated him. But, indeed, papa, it would not be right. I cannot help it.’
‘Well, there is no more to be said,’ sighed Lord Martindale. ‘I know you will do right.’
Something was won since her former dismissal of the Earl! Her father gave her a look full of confidence and affection; and made happy by it, she rallied her spirits and said, ‘Besides, what a pair it would be! We should be taken for a pretty little under-graduate and his mother!’
‘That will not last, my dear,’ said Lord Martindale, vexed though smiling at her droll manner. ‘You are younger than he.’
‘In years, but not in mind,’ said Theodora. ‘No, no, papa; you have me for life, and it is hard you should be so anxious to get rid of me!’
‘I only wish to consult your happiness, my dear child.’
‘And that always was in fancying myself necessary,’ said Theodora, gaily, though there was a trembling in her voice; and when she went up to her own room, she hid her face in her hands, and felt as if life was very dreary and uninteresting, and as if it was a miserable exile to be sent into the country just now, to have to force cheerful conversation for her mother, and to be wearied with Helen’s wild spirits. ‘But have I not deserved everything? And after my brother has been spared so far, how can I repine at any selfish trouble?’
CHAPTER 12
Herself, almost heartbroken now,
Was bent to take the vestal vow,
And shroud, within St. Hilda’s gloom,
Her wasted hopes and withered bloom.
—SCOTT
Violet, when called to consult with her father-in-law in the outer room, felt a sort of blank apprehension and consternation at the idea of being separated from her children; and a moment’s reflection satisfied her that in one case at least she might rightly follow the dictates of her own heart. She said that she thought Johnnie could not be spared by his papa.
Lord Martindale’s eye followed hers, and through the half-closed door saw Johnnie, sitting on the bed, reading to his father, who listened with amused, though languid attention.
‘I believe you are right,’ he said; ‘though I wish I had the boy in the country doing no lessons. He puts me more in mind of his uncle every day.’
‘One of the highest compliments Johnnie has ever had,’ said Violet, colouring with pleasure; ‘but I am afraid to trust him away from me and Mr. Harding in the winter because of his croup.’
‘Ah! then it cannot be,’ he answered; ‘and I do not think I would take him from his father now, but his sisters must come; they would be too much for you without Theodora.’
Violet could only be mournfully thankful, and the project was in time laid before Arthur.
‘Send my little girls away!’ said he, looking discomfited. ‘Oh! if you wish to keep them’—joyfully exclaimed Violet.
‘I thought that if Theodora went home, Violet would hardly be able to manage them,’ said Lord Martindale.
‘If they are in her way,’ said Arthur, and his eyes smiled at her, knowing what her decision would be.
‘Oh! no, no! It was their grandpapa’s kindness.’ Johnnie and Helen here peeped into the room; Arthur beckoned to them, and said, ‘How should you like to go into the country with Aunt Theodora?’
‘To see grandmamma and the peacock?’ said Lord Martindale. Johnnie clung to his mother’s hand, piteously whispering, ‘Oh! don’t send me away, mamma—I would try to bear it if I ought.’
Helen climbed the bed, and sturdily seated herself close to her papa. ‘I shall not desert my father and mother,’ said she, with great dignity, drawing up her head.
‘No more you shall, my little heroine!’ said Arthur, throwing his arm round her, while she glanced with saucy triumph at her grandfather.
In the silence of night, when Arthur was alone with his father, he said, ‘If those little girls go away now, they will never remember me.’
To this plea there could be no reply; for though the danger was no longer imminent, it was still extremely doubtful whether he would ever leave his room again.
His wish to keep the children made Lord Martindale reconsider of sending Theodora home, and he desired Violet to choose between her and himself. She thought Theodora the most effective, and Arthur seemed to prefer her remaining, so that she found herself disposed of according to her wishes, her father only stipulating that she should not neglect rest, air, or exercise, of which she stood in evident need.
Every one observed her haggard looks on the day when they met for the baptism of ‘Arthur Fotheringham.’ It was a melancholy christening, without the presence of either parent; and so all the little party felt it, and yet, if they could have seen into the recesses of the mother’s heart, they would have found there were causes which made this baptism day better to her than any of the former ones.
The godfather came afterwards to see Arthur, who believed him more than all the doctors when he assured him he was making progress. Arthur began to speak of the debt; he wished before his father went to have a settlement of accounts, take steps for selling his commission, and repaying Percy.
‘No,’ said Percy, ‘wait till you are better and can look about you. Sell your commission indeed, and take the bread out of your children’s mouths! No, if you did choose to do that, it must in honour and justice be divided among all your creditors.’
Arthur was forced to give up.
Emma Brandon had not joined the christening party. Miss Marstone had actually written to Mark Gardner, and had in reply received an acknowledgment of her ‘good offices, which had gone far to enable him to justify the bets that before Christmas he would have a wife with ten thousand pounds a year!’ He did not quite venture to insult Miss Brandon, but sent her a cool message of farewell. The rest of the letter, the friends declared, was evidently by Mrs. Finch’s dictation. They shut themselves up together; Lady Elizabeth was not allowed to help her daughter, and came to Cadogan-place chiefly that she might talk over her troubles with Theodora, who put her into communication with Percy, and from him she heard a brief sketch of Mr. Gardner’s life and adventures, still less disposing her to desire him as a son-in-law.
She was certainly safe from this danger, but her cares were not thus ended. If Emma would have shared her griefs with her, and admitted her attempts at consolation, she would have been more at ease, but as it was, Emma was reserved with her, and attached herself solely to Theresa Marstone, whom she even made a sort of interpreter between her and her mother, so that Lady Elizabeth only knew as much of her mind as her confidante chose to communicate.
Not only was this most painful to her feelings as a mother, but she had serious doubts of the safety of such a companion. The extreme silliness of Theresa’s vanity and exclusiveness had long been visible, and as it was the young lady’s fashion to imagine the defect anywhere but in her own judgment, there were symptoms of the mischief having been by her attributed to the Church of England. As if to console herself for the shock she had sustained, she was turning to a new fancy, for when a woman once begins to live upon excitement, she will seek for the intoxication anywhere.
This perception made Lady Elizabeth resolve that as long as she was mistress of Rickworth, she would not again invite Miss Marstone thither; while Emma was equally determined not to go home without her only friend. Thus the mother and daughter lingered on in London, Theresa often coming to spend the day with Emma, and Lady Elizabeth having recourse to the Martindale family, and trying to make herself of use by amusing the children, sitting in Arthur’s room, or taking Theodora for a walk or drive.
One morning she came in to say that Emma was going to drive to Islington to call upon Miss Marstone, who had gone two days previously to stay with some friends there, and to beg that Theodora would accompany her. Aware that it would be as great a penance to Emma as to herself, Theodora would fain have been excused, but let herself be overruled on Lady Elizabeth’s promise to supply her place at home, and assurance that it would be a positive relief that she should be of the party, even if she did not get out of the carriage, as a check upon the length of time Emma would spend with her friend.
The two unwilling companions set forth, each in her own comer of the carriage, Emma leaning back, her thick blue veil hiding her face; Theodora, who always repudiated veils, sitting upright, her face turned, so as to catch the breeze on her hot temples, wishing she could turn herself into Violet, and possess her power of sweet persuasion and consolation. She could think of nothing to say, and began at last to fear that her silence might appear unkind. She tried to interest Emma by speaking of Johnnie, but she only obtained brief replies, and the conversation had dropped before they left the streets and entered on suburban scenery. Theodora exclaimed at a gorgeous Virginian creeper—
‘Almost as fine as the one at the Priory,’ said she.
Emma looked and sighed.
‘Rickworth must be in high glory. I know nothing prettier than the many-coloured woods sloping into the meadow, with the soft mist rising. You will find home beautiful.’
‘I cannot bear the thought of it,’ said Emma, in an under-tone.
‘How glad your little orphans will be! How many have you?’
‘There are five.’
Theodora saw she hated the subject, but thought it good for her, and went on to tell her of a case at Whitford, cramming the subject into her ear at first against the stomach of her sense, but it could not but exact attention, a widow sinking in a decline after sorrows which, by comparison, made all young lady troubles shrink into atoms. Emma became interested, and began to ask questions.
‘You will go to see the mother? Poor thing, I hope she may be alive to hear of the prospect for her child. I am sorry to be unable to go and see her, and should be so glad to know you near and able to attend to her.’
‘We will write to the housekeeper,’ said Emma.
‘Are you not going back yourself?’
‘I don’t know; I have no heart to think of it.’
‘Emma,’ said Theodora, ‘we need not go on as if we did not understand each other. Violet can attend to you now; I wish you would talk to her. No one can comfort as she can.’
‘I do not wish to tease her with my—’
‘She knows, she longs to help you. Don’t you know how fond of you she always was? You two appreciated each other from the first.’
‘It is of no use. She never entered into my views. She does not understand. It is her situation I blame, not herself. She is a dear creature, and I once had a strong girlish enthusiasm for her.’
‘Once!’ cried Theodora; ‘what has she ever done to lessen enthusiasm for all that is good and lovely?’
Emma hung her head, alarmed; and Theodora more gently insisted, till, by the power which in childhood she had exerted over Emma, she forced out an answer. ‘Forgive me, if I must tell you. I have thought her too fond of going out. It was no wonder, so very young as she was. I do not find fault, but it seemed to dispel an illusion that she was superior to other people. Don’t you remember one party she would go to against warning, that one where she fainted? I could never feel the same for her afterwards.’
Theodora was silent for a few seconds, then exclaimed, ‘O Violet, is there no end to the injuries I have done you? Emma, never judge without seeing behind the curtain. It was my fault. It was when I was crazed with wilfulness. Your mother offered to chaperon me, I was set on going with Mrs. Finch, and as the only means of preventing that, Violet sacrificed herself. I did not know she likewise sacrificed the friendship of the only person, except John, who had been kind to her.’
‘I wish Theresa had known this,’ said Emma.
‘Now YOU know it, will you not turn to Violet for advice and comfort? I know what she can be. If you could guess what she saved me from, you would fly at once to her.’
‘I cannot begin now, I cannot look anywhere that recalls past happiness!’ said Emma, murmuring low, as though the words, in spite of herself, broke from her oppressed heart. ‘Would that I could hide my head! Oh! that I had wings like a dove!’
‘Emma, you have them. They may carry you into what seems to be a wilderness, but go bravely on, and you will be at rest at last.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The wings of duty.’
‘If I only knew where it was.’
‘Your mother, your dependants, your orphans, your beautiful old plan.
Emma only groaned, and held up her hand in deprecation.
‘I have felt it,’ continued Theodora. ‘I know how vain, and vapid, and weary everything seems, as if the sap of life was gone, but if we are content to remain in the wilderness, it begins to blossom at last, indeed it does.’
‘I thought you had had no troubles,’ said Emma, with more interest. ‘They could not have been such as mine.’