‘In one respect they were worse, for they were entirely my own fault.’
‘May I ask, is there no hope for you?’
‘No, said Theodora, ‘I believe there is none. But a certain peaceful feeling, independent of that, came after the desolateness, and has never gone utterly away, though I have had to reap the harvest of the evil that I sowed. Oh! depend upon it, there is nothing like resolutely facing the day’s work.’
Emma made no answer; they had come to the gate of a villa, and Theodora thought she might as well have held her peace, since Theresa would undo the whole.
Miss Marstone was not within, but she had left a note for Miss Brandon. Emma, after reading it, timidly said that Theresa had gone to spend the day with a friend, who was boarding in a convent not far off, and that she wished her to come and make her visit to her there. Then timidly glancing towards her companion, she desired to be driven thither, but Theodora, leaning forward, said, in an authoritative manner, ‘Drive on two miles on the road. We will say where next when we come back.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ she said to Emma, ‘but this is not a step to be taken inconsiderately.’
Emma did not reply; Theodora perceived that her decided manner had terrified her. ‘I am sorry if I was rude,’ she said; ‘I did not mean it, but I thought you were acting precipitately, and that you would be glad to have time to reflect before going to this place without your mother’s knowledge.’
‘It is not precipitately,’ said Emma, faintly.
‘You don’t mean that this was a pre-concerted scheme. If so, pray let me out, and I will go home alone.’
‘No, no, I did not mean exactly—don’t use such words, Theodora. Only sister Mary Angela—Theresa’s great friend—had joined the Roman communion. Theresa wished me to see her and the convent, and said that perhaps I might find her there. If I had told mamma, she would have fancied I should be kidnapped like young ladies in books. I believe you expect it yourself,’ said Emma, giggling hysterically.
‘I think, and she thinks nothing but what is rational,’ said Theodora, coldly, ‘that it is a sad thing to see you taught to resort to subterfuges, and that they can lead into no safe course.’
‘You do not know Theresa, or you would not accuse her of what she would detest.’
‘I speak from what I see. She has arranged in secret that, without your mother’s knowledge, you should by stealth go to a place where you both know Lady Elizabeth would be shocked to hear of you.’
‘I thought you understood the true Catholic spirit,’ said Emma, ‘and were interested in these things.’
‘The Catholic spirit is anything but such treatment of a mother,’ said Theodora. ‘Once for all, do you mean to go to this place, or do you not? I see a cab, and if you go I return home in that.’
‘Of course then I must give it up.’
‘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 institutions 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 space, 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 nonentity. 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.’
‘There is one thing to be thankful for!’ said Theodora. The visit was very short; Emma hardly spoke or raised her eyes, and Theodora hoped that some of her timidity arose from repentance for her false judgment of Violet. To Theodora, she said—‘You shall see Theresa’s explanation,’ and Theodora deserved credit for not saying it would be a curiosity.
Lady Elizabeth did as she had not done since Theodora was a little child; she put her arm round her neck and kissed her affectionately, murmuring, ‘Thank you, my dear.’
This little scene seemed to brace Theodora for the trial of the evening. Percy had offered to sit up that night with Arthur, and she had to receive him, and wait with him in the drawing-room till he should be summoned. It was a hard thing to see him so distant and reserved, and the mere awkwardness was unpleasant enough. She could devise nothing to say that did not touch on old times, and he sat engrossed with a book the reviewal of which was to be his night’s employment.
CHAPTER 13
Should this new-blossomed hope be coldly nipped,
Then were I desolate indeed.
—Philip van Artevelde—H. TAYLOR
The night was apt to be the worst time with Arthur; and Violet generally found him in the morning in a state of feverish discomfort and despondency that was not easily soothed. Anxious to know how he had fared with his new attendant, she came in as early as possible, and was rejoiced to find that he had passed an unusually comfortable night, had been interested and cheered by Percy’s conversation, and had slept some hours.
Percy’s occupation, in the meantime, was shown by some sheets of manuscript on the table near the fire.
‘I see you have not been losing time,’ said Violet.
‘I fear—I fear I have,’ he answered, as rather nervously he began to gather up some abortive commencements and throw them into the fire.
‘Take care, that is mine,’ exclaimed she, seeing the words ‘Mrs. Martindale,’ and thinking he had seized upon a letter which he had written to her from Worthbourne on Arthur’s business. She held out her hand for it, and he yielded it, but the next moment she saw it was freshly written; before she could speak she heard the door closed, and Arthur sleepily muttered, ‘Gone already.’ Dreading some new branch of the Boulogne affair, she sat down, and with a beating heart read by the firelight:—
‘I can bear it no longer! Long ago I committed one great folly, and should have been guilty of a greater, if you had not judged more wisely for me than I for myself. You did, indeed, act “kindly as ever”; and I have thanked you for it a thousand times, since I came to my senses in the dismal altitude of my “sixieme etage” at Paris.
‘No disrespect to your sister, to whom I did greater injustice than I knew, in asking her to seal my mistake. I threw away a rough diamond because its sharp edges scratched my fingers, and, in my fit of passion, tried to fill up its place with another jewel. Happily you and she knew better! Now I see the diamond sparkling, refined, transcendent, with such chastened lustre as even I scarce dared to expect!
‘These solitary years of disappointment have brought me to a sense of the harshness and arrogance of my dealings with the high nature that had so generously intrusted itself to me. There was presumption from the first in undertaking to mould her, rudeness in my attempts to control her, and precipitate passion and jealousy in resenting the displeasure I had provoked; and all was crowned by the absurd notion that pique with her was love of your sister!
‘I see it all now, or rather I have seen it ever since it was too late; I have brooded over it till I have been half distracted, night after night! And now I can hardly speak, or raise my head in her presence. I must have her pardon, whether I dare or not to ask one thing more. I never was sure that her heart was mine; my conduct did not deserve it, whatever my feelings did. If she accepted me from romance, I did enough to open her eyes! I am told she accepts Lord St. Erme—fit retribution on me, who used to look down on him in my arrogant folly, and have to own that he has merited her, while I—
‘But, at least, I trust to your goodness to obtain some word of forgiveness for me without disturbing her peace of mind. I would not expose her to one distressing scene! She has gone through a great deal, and the traces of grief and care on that noble countenance almost break my heart. I would not give her the useless pain of having to reject me, and of perceiving the pain I should not be able to conceal.
‘I commit myself to your kindness, then, and entreat of you, if the feeling for me was a delusion, or if it is extinct, to let me know in the manner least painful to you; and, when she can endure the subject, to tell her how bitterly I have repented of having tried to force humility on her, when I stood in still greater need of the lesson, and of having flown off in anger when she revolted at my dictation. One word of forgiveness would be solace in a life of deserved loneliness and disappointment.’
Trembling with gladness, Violet could hardly refrain from rousing Arthur to hear the good news! She hastily wrote the word ‘Try!’ twisted it into a note, and sent it down in case Mr. Fotheringham should still be in the house. The missive returned not, and she sat down to enjoy her gladness as a Sunday morning’s gift.
For Violet, though weak, anxious, and overworked, was capable of receiving and being cheered by each sunbeam that shone on herself or on her loved ones. Perhaps it was the reward of her resignation and trust, that even the participation (as it might almost be called) of her husband’s suffering, and the constantly hearing his despondence, could not deprive her of her hopefulness. Ever since the first two days she had been buoyed up by a persuasion of his recovery, which found food in each token of improvement; and, above all, there was something in Arthur that relieved the secret burden that had so long oppressed her.
She was free to receive solace and rejoice in the joy of others; and when Theodora met her in the morning, eye and lip were beaming with a suppressed smile of congratulation, that hardly suited with the thin, white face.
‘Arthur’s comfortable night has done you both good,’ said Theodora. ‘Percy is a better nurse than I.’
‘Oh, yes! it is all Percy’s doing!’ said Violet, there checking herself; but laughing and blushing, so that for a moment she looked quite girlishly pretty.
No more was heard of Mr. Fotheringham till Johnnie came home from the afternoon’s service, and reported that the owl-man was in the drawing-room with Aunt Theodora.
At church Johnnie had seen his papa’s good-natured friend in the aisle, and with his hand on the door of the seat and his engaging face lifted up, had invited him in.
Innocent Johnnie! he little knew what tumultuous thoughts were set whirling through his aunt’s mind. The last time Percy had joined her at church, the whole time of the service had been spent in the conflict between pride and affection. Now there was shame for this fresh swarm of long-forgotten sins, and as the recollection saddened her voice in the confession, foremost was the sense of sacrilege in having there cherished them, and turned her prayer into sin. No wonder she had been for a time yielded up to her pride and self-will!
As silently as usual they walked home from church, and she would at once have gone up-stairs, but he said, in a low, hoarse voice, as her foot was on the step, ‘May I speak to you?’
She turned. It was so strangely like that former occasion that she had a curious bewildered feeling of having passed through the same before; and perhaps she had, in her dreams. Scarcely conscious, she walked towards the fire.
‘Can you forgive me?’ said the same husky voice.
She raised her eyes to his face. ‘Oh, Percy!’—but she could say no more, cut short by rising sobs; and she could only hide her face, and burst into tears.
He was perfectly overwhelmed. ‘Theodora, dearest! do not! I have been too hasty,’ he exclaimed, almost beside himself with distress, and calling her by every affectionate name.
‘Never mind! It is only because I have become such a poor creature!’ said she, looking up with a smile, lost the next moment in the uncontrollable weeping.
‘It is my fault!—my want of consideration! I will go—I will call Mrs. Martindale.’
‘No, no, don’t, don’t go!’ said Theodora, eagerly—her tears driven back. ‘It was only that I am so foolish now.’
‘It was very wrong to be so abrupt—’
‘No! Oh! it was the relief!’ said Theodora, throwing off her shawl, as if to free herself from oppression. Percy took it from her, placed her in the arm-chair, and rendered her all the little attentions in his power with a sort of trembling eagerness, still silent; for she was very much exhausted,—not so much from present agitation as from the previous strain on mind and body.
It seemed to give a softness and tenderness to their reunion, such as there never had been between them before, as she leant back on the cushions he placed for her, and gazed up in his face as he stood by her, while she rested, as if unwilling to disturb the peace and tranquillity.
At last she said, ‘Did I hear you say you had forgiven me?’
‘I asked if you could forgive me?’
‘I!’ she exclaimed, rousing herself and sitting up,—‘I have nothing to forgive! What are you thinking of?’
‘And is it thus you overlook the presumption and harshness that—’
‘Hush!’ said Theodora; ‘I was unbearable. No man of sense or spirit could be expected to endure such treatment. But, Percy, I have been very unhappy about it, and I do hope I am tamer at last, if you will try me again.’
‘Theodora!’ cried Percy, hardly knowing what he said. ‘Can you mean it? After all that is past, may I believe what I dared not feel assured of even in former days?’
‘Did you not?’ said Theodora, sorrowfully. ‘Then my pride must have been even worse than I supposed.’
‘Only let me hear the word from you. You do not know what it would be to me!’
‘And did you really think I did not care for you? I, whose affection for you has been a part of my very self! I am more grieved than ever. I would never have tormented you if I had not thought you knew my heart was right all the time.’
‘It was my fault; my anger and impatience! And you let me hope that this—this undeserved feeling has survived even my usage!’
‘Nay, it was that which taught me its power. Your rejection was the making of me; thanks to Violet, who would not let me harden myself, and ruin all.’
‘Violet! I could almost call her our presiding spirit, sent to save us from ourselves!’
‘Dear Violet! how glad she will be.’
‘Then,’ said Percy, as if he had only room for one thought, ‘are we indeed to begin anew?’
‘I will try to be less unbearable,’ was the stifled answer.
‘We have both had lessons enough to teach us to be more humble and forbearing,’ said Percy, now first venturing to take her hand. ‘Let us hope that since this blessing has been granted us, that we shall be aided in our endeavours to help each other.’
There was a grave and chastened tone about the meeting of these two lovers: Theodora almost terrified at realizing that the bliss she had once forfeited was restored to her, and Percy peculiarly respectful—almost diffident in manner, feeling even more guilty towards her than she did towards him. Neither could be content without a full confession of their wrongs towards each other, and the unjust impressions that had actuated them; and in the retrospect time passed so quickly away, that they were taken by surprise when the candles came in.
‘I need not go?’ entreated Percy.
‘No, indeed; but you have had no dinner.’
‘Never mind—I want nothing.’
Theodora ran up-stairs. Violet understood the suppressed call in the dressing-room, and met her with outstretched arms.
The children never forgot that evening, so delightful did the owl-man make himself. Helen even offered him a kiss, and wished him good night, saucily calling him Percy; and Johnnie set his aunt’s cheeks in a glow by saying, ‘It ought to be Uncle Percy, if he belonged to Aunt Helen.’
‘What do you know of Aunt Helen?’ said Percy, lifting him on his knee, with a sudden change of manner.
Johnnie’s face was deeply tinged; he bent down his head and did not answer, till, when the inquiry was repeated, he whispered, ‘Mamma said Aunt Helen was so very good. Mamma read to me about the dew-drops, in her written book. She told me about her when I had the blister on, because, she said, her thoughts helped one to be patient and good.’
Percy put his arm round him, and his sigh or movement surprised Johnnie, who uneasily looked at his aunt. ‘Ought I not to have said it?’
‘Yes, indeed, Johnnie, boy. There is nothing so pleasant to me to hear,’ said Percy. ‘Good night; I shall like you all the better for caring for my dear sister Helen.’
‘Being dead, she yet speaketh,’ murmured he, as the children went. ‘Strange how one such tranquil, hidden life, which seemed lost and wasted, has told and is telling on so many!’
Even the peace and happiness of that evening could not remove the effects of over-fatigue, and Percy insisted on Theodora’s going early to rest, undertaking again to watch by Arthur. She objected, that he had been up all last night.
‘I cannot go home to bed. If you sent me away, I should wander in the Square, apostrophizing the gas-lamps, and be found to-morrow in the station, as a disorderly character. You had better make my superfluous energies available in Arthur’s service. Ask if I may come in.’
Theodora thought the sick-room had acquired quite a new aspect. A Sunday air pervaded the whole, seeming to radiate from Violet, as she sat by the fire; the baby asleep, in his little pink-lined cradle, by her side. The patient himself partook of the freshened appearance, as the bright glow of firelight played over his white pillows, his hair smooth and shining, and his face where repose and cheerfulness had taken the place of the worn, harassed expression of suffering. Of the welcome there could be no doubt. Arthur’s hands were both held out, and did not let her go, after they had drawn her down to kiss him and sit beside him on the bed.
‘Well done! Theodora,’ he said; ‘I am glad it is made up. He is the best fellow living, and well you deserve—’
‘O, don’t say so!’
‘Not that he is the best?’ said Arthur, squeezing hard both her hands, as he used to do in fond, teasing schoolboy days. ‘I shall not say one without the other. Such a pair is not to be found in a hurry. You only wanted breaking-in to be first-rate, and now you have done it.’
‘No, it was your own dear little wife!’ was whispered in his ear. He pinched her again, and, still holding her fast, said, ‘Is Percy there? Come in,’ and, as he entered, ‘Percy, I once warned you to kill the cat on the wedding-day. I testify that she is dead. This sister of mine is a good girl now. Ask Violet.’
‘Violet—or, rather, our Heartsease’—said Percy, as his grasp nearly crushed Violet’s soft fingers: ‘thank you; yours was the most admirable note ever composed! Never was more perfect “eloquence du billet!”’
‘Eh! what was it?’
Percy held up the little note before Arthur’s eyes: he laughed. ‘Ay! Violet is the only woman I ever knew who never said more than was to the purpose. But now, Mrs. Heartsease, if that is your name, go and put Theodora to bed; Percy will stay with me.’
‘The baby,’ objected Violet.
‘Never mind, I want you very much,’ said Theodora; ‘and as Percy says he has so much superfluous energy, he can take care of two Arthurs at once. I am only afraid of his making the great one talk.’
‘The great one’ was at first as silent as the little one; his countenance became very grave and thoughtful; and at last he said, ‘Now, Percy, you must consent to my selling out and paying you.’
‘If you do, it must be share and share alike with the rest of the creditors.’
‘And that would be no good,’ said Arthur, ‘with all the harpies to share. I wish you would consent, Percy. Think what it is to me to lie here, feeling that I have ruined not only myself, but all my sister’s hopes of happiness!’
‘Nay, you have been the means of bringing us together again. And as to your wife—’
‘I must not have her good deeds reckoned to me,’ said Arthur, sadly. ‘But what can you do? My father cannot pay down Theodora’s fortune.’
‘We must wait,’ interrupted Percy, cheerfully.
Arthur proceeded. ‘Wait! what for? Now you are cut out of Worthbourne, and my aunt’s money might as well be at the bottom of the sea, and—’
‘I can hear no croaking on such a day as this,’ broke in Percy. ‘As to Worthbourne, it is ill waiting for dead men’s shoon. I always thought Pelham’s as good a life as my own, and I never fancied Mrs. Nesbit’s hoards. If I made three thousand pounds in five years, why may I not do so again? I’ll turn rapacious—give away no more articles to benighted editors on their last legs. I can finish off my Byzantine history, and coin it into bezants.’
‘And these were your hard-earned savings, that should have forwarded your marriage!’
‘They have,’ said Percy, smiling. ‘They will come back some way or other. I shall work with a will now! I am twice the man I was yesterday. It was heartless work before. Now, “some achieve greatness,” you know.’
Arthur would have said more, but Percy stopped him. ‘If you gave it me to-morrow, we could not marry on it. Let things alone till you are about again, and John comes home. Meantime, trust her and me for being happy. A fico for the world and worldlings base.’
He attained his object in making Arthur smile; and Violet presently returning, they sat on opposite sides of the fire, and held one of the happiest conversations of their lives. Violet told the whole story of the fire, which seemed as new to Arthur as to Percy.
‘Why did I never hear this before?’ he asked.
‘You heard it at the time,’ said Violet.
Recollections came across Arthur, and he turned away his head, self-convicted of having thought the women made a tedious history, and that he could not be bored by attending. Percy’s way of listening, meanwhile, was with his foot on the fender, his elbow on his knee, his chin resting on his hand, his bright gray eyes fixed full on Violet, with a beaming look of gladness, and now and then a nod of assent, as if no heroism on Theodora’s part could surpass his expectations, for he could have told it all beforehand. However, his turn came, when Violet described her last expedition after the chess-board, and the injury it had entailed.
‘Now, now, you don’t say so!’ said he, stammering with eagerness, and starting up.
‘Poor dear, she hardly knew what she did,’ said Violet.
‘I remember,’ said Arthur. ‘That was the time of the delusion that Percy had taken up with his present cousin-in-law.’
Violet blushed. She was too much ashamed of ever having had the idea to bear to recall it; and when Arthur explained, Percy shuddered, and exclaimed, ‘No, I thank you, Violet! you knew enough against me; but you need not have thought me quite come to that!’
On the morrow, Percy came in as the children’s lessons were concluded. He studied Theodora’s face tenderly, and hoped that she had rested. She laughed, and called herself perfectly well; and, indeed, her eyes were as large and as bright as they ought to me, and she had discovered, that morning, that her black locks would make a much more respectable show if properly managed. He would not have mistaken her if she had looked as she did now three weeks ago.