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.

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.