CHAPTER 16
And oft when in my heart I heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother paths to stray,
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
—Ode to Duty—WORDSWORTH
Lassonthwaite lost none of its charms on closer acquaintance. Mr. Hunt’s farm stood on the slope of a hill, commanding a view of the mountains, rising like purple clouds above the moorland, richly carpeted with the varied colours of heath, fern, and furze, and scattered with flocks of the white bleached mountain sheep, and herds of sturdy little black cattle; while the valley, nearer at hand, was fringed with woods, sheltering verdant pasture land, watered by the same clear frolicsome stream that danced through the garden—Olivia’s garden—brilliant with roses and other beauties, such as the great Harrison himself would hardly have disdained.
Lord St. Erme might well call it a farm of the poets, so well did everything accord with the hearty yeoman, and his pretty, shepherdess-looking wife. The house was of the fine old order, large and lofty, full of wonders in the way of gables, porches, and oriels, carved doors and panels, in preservation that did them honour due, and the furniture betokening that best of taste which perceives the fitness of things. All had the free homely air of plenty and hospitality—the open doors, the numerous well-fed men and maids, the hosts of live creatures—horses, cows, dogs, pigs, poultry, each looking like a prize animal boasting of its own size and beauty—and a dreadful terror to Johnnie. He, poor little boy, was the only person to whom Lassonthwayte was not a paradise. Helen and Annie had no fears, and were wild with glee, embracing the dogs, climbing into dangerous places, and watching the meals of every creature in the yard; but poor Johnnie imagined each cow that looked at him to be a mad bull, trembled at each prancing dog, and was miserable at the neighbourhood of the turkey-cock; while Mr. Hunt’s attempts to force manliness on him only increased his distress to such a degree as to make it haunt him at night. However, even this became a source of pleasant feeling; Arthur, once so rough with him, now understood the secret of his delicacy of nerves, and reverenced him too much to allow him to be tormented. Even in the worst of Johnnie’s panics at night would come smiles, as he told how papa would not let him be forced to pat the dreadful dog, and had carried him in his arms through the herd of cattle, though it did tire him, for, after putting him down, he had to lean on the gate and pant. So next time the little boy would not ask to be carried, and by the help of holding his hand, so bravely passed the savage beasts, that his uncle pronounced that they should make a man of him yet.
Arthur, always happier when the little fingers were in his, was constantly talking of the good that Johnnie was to gain in the life in the open air; and this project continually occupied them. The cottage was a very pretty one, and most joyously did Olivia show it off to Violet and Mrs. Moss, planning the improvements that Mr. Hunt was to make in it, and helping Violet fix on the rooms. It seemed like the beginning of rural felicity; and Arthur talked confidently to his wife of so rapidly doubling his capital, that he should pay off his debts without troubling his father, who need never be aware of their extent.
Violet did not quite like this, but Arthur argued, ‘They are my own concerns, not his, and if I can extricate myself without help, why should he be further plagued about me?’
She did not contest the point; it would be time enough when they were at Brogden, but it made her rather uneasy; the concealment was a little too like a return to former habits, and she could not but fear the very name of horses and races. Still, in the way of business, and with George Hunt, a man so thoroughly to be relied on, it was a different thing; and Arthur’s mind was so changed in other matters, that she could not dream of distrust. The scheme was present pleasure enough in itself, and they all fed on it, though Mr. Hunt always declared that the Colonel must not consider himself pledged till he had consulted his own family, and that he should do nothing to the house till he had heard from him again.
Violet could not satisfy herself that Lord and Lady Martindale would give ready consent, and when talking it over alone with her mother, expressed her fears.
‘Well, my dear,’ said Mrs. Moss, ‘perhaps it will be all for the best. We cannot tell whether it might turn out well for you to be settled near us. Colonel Martindale is used to something different, and your children are born to another rank of life.’
‘O mamma, that could make no difference.’
‘Not, perhaps, while they were young, but by and by you would not wish to have them feeling that we are not like their other relations. My dear child, you need not blush to that degree!’
‘They will never feel that you are not equal to—to the grandest—the dearest!’ said Violet, tearfully.
‘You would try not to let them, dearest, but the truth would be too strong,’ said Mrs. Moss, smiling. ‘You know we had been content to think poor Louisa our model of manners till you came among us again.’
‘O, mamma! at least there was Lady Lucy.’
‘And now we see you fit company for Lady Lucy, and that we are not. No, my dear, don’t deny it; I see it in your ease with her, and it is quite right.’
‘I don’t like to think so!’
‘I understand better now,’ said Mrs. Moss. ‘Perhaps it would have been more advisable if there had been no intermingling of ranks, yet I can hardly regret, when I see you, my Violet. It has raised your whole tone of mind, but it has cut you off from us, and we cannot conceal it from ourselves. If you do come here, you must make up your mind beforehand not to be too intimate even with Olivia and George.’
‘I am very glad I am not to settle it,’ said Violet, with a sigh. ‘I should be much disappointed to give it up, and yet sometimes—it will be some consolation at least to find that you have not set your heart on it, mamma?’
‘I have left off setting my heart on anything, my dear child, said Mrs. Moss, with a sigh, telling of many and many a disappointment. Sincerely religious as she was, it was out of sight, and scarcely a word was ever breathed to her daughter of her true spring of action.
There was a feeling that she was not mistaken in thinking that too much intercourse was not desirable. Arthur was apt to call the distance from Wrangerton to Lassonthwayte seven miles, instead of five, and soon it grew to nine, with a bad road and a shocking hill. This was after he had discovered from Mr. Hunt that Lord St. Erme’s affairs had fallen into a most unsatisfactory state, while the Messrs. Moss had been amassing a comfortable fortune; and that every one knew that the colliery accident was chiefly owing to Albert’s negligence, cowardice, and contempt of orders; so that it was the general marvel that the Earl did not expose them, and remove his affairs from their hands.
Arthur could suppose that the cause of this forbearance might be the connection between Theodora and the Moss family; and the idea made him feel almost guilty when in company with the Earl. Matilda, and indeed the others, were surprised at his declining the invitations to stay at the park; but Violet, as well as he, thought it better to lay themselves under no further obligations; though they could not avoid receiving many attentions. Lady Lucy feted the children, and Violet accomplished her wish of showing Johnnie the little Madonna of Ghirlandajo.
The first sight of the rooms made Violet somewhat melancholy, as she missed the beautiful works of art that had been a kind of education to her eye and taste, and over which she had so often dreamt and speculated with Annette. However, there was something nobler in the very emptiness of their niches, and there was more appropriateness in the little picture of the Holy Child embracing His Cross, now that it hung as the solo ornament of the library, than when it was vis-a-vis to Venus blindfolding Cupid, and surrounded by a bewildering variety of subjects, profane and sacred, profanely treated. She could not help feeling that there was a following in those steps when she saw how many luxuries had been laid aside, and how the brother and sister, once living in an atmosphere of morbid refinement, were now toiling away, solely thoughtful of what might best serve their people, mind or body, and thinking no service beneath them.
Lord St. Erme’s talent and accomplishment were no longer conducive only to amusement or vanity, though they still were exercised; and it was curious to see his masterly drawings hung round the schools and reading-room, and his ready pencil illustrating his instructions, and to hear him reading great authors to the rude audience whom he awakened into interest. There might be more done than sober judgments appreciated, and there were crotchets that it was easy to ridicule, but all was on a sound footing, the work was thoroughly carried out, and the effects were manifest. The beautiful little church rising at Coalworth would find a glad congregation prepared to value it, both by the Earl and by the zealous curate.
Violet wished Theodora could but see, and wondered whether she would ever venture to make a visit at Lassonthwayte; hardly, she supposed, before her marriage.
Lady Lucy one day asked when Miss Martindale was to be married, and on hearing that no period could be fixed, said she was grieved to find it so; it would be better for her brother that it should be over. Violet ventured to express her hopes that he had at last found peace and happiness.
‘Yes,’ said Lucy, ‘he is very busy and happy. I do not think it dwells on his spirits, but it is the disappointment of his life, and he will never get over it.’
‘I hope he will find some one to make him forget it.’
‘I do not think he will. No one can ever be like Miss Martindale, and I believe he had rather cling to the former vision, though not repining. He is quite content, and says it is a good thing to meet with a great disappointment early in life.’
Violet doubted not of his contentment when she had looked into his adult school, and seen how happily he was teaching a class of great boys to write; nor when she heard him discussing prices, rents, and wages with Mr. Hunt.
Lord St. Erme and Lady Lucy had come to an early dinner at Lassonthwayte, thus causing great jealousy on the part of Mrs. Albert Moss, and despair on Matilda’s, lest Olivia should do something extremely amiss without her supervision. Little did she guess that Lucy had been reckoning on the pleasure of meeting her dear Mrs. Moss for once without those daughters.
After dinner, all the party were on the lawn, watching the tints on the mountains, when Lord St. Erme, coming to walk with Mrs. Martindale, asked her, with a smile, if she remembered that she had been the first person who ever hinted that the Westmoreland hills might be more to him than the Alps.
‘I have not forgotten that evening,’ he said. ‘It was then that I first saw Mr. Fotheringham;’ and he proceeded to ask many questions about Percy’s former appointment at Constantinople, his length of service, and reason for giving it up, which she much enjoyed telling. He spoke too of his books, praising them highly, and guessing which were his articles in reviews, coming at last to that in which, as he said, he had had the honour of being dissected.
‘Poor Lucy has hardly yet forgiven it,’ he said; ‘but it was one of the best things that ever befell me.’
‘I wonder it did not make you too angry to heed it.’
‘Perhaps I was at first, but it was too candid to be offensive. The arrow had no venom, and was the first independent criticism I had met with. Nobody had cared for me enough to take me to task for my absurdities. I am obliged to Mr. Fotheringham.’
Violet treasured this up for Percy’s benefit.
This festivity was their last in the north. Their visit at Lassonthwayte had been lengthened from a week to a fortnight, and Lady Martindale wrote piteous letters, entreating them to come to Brogden, where she had made every arrangement for their comfort, even relinquishing her own dressing-room. They bade farewell to Wrangerton, Arthur assuring Mrs. Moss that he would soon bring Violet back again; and Mrs. Moss and Violet agreeing that they were grateful for their happy meeting, and would not be too sorry were the delightful vision not to be fulfilled.
At the beginning of their journey, Arthur’s talk was all of the horses at Lassonthwayte and the friendship that would soon be struck up between Percy and Mr. Hunt. The railway passed by the village of Worthbourne, and he called Violet to look out at what might yet be Theodora’s home.
‘For the sake of John and Helen too,’ said Violet; while the children, eager for anything approaching to a sight, peeped out at the window, and exclaimed that there was a flag flying on the top of the church steeple.
‘The village wake, I suppose,’ said Arthur. ‘Ha! Helen, we will surprise Uncle Percy by knowing all about it!’
At the halt at the Worthbourne station, he accordingly put out his head to ask the meaning of the flag.
‘It is for the son and heir, sir. Old Sir Antony’s grandson.’
Arthur drew in his head faster than he had put it out, making mutterings to himself that a good deal surprised the children. After their long pleasuring, Cadogan-place looked dingy, and Violet as she went up to the drawing-room in the gray twilight, could not help being glad that only three months of Arthur’s sick leave had expired, and that they were to be there for no more than one night. In spite of many precious associations, she could not love a London house, and the Lassonthwayte cottage seemed the prettier in remembrance.
Arthur had fetched his papers, and had been sitting thoughtful for some time after Johnnie had gone to bed, when he suddenly looked up and said, ‘Violet, would it be a great vexation to you if we gave up this scheme?’
‘Don’t think of me. I always thought you might view it differently from a distance.’
‘It is not that,’ said Arthur; ‘I never liked any one better than Hunt, and it is nine if not ten miles from the town. But, Violet, I find we are in worse plight than I thought. Here are bills that must be renewed, and one or two things I had forgotten, and while I owe the money and more too, I could hardly in honesty speculate with the price of my commission.’
‘No!—oh! You could never be comfortable in doing so.’
‘If it was only Percy that was concerned, I might get him to risk it, and then double it, and set him and Theodora going handsomely; but—No, it is of no use to think about it. I wish it could be—’
‘You are quite right, I am sure.’
‘The thing that settles it with me is this,’ continued Arthur. ‘It is a way of business that would throw me with the old set, and there is no safety but in keeping clear of them. I might have been saved all this if I had not been ass enough to put my neck into Gardner’s noose that unlucky Derby-day. I had promised never to bet again after I married, and this is the end of it! So I think I have no right to run into temptation again, even for the chance of getting clear. Do you?’
‘You are quite right,’ she repeated. ‘If the money is not our own, it would only be another sort—’
‘Of gambling. Ay! And though in those days I did not see things as I do now, and Hunt is another sort of fellow, I fancy you had rather not trust me, mamma?’ said he, looking with a rather sad though arch smile into her face.
‘Dear Arthur, you know—’
‘I know I won’t trust myself,’ he answered, trying to laugh it off. ‘And you’ll be a good child, and not cry for the cottage?’
‘Oh, no! Mamma and I both thought there might possibly be considerations against it, especially as the girls grow up.’
‘That’s right. I could not bear giving up what you seemed to fancy. but we will visit them when we want a mouthful of air, and Annette and Octavia shall come and stay with us. I should like to show Octavia a little of the world.’
‘Then, we shall go on as we are?’
‘Yes; spend as little as may be, and pay off so much a year. If we keep no horses, that is so much clear gain.’
‘That seems the best way; but I almost fear your being well without riding.’
‘No fear of that! I don’t want to go out, and you never do. We will take our long walks, and, as Percy says, I will read and be rational. I mean to begin Johnnie’s Latin as soon as we are settled in. Why, I quite look forward to it.’
‘How delighted Johnnie will be!’
‘We shall do famously!’ repeated Arthur. ‘Nothing like home, after all.’
Violet did not think he quite knew what he undertook, and her heart sank at the idea of a London winter, with his health and spirits failing for want of his usual resources. He imagined himself perfectly recovered; but when he went the next day to show himself to the doctor, the stethoscope revealed that the damage was not so entirely removed but that the greatest care would be necessary for some time to come. It sat lightly on him; his spirits depended on his sensations, and he had no fears but that a few months would remove all danger; and Violet would say no word of misgiving. She would have felt that to remonstrate would have been to draw him back, after his first step in the path of resolute self-denial.
CHAPTER 17
On Sunday, Heaven’s gate stands ope,
Blessings are plentiful and rife,
More plentiful than hope.
—G. HERBERT
‘Five years! How little can letters convey the true state of affairs! They can but record events—not their effects nor the insensible changes that may have taken place. My aunt’s death I know, but not what my mother is without her. I have heard of my father’s cares, but I have yet to see whether he is aged or broken. And Theodora, she has had many trials, but what can she be—tamed and refined as they tell me she is? I wish I could have gone through London to see Arthur and Violet. There again is the anxious question, whether his repentance is really such as his touching letter led me to hope. One at least I trust to see unchanged—my sweet sister, my best correspondent! Foolish it is to cling to the hope of meeting her again, as that vision of loveliness—that creature of affection and simplicity, that first awoke me to a return of cheerfulness! The boy, too—my godson, my child! he has been the dream of my solitude. At last, here is the village. How bright its welcome, this summer evening! Old faces!—may those at home be as unchanged. Alteration enough here! Even at this distance I see the ruin; but how richly green the park! How fresh the trees, and the shade of the avenue! This is home, thanks to Him who has led me safely back. Whom do I see yonder in the avenue? A gentleman leading a pony, and a little boy on it! Can it be?—impossible! Yet the step and manner are just as he used to lead Violet’s horse, Surely, it must be he! I must meet him and hear all before going up to the house, it will prepare them. Stop here.
He was out of the carriage in a moment, and walking down the avenue, feeling as if he only now was in the right way home; but a misgiving crossing him as he came nearer the two figures that had attracted him—there was less resemblance on a nearer view than in the general air when further off.
A shout—‘Hollo, John!’ settled all doubts.
‘Arthur! is it you?’ and the brothers’ hands were locked together.
‘Here is a gentleman you know something of, and who has thought very much of you,’ continued Arthur, proudly. ‘There, is not he like her?’ as he tried to give a cock-up to the limp, flapping straw hat, under shade of which Johnnie was glowing up to his curls.
‘Her very look!’ said John. ‘How is she, Arthur, and all of them?’
‘All well. Have you not been at home yet!’
‘No; I saw you here, and I could not help coming to meet you, that I might know if all was right.’
‘You would have found no one at home, unless my mother and Violet are come in. They are always creeping about together.’
‘Where is my father?’
‘Looking after the workmen at the farm. We left him there because it was Johnnie’s supper-time. Why, John, what a hale, middle-aged looking subject you are grown! Was it not wonderful sagacity in me to know you?’
‘Greater than mine,’ said John. ‘My instinct was failing as I came near. Are you really well?’
‘Never better. Johnnie and his mamma nursed me well again, and Helvellyn breezes blew away the remainder. When did you land?’
‘This morning. We put in at Liverpool, and I came on at once. How is my mother? She had not been well.’
‘She was ailing all the winter, but a house full of grandchildren seems to have cured her completely. You will stare to see her a perfect slave to—our eldest girl,’ said Arthur, checking himself as he was about to speak the name, and John turned to the child.
‘Well, Johnnie, and are you fond of riding?’
‘With papa holding the rein,’ and Johnnie edged closer to his father.
‘Ay! I hope your uncle did not expect a godson like your dear Coeur de Lion, whom you have been romancing about all the way home. What is the country your uncle has seen, and you want to see, Johnnie?’
‘Please, don’t now, papa,’ whispered Johnnie, colouring deeply.
‘Yes, yes, you shall have it out when you are better acquainted,’ said Arthur, patting both boy and pony. ‘Well, John, is this the fellow you expected?’
John smiled, but before he could answer, a voice from behind, shouting to them to wait, caused him to turn, exclaiming, ‘Percy! I did not know he was here! And Theodora!’
‘He came a day or two ago—’
Theodora blushed crimson, and all the glad words of welcome were spoken by Percy; but he then fell into the background, taking charge of Johnnie, while the other three walked on together, Theodora’s arm within that of her eldest brother.
‘Thank you for your letter,’ said Arthur. ‘It did me great good.’
‘My impulse was to have set out at once on receiving yours, but I was obliged to wait to get things into train for going on without me; and since that there have been delays of steamers.’
‘You could not have come at a better time. We only wanted you to make us complete—’
Arthur was interrupted by a joyous outcry of ‘Papa! papa!’ from a little group on the other side of the road into which they were emerging.
‘Ay! and who else! Look at this fellow!’ cried he, catching from Sarah’s arm, and holding aloft an elf, whose round mouth and eyes were all laughter, and sturdy limbs all movement, the moment he appeared. ‘There! have we not improved in babies since your time! And here is a round dumpling that calls itself Anna. And that piece of mischief is grandmamma’s girl, Aunt Theodora’s double.’
Those flashing black eyes were not the ideal John had attached to the name which Arthur had paused to speak; but it would have been hard to be disappointed by the bright creature, who stood on the raised foot-path, pretending to hide her face with a bunch of tall foxgloves, and peeping out behind them to see whether she was noticed.
‘The introduction is all on one side,’ said Percy. ‘Do you know who it is, Helen?’
Helen stuck her chin into her neck. She would tell her surmise to no one but Johnnie, who had persuaded Mr. Fotheringham to lift him from horseback, where he was never at ease with any one but papa. He looked up smiling: ‘Helen thinks it must be Uncle Martindale, because papa is so glad.’
Helen ran away, but returned for a ride; and when the party, that had gathered like a snow-ball, came in front of the cottage, Percy was holding both little sisters on the pony at once, Theodora still leaning on her eldest brother’s arm, Johnnie gravely walking on the foot-path, studying his uncle, and Arthur, with the young Arthur pulling his whiskers all the time, was walking forwards and backwards, round and about his brother, somewhat in the ecstatic aimless fashion of a dog who meets his master.
He was the first to exclaim, ‘There she is! Run on, Johnnie, tell mamma and grandmamma whom we have here.’
The first greeting was left exclusively to Lady Martindale. When John’s attention was again at liberty, Violet was standing by her husband, saying, with a sweet smile of playful complaint, ‘And you have shown him all the children and I was not there!’
‘Never mind. They will show off much better with you, you jealous woman. What does John think to hear you scolding?’
‘Has he seen all the children?’ said Lady Martindale, taking up the note. ‘Oh! what is Mr. Fotheringham doing with Helen and Annie? It is very dangerous!’
And Lady Martindale hastened to watch over the little girls, who, of course, were anything but grateful for her care, while Violet was asking John about his voyage, and inquiring after the interests he had left in Barbuda.
The first sight of her was a shock. The fragile roses that had dwelt on his imagination had faded away, and she was now, indeed, a beautiful woman,—but not the creature of smiles and tears whom he remembered. The pensive expression, the stamp of anxiety, and the traces of long-continued over-exertion, were visible enough to prove to him that his fears had been fulfilled, and that she had suffered too deeply ever to return to what she had once been.
Yet never had John so enjoyed an arrival, nor felt so thoroughly at home, as when his father had joined them, full of quiet and heartfelt gladness. Stiffness and formality seemed to have vanished with the state rooms; and there was no longer the circle on company terms, for Lady Martindale herself was almost easy, and Theodora’s words, though few, were devoid of the sullen dignity of old times. Violet’s timidity, too, was gone, and the agitated wistful glances she used to steal towards her husband, had now become looks of perfect, confiding, yet fostering affection. John saw her appealed to, consulted, and put forward as important to each and all of the family party, as if every one of them depended on her as he had been wont to do, while she still looked as retiring as ever, and taken up by watching that the children behaved well.
The occupation of the evening was the looking over plans for the new house. Lord Martindale had them all ready, and John soon perceived that his father’s wishes were that he should prefer those which most nearly reproduced the original building, pulled down to please Mrs. Nesbit. Lady Martindale had surprised them by making from memory a beautiful sketch of the former house; and her husband, to whom each line produced a fresh hoard of reminiscences, was almost disappointed that John’s recollection did not go back far enough to recognize the likeness, though he was obliged to confess that not a wall of it was standing when he was two years old.
The general vote was, of course, that Old Martindale should be renewed,—and it was to be begun—when?
‘When ways and means are found,’ said Lord Martindale. ‘We must talk over that another time, John.’
John, as he bade Theodora good night, murmured thanks for the safety of all the properties which he had been surprised to find in the room prepared for him. Her eyes were liquid as she faltered her answer.
‘O, John, it was such a pleasure! How much you have to forgive! How right you were, and how wrong I was!’
‘Hush! not now,’ said John, kindly.
‘Yes, now, I cannot look at you till I have said it. I have felt the truth of every word you said, and I beg your pardon for all that has passed.’
He pressed her hand in answer, saying, ‘It was my fault. But all is well now, and you know how I rejoice.’
‘Everything is everybody’s fault,’ said Percy, joining him; ‘but we must not stop to battle the point, or Mr. Hugh Martindale’s housekeeper will be irate. Good night, Theodora.’
Percy and John were quartered at the Vicarage, and walked thither, at first in silence, till the former said, ‘Well, what do you think of it?’
‘The best coming home I ever had, and the most surprising. I have seen so much that is unexpected, that I don’t know how to realize it.’
‘Heartsease,’ was Percy’s brief reply.
‘Violet? You don’t mean it!’
‘The history of these years is this,’ said Percy, making an emphatic mark on the gravel with his stick. ‘Every one else has acted, more or less, idiotically. She has gone about softening, healing, guarding, stirring up the saving part of each one’s disposition. If, as she avers, you and Helen formed her, you gave a blessing to all of us.’
‘How can this be? No one has spoken of her power.’
‘It is too feminine to be recognized. When you talk to the others you will see I am right. I will speak for myself. I verily believe that but for her I should have been by this time an unbearable disappointed misanthrope.’
‘A likely subject,’ said John, laughing.
‘You cannot estimate the shock our rupture gave me, nor tell how I tried to say “don’t care,” and never saw my savage spite till her gentle rebuke showed it to me. Her rectitude and unselfishness kept up my faith in woman, and saved me from souring and hardening. On the other hand, her firmness won Theodora’s respect, her softness, her affection. She led where I drove, acted the sun where I acted Boreas; and it is she who has restored us to each other.’
‘Highly as I esteemed Violet, I little thought to hear this! My father wrote that he regretted Theodora’s having been left to one so little capable of controlling her.’
‘Lord Martindale is a very good man, but he has no more discrimination of character than my old cat!’ cried Percy. ‘I beg your pardon, John, but the fact was patent. Mrs. Martindale is the only person who has ever been a match for Theodora. She conquered her, made her proud to submit, and then handed her over to the lawful authorities. If Lord Martindale has an unrivalled daughter, he ought to know whom to thank for it.’
‘I hope he appreciates Violet.’
‘In a sort he does. He fully appreciates her in her primary vocation, as who would not, who had watched her last winter, and who sees what she has made her husband.’
‘Then you are satisfied about Arthur?’