The first time he had spoken to her of his three months' old son. If she had not been in a dire fit of sullen jealousy, it would have softened as much as it thrilled her, but she had the notion that she was not wanted, except to do homage to the universally-petted Violet.
'I cannot spare a day.'
So Arthur was vexed, and the frost was harder. John had not much expected Theodora, and was more sorry for her sake than his own. The last month was still better than the first, the brother and sister understood each other more fully, and their confidence had become thoroughly confirmed. The baby had taken a start, as Sarah called it, left off unreasonable crying, sat up, laughed and stared about with a sharp look of inquiry in his dark eyes and tiny thin face, so ridiculously like his grandfather, Mr. Moss, that his mother could not help being diverted with the resemblance, except when she tormented herself with the fear that the likeness was unpleasing to Arthur, if perchance he remarked it; but he looked so little at the child, that she often feared he did not care for him personally, though he had a certain pride in him as son and heir.
Violet herself, though still delicate and requiring care, had recovered her looks and spirits, and much of her strength, and John walked and conversed more than he had done for years, did not shrink from the society of the few families they were acquainted with, and seemed to have derived as much benefit from his kind scheme as the objects of it. In fact his hopes and affections were taking a fresh spring--the effects of his kindness to Arthur and Violet had shown him that he could be useful to others, and he thus discovered what he had missed in his indulged life, crossed in but one respect--he saw that he had set himself aside from family duties, as well as from the more active ones that his health prohibited, and with a feeling at once of regret and invigoration, he thought over the course that lay open to him, and soon began to form plans and discuss them with his ever ready listener. His foreign winters need no longer be useless, he proposed to go to Barbuda to look after his mother's estates-- indeed, it seemed so obvious that when he once thought of it he could not imagine why it had never occurred to him before; it would save his father the voyage, and when he and Violet began to figure to themselves the good that could be done there, they grew animated and eager in their castles.
That month sped fast away, and their drives were now last visits to the places that had charmed them at first. Their work was prepared for Mr. Fotheringham's inspection, and Violet having copied out her favourite passages of Helen's book, returned it on the last evening. 'I don't think I half understand all she says, though I do admire it so much, and wish I was like it.'
'You will be, you are in the way.'
'You don't know how foolish I am,' said Violet, almost as if he was disrespectful to Helen.
'Helen was once seventeen,' said John, smiling.
'Oh, but I have no patience. I fret and tease myself, and fancy all sorts of things, instead of trusting as she did. I don't know how to do so.'
'I know how weakness brings swarming harassing thoughts,' said John; 'it is well for us that there are so many external helps to patience and confidence.'
'Ah! that is what shows how bad I am,' said Violet, despondingly. 'I never keep my mind in order at church, yet I am sure I was more unreasonably discontented when I was not able to go.'
'Which shows it is of use to you. Think of it not only as a duty that must be fulfilled, but watch for refreshment from it, and you will find it come.'
'Ah! I have missed all the great festivals this year. I have not stayed to the full service since I was at Rickworth, and what is worse, I do not dislike being prevented,' said Violet, falteringly; as if she must say the words, 'I don't like staying alone.'
'You must conquer that,' said John, earnestly. 'That feeling must never keep you away. Your continuance is the best hope of bringing him; your leaving off would be fatal to you both. I should almost like you to promise never to keep away because he did.'
'I think I can promise,' said Violet, faintly. 'It is only what mamma has always had to do; and, last Christmas, it did keep me away. I did think then he would have come; and when I found he did not-- then I was really tired--but I know I could have stayed--but I made it an excuse, and went away.' The tears began to flow. 'I thought of it again when I was ill; and afterwards when I found out how nearly I had been dying, it was frightful. I said to myself, I would not miss again; but I have never had the opportunity since I have been well.'
'It is monthly at home,' said John. 'Only try to look to it as a favour and a comfort, as I said about church-going, but in a still higher degree--not merely as a service required from you. Believe it is a refreshment, and in time you will find it the greatest.'
'I'll try,' she said, in a low, melancholy voice; 'but I never feel as good people do.'
'You have had more than usual against you,' said John; cares for which you were not prepared, and weakness to exaggerate them; but you will have had a long rest, and I hope may be more equal to the tasks of daily life.'
They were interrupted by tea being brought; and the conversation continued in a less serious style.
'Our last tea-drinking,' said John. 'Certainly, it has been very pleasant here.'
'This island, that I thought so far away, and almost in foreign parts,' said Violet, smiling; 'I hope it has cured me of foolish terrors.'
'You will bravely make up your mind to Martindale.'
'I shall like to show Johnnie the peacock,' said Violet, in a tone as if seeking for some pleasant anticipation.
John laughed, and said, 'Poor Johnnie! I shall like to see him there in his inheritance.'
'Dear little man! I hope his grandfather will think him grown. I am glad they did not see him while he was so tiny and miserable. I am sure they must like him now, he takes so much notice.'
'You must not be disappointed if my mother does not make much of him,' said John; 'it was not her way with her own.'
Then, as Violet looked aghast, 'You do not know my mother. It requires a good deal to show what she can be, beneath her distant manner. I never knew her till two years ago.'
'When you were past thirty!' broke from Violet's lips, in a sort of horror.
'When I was most in need of comfort,' he answered. 'There has been a formality and constraint in our life, that has not allowed the affections their natural play, but indeed they exist. There have been times when even I distrusted my mother's attachment; but she could not help it, and it was all the stronger afterwards. Madeira taught me what she is, away from my aunt.'
'I do hope it is not wrong to feel about Mrs. Nesbit as I do! I am ready to run away from her. I know she is spying for my faults. Oh! I cannot like her.'
'That is a very mild version of what I have felt,' said John; 'I believe she has done us all infinite harm. But I am hardly qualified to speak; for, from the time she gave up the hope of my being a credit to the family, she has disliked me, said cutting things, well- nigh persecuted me. She did harass Helen to give me up; but, after all, poor woman, I believe I have been a great vexation to her, and I cannot help being sorry for her. It is a pitiable old age, straining to keep hold of what used to occupy her, and irritated at her own failing faculties.'
'I will try to think of that,' said Violet.
'I wonder what powers she will give me over her West Indian property; I must try,' said John; 'it will make a great difference to my opportunities of usefulness. I must talk to my father about it.'
'How very kind Theodora is to poor little Miss Piper,' said Violet.
'Yes; that is one of Theodora's best points.'
'Oh! she is so very good; I wish she could endure me.'
'So do I,' said John. 'I have neglected her, and now I reap the fruits. In that great house at home people live so much apart, that if they wish to meet, they must seek each other. And I never saw her as a child but when she came down in the evening, with her great black eyes looking so large and fierce. As a wild high-spirited girl I never made acquaintance with her, and now I canno
t.'
'But when you were ill this last time, did she not read to you, and nurse you?'
'That was not permitted; there might have been risk, and besides, as Arthur says, I only wish to be let alone. I had not then realized that sympathy accepted for the sake of the giver will turn to the good of the receiver. No; I have thrown her away as far as I am concerned; and when I see what noble character and religious feeling there is with that indomitable pride and temper, I am the more grieved. Helen walked with her twice or three times when she was at Martindale, and she told me how much there was in her, but I never tried to develop it. I thought when Helen was her sister--but that chance is gone. That intractable spirit will never be tamed but by affection; but, unluckily, I don't know,' said John, smiling, 'who would marry Theodora.'
'Oh! how can you say so? She is so like Arthur.'
John laughed. 'No, I give up the hope of a Petruchio.'
'But Mr. Wingfield, I thought--'
'Wingfield!' said John, starting. 'No, no, that's not likely.'
'Nor Lord St. Erme!'
'I hope not. He is fancy-bit, I suppose, but he is not her superior. Life with him would harden rather than tame her. No. After all, strangely as she has behaved about him, when she has him in sight, I suspect there is one person among us more likely to soften her than any other.'
'Arthur?'
'Arthur's son.'
'Oh! of course, and if she will but love my Johnnie I don't much care about his mamma.'
CHAPTER 8
In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these.--TENNYSON.
In spite of herself, Theodora's heart bounded at the prospect of having Arthur's child in the house. She visited the babies in the village, and multiplying their charms by the superior beauty of Arthur and his wife, proportionably raised her expectations, but, of course, she betrayed none of her eagerness, and would not give up one iota of her course of village occupations for the sake of being at home for the arrival.
Nevertheless, she returned across the park, through burning sunshine, at double-quick pace, only slackened on seeing a carriage, but it proved to be her aunt, who was being assisted out of it, and tottering up the steps with the help of Lady Martindale's arm, while Miss Piper, coming down to give her assistance, informed them that the party had arrived about an hour before. The two gentlemen had gone out, and Mrs. Arthur Martindale was in her own room.
Trembling with eagerness, Theodora followed the tardy steps of her mother and aunt as they mounted the stairs. As they entered the gallery, a slender figure advanced to meet them, her apple-blossom face all smiles, and carrying a thing like a middle-sized doll, if doll had ever been as bald, or as pinched, or as skinny, or flourished such spare arms, or clenched such claw-like fingers. Was this the best she could give Arthur by way of son and heir? Yet she looked as proud and exulting as if he had been the loveliest of children, and the little wretch himself had a pert, lively air of speculation, as if he partook her complacency.
Lady Martindale gave her stately greeting, and Mrs. Nesbit coldly touched her hand; then Theodora, with some difficulty, pronounced the words, 'How are you?' and brought herself to kiss Violet's cheek, but took no apparent notice of the child, and stood apart while her mother made all hospitable speeches, moving on, so as not to keep Mrs. Nesbit standing.
Theodora followed her aunt and mother, and as soon as the baize door was shut on them, Violet hugged her baby closely, whispering, 'No welcome for the poor little boy! nobody cares for him but his own mamma! Never mind, my Johnnie, we are not too grand to love each other.'
Theodora in the meantime could not help exclaiming, 'Poor child! It is just like a changeling!'
'Don't talk of it, my dear,' said Lady Martindale, with a shudder and look of suffering. 'Poor little dear! He looks exactly as your poor little brother did!' and she left the room with a movement far unlike her usually slow dignified steps.
'Ah!' said her aunt, in a tone between grief and displeasure; 'here's a pretty business! we must keep him out of her way! Don't you ever bring him forward, Theodora, to revive all that.'
'What is the meaning of it?' said Theodora. 'I did not know I ever had another brother.'
'It was long before your time, my dear, but your mamma has never entirely got over it, though he only lived nine weeks. I would not have had the recollection recalled on any account. And now John has brought this child here! If he was to die here I don't know what the effect on your mamma would be.'
'He is not going to die!' said Theodora, hastily; 'but let me hear of my other brother, aunt.'
'There is nothing to hear, my dear,' said Mrs. Nesbit. 'How could the girl think of bringing him on us without preparation? An effect of John's spoiling her, of course. She expects him to be made much of; but she must be taught to perceive this is no house of which she can make all parts a nursery.'
'Let me hear about my brother,' repeated Theodora. 'How old would he be? What was his name?'
'His name was Theodore. He never could have lived,' said Mrs. Nesbit: 'it was much as it was with this child of Arthur's. He was born unexpectedly at Vienna. Your mamma had a dreadful illness, brought on by your father's blundering sudden way of telling her of the death of poor little Dora and Anna. He has not a notion of self-command or concealment; so, instead of letting me prepare her, he allowed her to come home from the drive, and find him completely overcome.'
Theodora better understood her mother's stifled sympathy for Violet, and her father's more openly shown feeling for Arthur.
'We were in great alarm for her,' continued Mrs. Nesbit, 'and the poor child was a miserable little thing, and pined away till we thought it best to send him home to be under English treatment; and your father chose to go with him to see John, who was in a very unsatisfactory state.'
'And mamma did not go?'
'She was unfit for the journey, and I remained with her. It was a fortunate arrangement of mine, for I knew he could not survive, and anxiety for him retarded her recovery, though we had hardly ever let her see him.'
'Then he died?--how soon?'
'At Frankfort, a fortnight after we parted with him. It was a dreadful shock to her; and if it had happened in the house, I do not think she would ever have recovered it. Was it a fortnight? Yes, I know it was; for it was on the 3rd of September that I had your papa's letter. We were going to a party at Prince K--'s, where there was to be a celebrated Italian improvisatrice, and I would not give her the letter till the next morning.'
Theodora stared at her in incredulous horror.
'It threw her back sadly; but I did my utmost to rally her spirits, and her health did not suffer so materially as I feared; but she has strong feelings, and the impression has never been entirely removed. She scarcely ventured to look at Arthur or at you. How could your papa have let this child come here?'
'Is he like poor little Theodore?' said the sister.
'Only as one wretched-looking baby is like another. This one is not a bit like the Martindales; it is exactly his mother's face.'
'Is he buried here?'
'Who--Theodore? Yes; your papa came home, and managed matters his own way, sent off all the governesses, put John under that ignorant old nurse, and began the precious intimacy with the Fotheringhams, that led to such results. I could have told him how it would be; but I believe he did repent of that!'
'Did John know about Theodore?'
'No; his sisters' death had such an effect on him that they kept the knowledge from him. You had better never mention it, my dear; and especially,' she added, somewhat pleadingly, 'I would not have the party at the Prince's transpire to your papa.'
Theodora felt her indignation would not endure concealment much longer. She called Miss Piper, and hastened away, the next moment finding herself vis-a-vis with John.
'Are you just come in?' said he, greeting her.
'No, I have been with my aunt. How a
re you now?'
'Quite well, thank you. I wish you could have come to Ventnor. You would have enjoyed it very much.'
'Thank you.'
'Have you seen Violet?'
'Yes, I have.'
'And the little boy?'
'Yes.'
'I can't say he is a beauty, but you who are such a baby fancier will find him a very animated, intelligent child. I hope all fear is over about him now; he has thriven wonderfully of late.'
Perverseness prompted Theodora to say, 'The baby at the lodge is twice the size.'
John saw there was no use in talking, and shut himself into his room. The next instant Sarah appeared, with the baby on one arm, and a pile of clothes on the other.
No one was in sight, so Theodora could gratify her passionate yearnings for her brother's babe; justifying herself to her own pride, by considering it charity to an overloaded servant.
'Let me have him. Let me carry him up.'
'Thank you, ma'am, I'll not fash you,' said Sarah, stiffly.
'Let me! Oh! let me. I have often held a baby. Come to me, my precious. Don't you know your aunt, your papa's own sister? There, he smiled at me! He will come! You know me, you pretty one?'
She held him near the window, and gazed with almost devouring eyes.
'He will be handsome--he will be beautiful!' she said. 'Oh! it is a shame to say you are not! You are like your papa--you are a thorough Martindale! That is your papa's bright eye, and the real Martindale brow, you sweet, little, fair, feeble, helpless thing! Oh, nurse, I can't spare him yet, and you have to unpack. Let me hold him. I know he likes me. Don't you love Aunt Theodora, babe?'
Sarah let her keep him, mollified by her devotion to him, and relieved at having him off her hands in taking possession of the great, bare, scantily-furnished nursery. Theodora lamented over his delicate looks, and was told he would not be here now but for his mamma, and the Isle of Wight doctor, who had done him a power of good. She begged to hear of all his wants; rang the bell, and walked up and down the room, caressing him, until he grew fretful, and no one answering the bell she rang again in displeasure, Sarah thanking her, and saying she wished to have him ready for bed before his mamma came up.
Heartsease or Brother's Wife Page 21
