After they had talked for some time, Theodora said, ‘We must not talk away the whole morning; I must write to papa.’
‘Yes,’ said Percy, ‘I came to speak of that. Theodora, perhaps it was wrong to say what I did last night.’
‘How?’ said she, frightened.
‘You ought to have been told how much worse my position is than before.’
‘Oh! is that all?’
‘It is a very serious all,’ he answered. ‘When I spoke before, and was cool enough to treat it as if I was conferring a favour on you, it was wonderful that your father consented. Now, you see, Worthbourne is gone—’
‘How can you care for that?’
‘I did not, till I began to look at it from your father’s point of view. Besides, I ought to tell you, that there is no chance even of a legacy. I find that Mrs. Fotheringham rules the house, and has tried to prejudice my uncle against me. On the marriage, there were fresh arrangements; my uncle was to alter his will, and it was on that occasion that Sir Antony sent for me to keep up the balance, and save him from her influence. Mrs. Martindale was right about her. What a mischief-maker she is! My delay gave great offence.’
‘Your delay on Arthur’s account?’
‘Yes, she managed to turn it against me. Imagine her having persuaded them that I reckoned on Pelham’s being set aside to make room for me. She says it was named in this house!’
‘Yes, by Jane herself.’
‘She represented me as so disgusted at the marriage that I would pay no attention to Sir Antony. I saw how it was when she received me, purring and coaxing, and seeming to be making my peace with my uncle. By and by, Pelham, when we grew intimate again, blundered out the whole,—that his father wished to have settled something on me; but that Jane had persuaded him that the whole might be wanted as a provision for their family. I cared not one rush then, but it makes a difference now. As for my former line, I am forgotten or worse. I have said blunt things that there was no call for me to say. No one chooses to have me for an underling, and there is no more chance of my getting an appointment than of being made Khan of Tartary. Authorship is all that is left to me.’
‘You have done great things in that way,’ said Theodora.
‘I had made something, but I was obliged to advance it the other day to get Arthur out of this scrape, and there is no chance of his being able to pay it, poor fellow!’
‘Oh, Percy! thank you more for this than for all. If the pressure had come, I believe it would have killed him. If you had seen the misery of those days!’
‘And now,’ continued Percy, ‘poor Arthur is most anxious it should be paid; but I ought not to consent. If he were to sell out now, he would be almost destitute. I have persuaded him to let all rest in silence till John comes.’
‘I am glad you have,’ said Theodora. ‘I am afraid papa is a good deal pressed for money. The rents have had to be reduced; and John wants all the Barbuda income to spend on the estate there. Even before the fire, papa talked of bringing John home to cut off the entail, and sell some land; and the house was insured far short of its value. He wants to get rid of Armstrong and all the finery of the garden; but he is afraid of vexing mamma, and in the meantime he is very glad that we are living more cheaply in the cottage. I really do not think he could conveniently pay such a sum; and just at present, too, I had rather poor Arthur’s faults were not brought before him.’
‘It comes to this, then;—Is it for your happiness to enter upon an indefinite engagement, and wait for the chance of my working myself up into such a competency as may make our marriage not too imprudent? It cannot, as far as I can see, be for years; it may be never.’
‘When I thought you would not have me, I meant to be an old maid,’ said Theodora; ‘and, Percy, this time you shall not think I do not care for you. If we have to wait for our whole lives, let it be with the knowledge that we belong to each other. I could not give up that now, and’—as he pressed her hand—‘mind, I am old enough to be trusted to choose poverty. I know I can live on a little: I trust to you to tell me whenever there is enough.’
‘And your father?’
‘He will not object—he will rejoice. The way I regarded that dear father was one of the worst sins of that time! It is better it should be as it is. Mamma could not well do without me now; I should be in doubt about leaving her, even if the rest were plain. So that is trouble saved,’ she added with a smile.
‘If they will see it in the same light! If they will forgive as readily as you do one of the greatest injuries to a young lady.’
‘Hush—nonsense. Papa always considered that it served me right. And really this is such perfect content, that I do not know how to understand it. You had always the power of reconciliation in your hands; but, you know, I had not; and, apart from all other feelings, the mere craving for pardon was so painful! It was only yesterday morning that I was thinking it might, at least, come in the other world.’
‘The pardon I was begging Violet to seek for me!—I trusted to obtain that, though I little hoped—’
‘But indeed, Percy, we must write our letters, or the children will be upon us again.’
Her letter was more easily written than Percy’s. He wrote, and tore up, and considered, and talked to her, and wished John was at home, and said that Lord Martindale would be perfectly justified in withdrawing his consent, and declaring him a presumptuous wretch.
‘What! when you have rescued his son? No, indeed, papa knows you too well! I have no fears: for though he is not aware of the cost of what you did for Arthur, he is most grateful for what he does know of; he thinks you saved his life, and even without that, he is too kind to me to do what—I could not bear.’
‘I will try to believe you.’
‘I was thinking that this is just retribution on me, that whereas I led Arthur into temptation, this debt should be the obstacle.’
Perhaps nothing gratified him more than to hear her speak of the loan as if she participated in the loss, not as if she viewed it from the Martindale side of the question, and felt it too much of an obligation.
His letter was not written till just in time for the post, and it travelled in the same cover with hers. Till the answer arrived he was very anxious, came little to the house, and only put on his cheerful air before Arthur, whose spirits could not afford to be lowered. Theodora was secure. She knew that she deserved that there should be difficulties; but at the same time she had the sense that the tide had turned. Pardon had come, and with it hope; and though she tried to school herself to submit to disappointment, she could not expect it. She knew she might trust to her father’s kind unworldly temper and sense of justice, now that he was left to himself. And when the letter came, Percy brought it in triumph under the shade of the old green umbrella, which hitherto he had not dared to produce.
Lord Martindale said everything affectionate and cordial. If he grieved at the unpromising prospect, he was wise enough to know it was too late to try to thwart an attachment which had survived such shocks; and he only dwelt on his rejoicing that, after all her trials, his daughter should have merited the restoration of the affection of one whom he esteemed so highly.
He fully forgave the former rejection, and declared that it was with far more hope and confidence of their happiness that he now accorded his sanction than when last it had been asked; and the terms in which he spoke of his daughter seemed to deepen her humility by the strength of their commendation.
Happy days succeeded; the lodgings in Piccadilly were nearly deserted, Percy was always either nursing Arthur, playing with the children, or bringing sheets of Byzantine history for revision; and he was much slower in looking over Theodora’s copies of them than in writing them himself. There was much grave quiet talk between the lovers when alone together. They were much altered since the time when their chief satisfaction seemed to lie in teasing and triumphing over one another; past troubles and vague prospects had a sobering influence; and they felt that while they enjoyed their present union as an unlooked-for blessing, it might be only a resting point before a long period of trial, separation, and disappointment. It gave a resigned tone to their happiness, even while its uncertainty rendered it more precious.
All mirthfulness, except what the children called forth, was reserved for Arthur’s room; but he thought Percy as gay and light-hearted as ever, and his sister not much less so. Percy would not bring their anxieties to depress the fluctuating spirits, which, wearied with the sameness of a sick-room, varied with every change of weather, every sensation of the hour.
Theodora almost wondered at Percy’s talking away every desponding fit of Arthur’s, whether about his health, his money matters, or their hopes. She said, though it was most trying to hear him talk of never coming down again, of not living to see the children grow up, and never allowing that he felt better, that she thought, considering how much depended on the impression now made, it might be false kindness to talk away his low spirits. Were they not repentance? Perhaps Percy was right, but she should not have dared to do so.
‘Theodora, you do not know the difference between reflection and dejection. Arthur’s repentance is too deep a thing for surface talk. It does not depend on my making him laugh or not.’
‘If anxiety about himself keeps it up—’
‘If I let him believe that I do not think he will recover, for the sake of encouraging his repentance, I should be leaving him in a delusion, and that I have no right to do. Better let him feel himself repenting as having to redeem what is past, than merely out of terror, thinking the temptations have given him up, not that he gives them up. Why, when he told me to sell his saddle-horses the other day, and that he should never ride again, it was nothing, and I only roused him up to hope to be out in the spring. Then he began to lament over his beautiful mare,—but when it came to his saying he had sacrificed Violet’s drives for her, and that he had been a selfish wretch, who never deserved to mount a horse again, and ending with a deep sigh, and “Let her go, I ought to give her up,” there was reality and sincerity, and I acted on it. No, if Arthur comes out of his room a changed character, it must be by strengthening his resolution, not by weakening his mind, by letting him give way to the mere depression of illness.’
‘You believe the change real? Oh, you don’t know what the doubt is to me! after my share in the evil, the anxiety is doubly intense! and I cannot see much demonstration except in his sadness, which you call bodily weakness.’
‘We cannot pry into hidden things,’ Percy answered. ‘Watch his wife, and you will see that she is satisfied. You may trust him to her, and to Him in whose hands he is. Of this I am sure, that there is a patient consideration for others, and readiness to make sacrifices that are not like what he used to be. You are not satisfied? It is not as you would repent; but you must remember that Arthur’s is after all a boy’s character; he has felt his errors as acutely as I think he can feel them, and if he is turning from them, that is all we can justly expect. They were more weakness than wilfulness.’
‘Not like mine!’ said Theodora; ‘but one thing more, Percy—can it be right for him to see no clergyman?’
‘Wait,’ said Percy again. ‘Violet can judge and influence him better than you or I. Depend upon it, she will do the right thing at the right time. Letting him alone to learn from his children seems to me the safest course.’
Theodora acquiesced, somewhat comforted by the conversation, though it was one of those matters in which the most loving heart must submit to uncertainty, in patient hope and prayer.
Just before Christmas, Theodora was summoned home; for her mother was too unwell and dispirited to do without her any longer. Her father offered to come and take her place, but Arthur and Violet decided that it would be a pity to unsettle him from home again. Arthur was now able to sit up for some hours each day, and Percy undertook to be always at hand. He was invited to Brogden for Christmas; but it was agreed between him and Theodora that they must deny themselves the pleasure of spending it together; they thought it unfit to leave Violet even for a few days entirely unassisted.
Mr. Hugh Martindale came to fetch Theodora home. He brought a more satisfactory account of poor Emma, who had never forwarded the promised explanation to Theodora. Lady Elizabeth had applied to him to clear Emma’s mind from some of the doubts and difficulties inspired by her friend, and at present, though her spirits were very low, they considered that one great step had been gained, for she had ceased every day to write to Miss Marstone.
Theodora had fixed many hopes on her cousin’s interview with Arthur, but they only talked of Brogden news; however, she heard afterwards that Hugh was well satisfied with what he had seen of him, and that he thought Percy’s view the safest. It was better to force nothing upon him. It was a sad struggle to resolve to depart, but it was made in thankfulness, when Theodora remembered the feelings with which she had entered that house. She went up in the early morning to wish Arthur good-bye. He raised himself and embraced her fondly.
‘Thank you, Theodora,’ he said; ‘you have been a good sister to me.’
‘Oh, Arthur, Arthur!’ as the dark remembrance came, but he did not perceive it.
‘I have been an ungrateful wretch, but I never understood it till lately,’ said he again. ‘The fire,—those children—’
‘Hush, hush! you are hurting yourself,’ for he was choked with excess of feeling.
‘I can’t say more;—but, oh! if I could help keeping you from happiness!’ and he was here overpowered by cough and emotion so much as to alarm her, and she was forced to keep silence, and only kiss him again. He returned it with a squeeze of the hand and a look of affection. He had never given her such an one in the days when she deemed his love a thing exclusively her own, she had now gained something far better than his heart had then to offer. The best spot in it then had nothing half so deep, fond, and unselfish as what he gave her now.
She had ceased her wilful struggle, and besides all the rest, even this was added unto her.
CHAPTER 14
A calm stream flowing with a muddy one,
Till, in its onward current, it absorbs
With swifter movement and in purer light
The vexed eddies of its wayward brother,
A leaning and upbearing parasite,
Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite.
Shadow forth thee; the world hath not another
Of such refined and chastened purity.
—TENNYSON
Patience and prayer brought their fruit in due season.
‘Violet, you will not be able to go to church on Christmas-day.’
‘No, I am not strong enough, even if you could spare me.’
‘Do you think Mr. Rivers could come to us?’
‘O, thank you!’
Those were the words, but the flush that gave colour to Arthur’s face showed the effort which they cost, and his wife’s brief answer was cut short by the sweetest tears she had ever shed.
She wrote a note to the clergyman, which was answered by a call the same afternoon. It took Arthur by surprise; but his mind was made up, and colouring deeply, he desired that Mr. Rivers should be shown up. Violet left them alone together, her heart throbbing with grateful hope and supplication.
Arthur’s honest though faltering avowal, ‘I have never thought enough of these things,’ was his whole history.
It had been grace missed and neglected, rather than wilfully abused. There had of course been opportunities, but there had been little culture or guidance in his early days; his confirmation had taken place as a matter of form, and he had never been a communicant, withheld at once by ignorance and dread of strictness, as well as by a species of awe. Even his better and more conscientious feelings had been aroused merely by his affections instead of by the higher sense of duty; and now it was through these that the true voice had at length reached him.
He had learnt more from his little boy’s devotions than all the years of his life had taught him. The ever-present influence under which his wife and that child lived and acted, impressed itself on him as a truth and reality, and the consciousness of his full responsibility dawned upon him. In the early part of his illness, his despair had been at the thought of his failures as husband, father, and son. Now there came on him the perception that not merely in his human relations had he transgressed, but that far more had he slighted the Almighty and Long-suffering Father. He looked back on his life of disregard, his dire offences—
Thus awakened, he watched each word from his little unconscious teacher, to gather from them clearer hopes of mercy and pardon. Happily, Johnnie, in his daily lessons, was going through the ground-work, and those words of mighty signification conveyed meanings to the father, which the innocent child had as yet no need to unfold. The long silent hours gave time for thought, and often when the watchers deemed that the stifled groan or restless movement arose from pain or oppression, it was in fact drawn forth by the weight on his mind.
So it had gone on; while mingled feelings of shame, reserve, and reluctance to show himself in a new light, kept his lips closed, and days and weeks passed before he brought himself to speak the word even to his wife. When it was spoken, her silent intense gladness was at once a reward and a rebuke. Though she scarcely spoke, he knew her well enough to perceive more perfect joy than even at the moment when she first made him smile on their first-born son.
He raised his eyes to meet that look again, when, after his interview with the clergyman, she came back to join in fixing the hour. Contrition, dread, shame, penitence, all seemed to be soothed, and yet rendered deeper, by meeting those eyes of serene and perfect content and thankfulness.
That evening Johnnie was turning over prints by his side.
‘There is the Good Shepherd, papa. Do you see the poor sheep, who wandered out of the fold, away into the wilderness among the rocks and deserts—that is doing wrong, you know, papa. And it lost its way, and the wolf was watching to tear it to pieces, that is Satan; but the Good Shepherd,’ and the child bent his head reverently, ‘He went after it. Mamma said that means that He touches our hearts and makes us sorry, and it looked up and was ready—as we pray to be made good again. So then He laid it on His shoulders, and carried it safe home to be happy in the fold again. Is He not very good, papa? And only think! There is joy among the Holy Angels in Heaven when one sinner grieves and comes back.’
Johnnie was wont to go on in this dreamy way without expecting an answer; but he was startled to see his father’s face hidden by the shadowy fingers that propped his forehead.
‘Has it made your head ache, papa? Must I go away?’
‘Say that again, Johnnie.’
‘I cannot say it quite right,’ answered the boy; ‘I only know it says that the Angels in Heaven rejoice and are glad over one sinner that repenteth. I thought about it that night after I had been naughty.’
‘You, Johnnie?’ Arthur could hardly believe that child capable of a fault.
‘Yes,’ said Johnnie, with a trembling lip; ‘I was cross at doing my lessons with Aunt Theodora instead of mamma, and I was so sorry. But at night, something seemed to bring that verse, and I thought the Angels must have faces like mamma.’
Certainly his father thought so too.
Theodora’s Christmas morning was cheered by a letter from Percy, to tell her that he was to be with Arthur and Violet on this occasion. It was greater happiness to her than it would even have been to have had him at Brogden.
It was a very quiet day in Cadogan-place. The full freshness of awe and reverence was upon Arthur, and though he hardly spoke, and made almost no demonstration, the strength of his feeling was attested by the fatigue that ensued, partly, perhaps, from the unwonted effort of fixing his attention. All the rest of the day he lay on the sofa, silent and dozing, till in the evening, when left alone with Johnnie, he only roused himself to ask to have a Bible placed within his reach, and there losing his way in searching for the parable of the strayed sheep, he wandered about in the sayings of St. John’s Gospel.
Johnnie’s delight had been the dressing the cathedral cup with a spray of holly sent to him from Brogden by his aunt, and now he sat conning the hymns he had heard in church, and musing over his prints in silence, till his brow caught an expression that strangely blended with those dreamy impressions of his father.
‘Poor children! they have had a dull Christmas-day!’ said Arthur, as they came to bid him good night.
‘No, no, papa; the owl-man has had such a game at play with us in the dining-room!’ cried Helen.
‘Yes,’ said Johnnie; ‘and you know, papa, I never said my hymn to you on a Christmas-day before. I like to-day the best of all I remember.’
The next day he was glad to find that Johnnie would, after all, have his share of the festivities of the season. Colonel Harrington came to see Arthur, and begged to have his little godson at a New Year’s party at his house.
Violet was perplexed. She could not send her little, shy boy alone, yet she did not like to let his father know that it had been a mistake to accept the invitation. Percy came to her aid. ‘There is no such fun as a children’s party. I wish you would smuggle me in as Johnnie’s nursery governess.’
‘You know, Mrs. Harrington, don’t you?’ said Arthur; ‘as a general rule, you know every one, and every one knows you.’
‘Yes, I know her. Come, Violet, can’t you get me in, in Johnnie’s train? If you will let me take charge or him, I will keep an eye over the cake, and you shall see how I will muffle him up to come home.’
It was too good an offer to be refused, though Violet had doubts whether it would be perfect happiness, for Johnnie was apt to shrink from strange children, and was unusually shy and timid. However, his spirits had risen of late. Ever since he had found his place in his father’s heart, the drooping unchild-like sadness had passed away, and though still grave and thoughtful, there was a life and animation about him at times that cheered and delighted her.
There was a great friendship between him and ‘Uncle Percy’; they took walks together, fed the ducks in St. James’s Park, had many interesting conversations on Brogden affairs, and Johnnie had been several times at the rooms over the toy-shop, and was on intimate terms with old Puss. Violet knew that he would be safe, and was willing to think it right he should be made more of a man.
She felt her Johnnie’s value more than ever that evening, when she saw how his father missed him. After the pleasure of seeing him ready to set off, looking so fair and bright and delicate, Arthur flagged very much.
It had been a trying day. The experiment of a more strengthening diet had resulted in heightened pulse and increased cough, and the medical men had been obliged to own that though the acute inflammation had been subdued, the original evil still remained, and that he was farther from complete recovery than they had lately been hoping. Besides, he had sent in his claim on Mr. Gardner, on hearing of his marriage, and the answer, now due, did not come.
Nothing but the company of the children seemed likely to divert his thoughts, and Helen was too much for him. She was exalted at her own magnanimity in rejoicing that Johnnie should have the treat without her, and was in a boisterous state that led to an edict of banishment, vehemently resisted. It was the first time that anything had gone wrong in Arthur’s presence, and Violet was much concerned, and fearful of the effect, when, after the conquest had been achieved, she left Helen sobbing in the nursery, and came down to his room.
There was not the annoyance she had dreaded; but the dejection had been deepened, and he did not respond to the somewhat forced cheerfulness with which she tried to speak of the generosity united in Helen with a hasty temper. It seemed to hurt and pain him so much to have the little girl punished, that there was nothing to be done but to try to turn away his attention.
Those weary times were perhaps harder to bear than periods of more evident trial and excitement. Violet, as she strove to rally her spirits and sustain his, could not help so feeling it—and then she thought of Helen Fotheringham, and recollected that she had been intending to read to Arthur an affectionate letter she had received from his brother on hearing of his illness. Arthur was greatly touched by the tone in which he was mentioned in it, and began eagerly to talk over John’s many proofs of affection, among which he now ranked his disregarded warnings.
‘I have not forgotten his saying I must make you happy. I little understood him then!’
There was happiness enough in the caress that would fain have silenced him.
‘Well! I have been thinking! Our marriage was the best and worst thing I ever did. It was unjust to you, and as bad as possible towards them; but that is what I can’t be as sorry for as it deserves,’ and he looked up with a sweet smile, fading at once—‘except when I look at you and the children, and think what is to become of you.’
‘Oh, don’t, dear Arthur! Why look forward! There has been great mercy so far. Let us rest in it.’
‘You may; it was not your fault,’ said Arthur; ‘but how can I? I took you in your ignorance; I let your father deceive himself about my expectations, then, when my own people were far kinder to me than I deserved, and I ought to have done everything myself to make up for my imprudence, I go and let you pinch yourself, while I squander everything on my own abominable follies! And now, here am I leaving you with all these poor children, and nothing on earth—nothing but a huge debt? What are you to do, I say?’
He was almost angry that she did not partake his apprehension for her welfare.
‘This is only a casual drawback. Dr. L– said so!’
‘That’s nothing to the purpose. My health is done for. There is nothing before me but decline. I have felt that all along, whatever doctors may say. And how can you expect me not to feel what I have brought on you?’
‘I am sure you need not be afraid for us. Is it not unkind to doubt your father and John?’
‘Suppose they should die before Johnnie comes of age—suppose John should marry!’
Oh, Arthur, I cannot suppose anything! I am only quite sure that there is a Father who will take care of our children. I do not know how, but I am certain we shall not be forsaken. Do not grieve for us. I am not afraid.’
‘Not of poverty, even for the children?’
‘No!’ said Violet. ‘I know it will not come, unless it is the best thing for them.’
He did not entirely comprehend her, but he liked to watch her face, it looked so beautiful in its perfect trust. He could not share that peaceful confidence for the future, the harvest of his past recklessness was present poignant dread and anxiety for the innocent ones on whom the penalty must fall. He relapsed into silence, and perhaps his meditations were as much perplexed by the nine Arabic figures as those of Violet’s convalescence had once been, only where hers were units, his were hundreds.
She interrupted him with more of John’s letters, and the amusing detail of the West Indian life stood her in good stead till the sounds of return brightened his face; and Johnnie sprang into the room loaded with treasures from a Christmas tree. Never had she seen the little fellow’s face so merry, or heard his tongue go so fast, as he threw everything into her lap, and then sprang about from her to his papa, showing his prizes and presenting them. Here were some lemon-drops for papa, and here a beautiful box for mamma, and a gutta-percha frog for Helen, and a flag for Annie, and bon-bons for both, and for Sarah too, and a delightful story about a little Arthur, that nobody could have but the baby—Johnnie would keep it for him till he could read it.
‘And what have you got for yourself, Johnnie!’ said his father.
‘I have the giving it!’ said Johnnie.
‘You are your mother’s own boy, Johnnie,’ said Arthur, with a sort of fond deep sadness, as the child mounted his footstool to put one of the lemon-drops into his mouth, watching to be told that it was good.
He went off to the nursery to feed Sarah on sugar-plums, and dispose the frog and banner on his sisters’ beds to delight them in the morning; while Percy, coming in, declared that this had been the little boy’s happiest time. He had been far too shy for enjoyment, perfectly well behaved, but not stirring a step from his protector, only holding his hand, and looking piteously at him if invited away; and Percy declared, he was as much courted as a young lady in her teens. Sitting down with him at a table surrounded by small elves, Percy had of course kept them in a roar of laughter, throughout which Johnnie had preserved his gravity, only once volunteering a whisper, that he wished Helen was there; but Percy thought that when unmolested by attention, he had seemed quietly amused. When admitted to the Christmas tree in its glory, he had been slightly afraid of it at first, as of an unexpected phenomenon, and had squeezed his friend’s hand very tight; but as he perceived how things were going, his alarm had given place to silent joyous whispers, appropriating his gifts to those at home. He had no idea of keeping anything for himself; and Percy had distressed him by a doubt whether the book, as a godfather’s gift, ought to be transferred. On this Johnnie was scrupulous, and Percy had been obliged to relieve his mind by repeating the question for him to Colonel Harrington, whether he might give the book to his little brother. This settled, Johnnie’s happiness had been complete, and his ecstasy during their return, at having a present for everybody, was, said Percy, the prettiest comment he had ever known on the blessedness of giving.