It appeared as if Mrs. Finch and Miss Gardner were offended at Theodora’s defection, for nothing was heard of them for several days, and the household in Cadogan-place continued in a state of peacefulness. Arthur was again at home for a week, and Theodora was riding with him when she next met the two sisters, who at once attacked them for their absence from the picnic, giving an eager description of its delights and of the silence and melancholy of poor Lord St. Erme.

‘He and Mark were both in utter despair,’ said Jane.

‘Well, it is of no use to ask you; I have vowed I never will,’ said Mrs. Finch; ‘or I should try to make you come with us on Wednesday.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘You living in Captain Martindale’s house, and forgetting the Derby!’ And an entreaty ensued that both brother and sister would join their party. Arthur gave a gay, unmeaning answer, and they parted.

‘What do you think of it?’ asked Theodora.

‘Too much trouble,’ said he, lazily. ‘There is no horse running that I take interest in. My racing days are over. I am an old domestic character.’

‘Nonsense! You don’t look two-and-twenty! Lady Elizabeth’s sister would not believe you were my married brother. You have not the look of it.’

Arthur laughed, and said, ‘Absurd!’ but was flattered.

When he told his wife of the invitation, he added, ‘I wonder if there is a fresh breeze blowing up!’

‘I trust not.’

‘If she really wants to go, and she has never seen the thing, I had rather take her in a sober way by ourselves, and come home at our own time.’

‘Why don’t you! It would be very pleasant for you both, and I should be so glad. Think how she shuts herself up with me!’

‘We will see. Anything for a quiet life.’

Theodora, being fond of horses, and used to hear much about them from her brother, had a real curiosity to go to Epsom, and broached the subject the next morning at breakfast. Before any answer had been given, Mr. Fotheringham made his appearance.

‘Well, Percy,’ said Arthur, ‘you find this sister of mine bent on dragging me to Epsom. Come with us! You will have an opportunity of getting up an article against fashionable life.’

Theodora was ready to hide her desire for his consent, but thought better of it, and said, ‘It is of no use to ask him.’

‘Indeed I would go,’ said Percy; ‘I wish I could; but I came here to tell you that my Aunt Fotheringham is coming to London early on Wednesday for advice for her son, and will only be there two days, so that it is impossible to be away.’

‘Is Sir Antony Fotheringham coming?’ asked Violet, as Theodora did not speak.

‘No; he is a fixture. He has never even seen a railroad. My aunt could hardly persuade him to let her come up without the old chariot and posters.’

‘You will bring them here to dinner,’ said Arthur. ‘Thank you, I must not promise; I cannot tell what Pelham may be fit for. I must take him to the Zoological Gardens. How he will enjoy them, poor fellow! The only thing to guard against will be his growing too much excited.’

Percy was engaged that morning, and soon departed, with hardly a word from Theodora, whose amiability had been entirely overthrown by finding her service postponed to that of his aunt.

‘There’s the Derby happily disposed of!’ said Arthur, rising from the breakfast-table. ‘I don’t see why,’ said Theodora.

‘What! Is not this Percy’s well-beloved aunt, who nursed Helen, and is such a friend of John’s?’

‘I am not going to dance attendance on any one.’

‘It is your concern,’ said Arthur; ‘but, if you don’t take care, Percy won’t stand much more of this.’

Vouchsafing no answer, she quitted the room. Arthur made a gesture of annoyance. ‘She treats Percy like a dog!’ he said. ‘I believe my aunt is right, and that it never will come to good!’

‘Shall you go with her, then?’

‘I must, I suppose. She will not let me off now.’

‘If we do not vex her by refusing, I hope she will give it up of herself. I am almost sure she will, if no one says anything about it.’

‘Very well: I am the last person to begin. I am sick of her quarrels.’

Two wills were dividing Theodora: one calling on her to renounce her pride and obstinacy, take up the yoke while yet there was time, earn the precious sense of peace, and confer gladness on the honest heart which she had so often pained. Violet was as the genius of this better mind, and her very presence infused such thoughts as these, disposing her not indeed openly to yield, but to allow it to drop in silence.

But there was another will, which reminded her that she had thrice been baffled, and that she had heard the soft tyrant rejoicing with her brother over her defeat! She thought of Violet so subjugating Arthur, that he had not even dared to wish for his favourite amusement, as if he could not be trusted!

Such recollections provoked her to show that there was one whose determination would yield to no one’s caprice, and impelled her to maintain the unconquerable spirit in which she had hitherto gloried. Violet’s unexpressed opinion was tricked out as an object of defiance; and if she represented the genius of meekness, wilfulness was not without outward prompters.

Mrs. Finch and Miss Gardner called, and found her alone. ‘There!’ said the former, ‘am I not very forgiving? Actually to come and seek you out again, after the way you served us. Now, on your honour, what was the meaning of it?’

‘The meaning was, that this poor child had been told it was etiquette for me to have a chaperon at my heels, and made such a disturbance that I was obliged to give up the point. I am not ashamed. She is a good girl, though a troublesome one at times.’

‘Who would have thought that pretty face could be so prudish!’

‘I suppose she is against your coming to Epsom!’ said Jane, interrupting her sister.

‘No; my brother and I have been proposing to go, independently; so as to be able to come home at our own time.’

‘You had better be satisfied with that, Georgina,’ said Jane. ‘We shall find ourselves together at the stand, and it will spare a few dangerous hysterics.’

‘I shall do nothing underhand,’ said Theodora. ‘I shall proclaim my intention of joining you; but I doubt, because Lady Fotheringham is coming to London.’

‘Her ladyship herself?’ cried Georgina. ‘What, in the name of wonder, brings her from her antediluvian hall?’

‘She brings her son for advice.’

‘We can say no more,’ said Jane. ‘Percy’s expectations would be ruined if the good lady found his intended concerned in such naughty doings. She must stay at home.’

‘To entertain Pelham!’ cried Mrs. Finch, in a paroxysm of laughing, of her most unreal kind.

‘Let me give you one piece of advice,’ said Jane. ‘Don’t make yourself too great a favourite, as I unwittingly did, or you will have no cessation of “I have a pony; it can trot; it can canter.”’

‘I have not decided.’

‘No,’ said Jane, ‘you cannot do it. We know Lady Fotheringham too well to ask you to lose your place in her regard for our sake. Probably this is a most important visit, and all may depend on her first impressions.’

‘I don’t depend on her.’

‘Ah! you don’t understand. She is the managing partner, and I have little doubt this is only an excuse for coming to inspect you. It is quite in their power, you know, to do the only rational thing under the circumstances—make an eldest son of Percy, and set poor Pelham aside, with enough to make him happy.

‘I do believe that must be it!’ cried Georgina. ‘She would be a dear old woman if she would only do it!’

‘And you see it would be fatal for Theodora to appear as a fashionable young lady, given to races, and the like vanities.’

‘I shall seem nothing but what I am.’

‘She would find Mrs. Martindale sighing at her inability to keep you out of bad company. So sorry to trust you with us. She did her utmost. No, no, Theodora; you must stay at home, and the good lady will be charmed.’

‘I do not intend to be turned from my course.’

‘No! Now, Jane, you should not have spoken in that way,’ said her sister. ‘You will only make Theodora more resolved to come with us; and, indeed, I had rather she did not, if it is to do her any harm.’

‘I shall leave you to settle it between you,’ said Jane, with apparent carelessness. ‘I shall go home to appease for a little while the unfortunate dressmaker, whom we are keeping so long waiting. Make the most of Theodora, while you can have her.’

She would not have gone, had she not believed her work done.

‘I have made up my mind,’ said Theodora, as the door closed.

‘Theodora! I do beg you will not,’ cried Georgina, in an agitated voice, fully meaning all she said. ‘You will vex and displease them all. I know you will, and I could not bear that! Your happiness is not wasted yet! Go, and be happy with your Percy!’

‘I have told Percy of my intentions. Do you think I would alter them for this notion of Jane’s?’

‘That is my own dear Theodora! But it is not only that. They are such good people—so kind! You must not risk their good opinion, for they would be so fond of you!’

‘If their good opinion depends on narrow-minded prejudice, I do not wish for it.’

‘If she would but come a day later,’ said Georgina; ‘for I do want you to be with me very much, Theodora! I know I shall meet with nothing but mortification, if you are not. People will only make that little starched bow! And Mr. Finch has noticed your not being so much with me. But no, no, you shall not come. You shall stay and see dear, good old Lady Fotheringham! Oh! how I wish I could!’ and her breast heaved with a suppressed sob.

‘Why do you not, then, dear Georgina? Let me tell her your feeling, and—’

‘No, no, no, no! I can never see her again! Don’t talk to me about her! She belongs to another state of existence.’

‘This will not do, Georgina. It is vain to turn aside now from what will and must come on you some day.’

‘Don’t! don’t, Theodora!’ said she, petulantly. ‘Everything goes against me! There’s Jane taken to lecturing, and even Mr. Finch is growing crabbed, and declares he shall take me to vegetate in this horrid place he has bought in the country.’

‘Oh, I am so glad!’ exclaimed Theodora. ‘Now then, there is a chance for you. If you will throw yourself into the duties and pursuits—’

‘What! be squiress and Lady Bountiful; doctor old women, and lecture school-children? No, no, that may do for you, but I am at least no hypocrite!’

‘I should be a great hypocrite, if I did not believe the old women and the children far better than myself,’ said Theodora, gravely. ‘But, indeed, trying to make them comfortable would occupy your mind, and interest you till—oh! if it would but help you on the only way to happiness—’

‘Don’t talk of that word any more with me.’

‘If not happiness, it would be peace.’

‘Peace! I don’t know what you mean.’

‘If you watched my sister, you would.’

‘She is happy!’ said Mrs. Finch, in a tone of keen regret, laying her hand on a toy of Johnnie’s; but instantly changing her note, ‘A cold, inanimate piece of wax! That is what you call peace! I would not have it.’

‘You don’t understand her—’

‘I know one thing!’ cried the fitful lady, vehemently; ‘that it is she who governs you all, and wants to divide you from me. ‘Tis she and your Percy who have robbed me of you, with their ill-natured stories.’

‘There is no ill-nature in them, and no one governs me,’ said Theodora.

‘Then you hold fast by me, and come with me?’

‘I do.’

‘My thorough-going old Theodora! I knew they could not spoil you, say what they would!’ for she was by no means insensible of the triumph.

‘But, Georgina,’ continued her friend, earnestly, ‘you must be prudent. Let me speak to you for once.’

‘Only don’t talk of prudence. I am sick of that from Jane.’

‘Yes! it is speaking on this world’s grounds; I will speak of higher motives. Think what is to come by and by: there are things that cannot be kept off by being forgotten. You are weary and dissatisfied as it is; try whether boldly facing the thoughts you dread might not lead to better things. There will be pain at first; but content will come, and—’

‘If you will come and stay with me in the country, you shall teach me all your ways. But no; it would put all the Fotheringhams in commotion! If I had a happy home I might be good. You must not quite forsake me, Theodora. But here’s Mrs. Martindale!’

Violet entering, Mrs. Finch greeted her in a subdued manner, and, indeed, looked so dejected that when she was gone, Violet asked if she was well.

‘Yes, poor thing, it is only the taste of the ashes she eats instead of bread. But I have had her alone, and have got her to hear some grave talk!’

‘Oh, how glad I am.’

‘But I cannot give up meeting her at Epsom. She would feel it a desertion, and my influence is the best hope for her. Besides, I will not sacrifice her to curry favour with the Worthbourne people.’

‘Surely it would not be doing so.’

‘I have made up my mind.’

Her better and worse feelings were alike enlisted in behalf of the expedition. Sincerity, constancy, and generosity were all drawn in to espouse the cause of pride and self-will; and she never once recollected that the way to rescue her friend from the vortex of dissipation was not to follow her into it.

Little was needed to rouse in Arthur the dormant taste so long the prevalent one. So eager was he when once stirred up, that his sister almost doubted whether she might not be leading him into temptation, as she remembered the warning against Mr. Gardner; but she repelled the notion of his being now liable to be led away, and satisfied herself by recollecting that whenever he had met his former school-fellow, he had shown no disposition to renew the acquaintance.

All the notice of Percy that she chose to take, was, that on the Tuesday evening, she said, as she wished Violet good night, ‘If Percy should call with his aunt to-morrow, which I don’t expect, you will explain, and say I hope to call early next day.’

‘Well! I hope you will get into no scrape,’ said Arthur; ‘but mind, whatever comes of it, ‘tis your doing, not mine.’

Words which she answered with a haughty smile, but which she was never to forget.

Violet saw the brother and sister depart, and could only hope that nothing might be heard of the Fotheringham party; but before half the morning had passed, the knock, for the first time unwelcome, sounded at the door, and there entered not only Percy, but an elderly lady who might have been supposed the grandmother, rather than the mother, of the tall comely youth who bashfully followed her.

Violet strove, by the warmth of her reception, to make up for what was wanting; but her sentences were broken and confused; she was glad and she was sorry, and they would be very sorry, and something about not expecting and calling early, was all mixed together, while she watched with deprecating looks the effect upon Percy.

‘Is she gone?’ he asked, in a low stern voice.

‘Yes; but she told me to say, in case—we hardly thought it likely—but in case Lady Fotheringham should be kind enough to call, she told me to say she will certainly call early to-morrow.’

Violet knew she had made a most tangled speech, and that there was great danger that her trembling sorrowful voice should convey to Lady Fotheringham an impression that there was something amiss; but she could only try to make the intelligence as little mortifying as possible.

The fact was enough. Percy stood in the window in silence, while his aunt, on learning where Miss Martindale was, good-naturedly supposed it had long been settled, and said it must be such a pleasure to the brother and sister to go together, that she should have been grieved if it had been prevented.

Violet spoke of the call to be made to-morrow; but Lady Fotheringham seemed to have so little time free that it was not probable she would be at home. Uneasy at Percy’s silence, Violet did not prosper in her attempts at keeping up the conversation, until Percy, suddenly coming forward, begged that ‘the boy’ might be sent for; his aunt must see John’s godson. It was chiefly for his own solace, for he carried the little fellow back to his window, and played with him there till luncheon-time, while the ladies talked of Mr. Martindale.

Violet won her visitor’s heart by her kind manner to the poor son, who was very well trained, and behaved like an automaton, but grew restless with the hopes of wild beasts and London shops. His mother was about to take leave, when Percy proposed to take charge of him, and leave her to rest for the afternoon with Mrs. Martindale, a plan very acceptable to all parties.

Lady Fotheringham was a woman of many sorrows. Her husband was very feeble and infirm, and of a large family, the youngest, this half-witted son, was the only survivor. Grief and anxiety had left deep traces on her worn face, and had turned her hair to a snowy whiteness; her frame was fragile, and the melancholy kindness of her voice deeply touched Violet. There was much talk of John, for whom Lady Fotheringham had a sort of compassionate reverence, derived from his patient resignation during Helen’s illness, of which Violet now gathered many more particulars, such as added to her affection and enthusiasm for both.

Of her nephew, Percival, Lady Fotheringham spoke in the highest terms, and dwelt with pleasure on the engagement still connecting him with the Martindale family. Violet was glad to be able to speak from her heart of Theodora’s excellence and kindness.

By and by, her visitor, in a sad voice, began to inquire whether she ever saw ‘a young connection of theirs, Mrs. Finch;’ and as Violet replied, said she was anxious to hear something of her, though she feared it was a painful subject. ‘I cannot help being interested for her,’ she said. ‘She was a very fine girl, and had many good dispositions; but I fear she was very ill managed. We grew very fond of her, when she was at Worthbourne, poor thing, and if we and that excellent elder sister could have kept her to ourselves, we might have hoped—But it was very natural that she should grow tired of us, and there was much excuse for her—’

‘Indeed there was, from all Theodora has told me.’

‘I am glad to hear Miss Martindale keeps up her friendship. While that is the case, I am sure there is nothing positively wrong, though imprudent I fear she must be.’

Violet eagerly explained how every one was fully satisfied that, though Mrs. Finch was too free and dashing in manner, and too fond of attracting notice, there was principle and rectitude at the bottom, and that her life of dissipation was chiefly caused by the tedium of her home. All attachment between her and Mark Gardner had evidently died away; and though it might have been wiser to keep him at a distance, she had some good motives for allowing him to be often at her house.

Lady Fotheringham was relieved to hear this, and added that she might have trusted to Jane. Violet was surprised to find that Miss Gardner held a very high place in Lady Fotheringham’s esteem, and was supposed by her to take most watchful, motherly care of her headstrong younger sister. She had made herself extremely agreeable at Worthbourne, and had corresponded with Lady Fotheringham ever since; and now Violet heard that Jane had thought the marriage with Mr. Finch a great risk, and would willingly have dissuaded her sister from it; but that Georgina had been bent upon it! ‘thinking, no doubt, poor girl, that riches and gaiety would make her happy! I wish we could have made it pleasanter to her at Worthbourne!’

‘She has spoken very affectionately of you.’

‘Ah, poor child! she had met with little kindness before. She used to pour out her griefs to me. It was that wretched Mark who broke her heart, and after that she seemed not to care what became of her. But I am a little comforted by your account. I will try to see her to-morrow, poor dear. Percy was hoping I should be able, although I think that he is quite right not to visit them himself.’

Violet agreed to all, and was pleased at the notion of the good old lady’s influence being tried on one evidently amenable to right impressions. As far as she herself was concerned, the visit was very gratifying, and when the leave-taking came, it seemed as if they had been intimate for years.

Violet sat pondering whether the dulness of Worthbourne and the disappointment of her first love had been the appointed cross of Georgina Gardner, cast aside in impatience of its weight. And then she tried to reconcile the conflicting accounts of Jane’s influence in the matter, till she thought she was growing uncharitable; and after having tried in vain to measure the extent of Percy’s annoyance, she looked from the window to see if carriages seemed to be returning from Epsom, and then with a sigh betook herself to the book Theodora had provided for her solitude.

She had long to wait. Arthur and his sister came home later than she had expected, and did not bring the regale of amusing description that they had promised her.

Arthur was silent and discontented, and went to his smoking-room. Theodora only said it had been very hot, and for the first time really looked tired, and owned that she was so. It had been hard work, first to draw Arthur into Mrs. Finch’s party, against which he exerted all his lazy good-humoured “vis inertia”—undertaking to show her everything, and explain all to her, be at her service all the day, if only she would keep away from them and their nonsense. But when their carriage was found, and Arthur was dragged into the midst of them, a still harder task arose. She was frightened to see Mark Gardner conversing with him, while he looked eager and excited, and she hastened to interrupt, put forth every power of attraction, in the resolve entirely to monopolize Mr. Gardner; and for a long time, at the expense of severe exertion in talking nonsense, she succeeded. But some interruption occurred; she missed Mr. Gardner, she missed Arthur; they were waited for; she wondered and fretted herself in vain, and at length beheld them returning in company-heard Mrs. Finch gaily scolding them, and understood that there had been bets passing!

She called it fatigue, but it was rather blank dread, and the sense that she had put herself and others in the way of evil.

It was possible that Arthur might have been only a spectator; or, if not, that he might have known where to stop. He had bought his experience long ago, at high cost; but Theodora was but too well aware of his unsteadiness of purpose and facile temper; and in spite of his resolutions, it was a fearful thing to have seen him in such a place, in such company, and to know that almost against his own desire she had conducted him thither for the gratification of her self-will.

Vainly did she strive to banish the thought, and to reassure herself by his manner. She knew too well what it was wont to be when he had been doing anything of which he was ashamed. One bet, however, was no great mischief in itself. That book which Percy had given to her spoke of ‘threads turning to cords, and cords to cables strong.’ Had she put the first thread once more into the hand of the Old Evil Habit’?

If she would confess the sin to herself and to her God, with earnest prayer that the ill might be averted, perhaps, even yet, it might be spared to them all.

But the proud spirit declared there was no sin. She had merely been resolute and truthful. So she strengthened herself in her belief in her own blamelessness, and drove down the misgiving to prey on the depths of her soul, and sharpen her temper by secret suffering.

In the morning she accompanied Violet to call on Lady Fotheringham, sullen, proud, and bashful at the sense of undergoing inspection, and resolved against showing her best side, lest she should feel as if she was winning Worthbourne for Percy.

That majestic ill-humour was wasted—Lady Fotheringham was not at home; but Violet left a note begging her to come to luncheon the next day. It passed, and she appeared not: but at twelve on Saturday, Percy’s tread hurried up-stairs and entered the back drawing-room, where Theodora was sitting.

Sounds of voices followed—the buzz of expostulation; tones louder and louder—words so distinct that to prevent her anxious ears from listening, Violet began to practise Johnnie in all his cries of birds and beasts.

All at once the other room door was opened, and Theodora’s stately march was heard, while one of the folding leaves was thrown back, and there stood Percy.

Before a word could be spoken, he snatched up the child, and held him up in the air to the full reach of his arms. Doubtful whether this was to be regarded as play, Johnnie uttered ‘Mamma,’ in a grave imploring voice, which, together with her terrified face, recalled Mr. Fotheringham to his senses. With an agitated laugh he placed the boy safely beside her, saying, ‘I beg your pardon. What a good little fellow it is!’

Violet asked him to ring for the nurse; and by the time Johnnie had been carried away, he had collected himself sufficiently to try to speak calmly.

‘Do her parents know what is going on?’ he said. ‘I do not speak for my own sake. That is at an end.’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Violet.

‘I told her I could not be made a fool of any longer, and when she answered “Very well,” what could that mean?’

‘I am very much grieved that it has come to this,’ sighed Violet.

‘How could it come to anything else?’ he said, his face full of sorrow and severity. ‘I was mad to suppose there was any hope for such a temper of pride and stubbornness. Yet,’ he added, softening, and his quick, stern eyes filling with tears, ‘it is a noble nature,—high-minded, uncompromising, deeply tender, capable of anything. It has been a cruel wicked thing to ruin all by education. What could come of it? A life of struggle with women who had no notion of an appeal to principle and affection—growing up with nothing worthy of her love and respect—her very generosity becoming a stumbling-block, till her pride and waywardness have come to such an indomitable pitch that they are devouring all that was excellent.’

He paused; Violet, confused and sorrowful, knew not how to answer; and he proceeded, ‘I have known her, watched her, loved her from infancy! I never saw one approaching her in fine qualities. I thought, and still think, she needs but one conquest to rise above all other women. I believed guidance and affection would teach her all she needed; and so they would, but it was presumption and folly to think it was I who could inspire them.’

‘O, Mr. Fotheringham, indeed—’

‘It was absurd to suppose that she who trifles with every one would not do so with me. Yet, even now, I cannot believe her capable of carrying trifling to the extent she has done.’

‘She was in earnest,—oh! she was!’

‘I would fain think so,’ said he, sadly. ‘I held to that trust, in spite of the evidence of my senses. I persuaded myself that her manners were the effect of habit—the triumph of one pre-eminent in attraction.’

‘That they are! I don’t even think she knows what she does.’

‘So I believed; I allowed for her pleasure in teasing me. I knew all that would come right. I ascribed her determination to run after that woman to a generous reluctance to desert a friend.’

‘Indeed, indeed it is so!’

‘But how am I to understand her neglect of my aunt—the one relation whom I have tried to teach her to value—my aunt, who was the comfort of my sister and of her brother—who had suffered enough to give her a claim to every one’s veneration! To run away from her to the races, and the society of Mark Gardner and Mrs. Finch! Ay, and what do you think we heard yesterday of her doings there, from Gardner’s own mother? That she is giving him decided encouragement! That was the general remark, and on this, poor Mrs. George Gardner is founding hopes of her son settling down and becoming respectable.’

‘Oh! how terrible for you to hear! But it cannot be true. It must be mere report. Arthur would have observed if there had been more than her usual manner.’

‘A pretty manner to be usual! Besides, Jane Gardner did not deny it.’

‘Jane Gardner?’

‘Yes. My aunt called at Mrs. Finch’s, but saw neither of them; but this morning, before she went, Miss Gardner called. I did not see her. I was out with Pelham, and my aunt spoke to her about all this matter. She answered very sensibly, regretted her sister’s giddy ways, but consoled my aunt a good deal on that score, but—but as to the other, she could not say, but that Mark was a great admirer of—of Miss Martindale, and much had passed which might be taken for encouragement on Wednesday by any one who did not know how often it was her way!’

‘It is a pity that Miss Gardner has had to do with it,’ said Violet. ‘When I have been talking to her, I always am left with a worse impression of people than they deserve.’

‘You never have a bad impression of any one.’

‘I think I have of Miss Gardner. I used to like her very much, but lately I am afraid I cannot believe her sincere.’

‘You have been taught to see her with Theodora’s eyes. Of course, Mrs. Finch despises and contemns prudence and restraint, and the elder sister’s advice is thrown aside.’

‘You never saw Jane Gardner?’

‘Never;—but that is not the point here. I am not acting on Jane Gardner’s report. I should never trouble myself to be jealous of such a scoundrel as Mark. I am not imagining that there is any fear of her accepting him. Though, if such a notion once possessed her, nothing would hinder her from rushing on inevitable misery.’

‘Oh, there is no danger of that.’

‘I trust not. It would be too frightful! However, I can look on her henceforth only as John’s sister, as my little playmate, as one in whom hopes of untold happiness were bound up.’ He struggled with strong emotion, but recovering, said, ‘It is over! The reason we part is independent of any Gardner. She would not bear with what I thought it my duty to say. It is plain I was completely mistaken in thinking we could go through life together. Even if there was reason to suppose her attached to me, it would be wrong to put myself in collision with such a temper. I told her so, and there is an end of the matter.’

‘It is very, very sad,’ said Violet, mournfully.

‘You don’t think I have used her ill.’

‘Oh, no! You have borne a great deal. You could do no otherwise; but Arthur and John will be very much vexed.’

‘It is well that it is known to so few. Let it be understood by such as are aware of what has been, that I bear the onus of the rupture. No more need be known than that the break was on my side. We both were mistaken. She will not be blamed, and some day’—but he could not speak calmly—’ she will meet one who will feel for her as I do, and will work a cure of all these foibles. You will see the glorious creature she can be.’

‘The good will conquer at last,’ said Violet, through her tears.

‘I am convinced of it, but I fear it must be through much trial and sorrow. May it only not come through that man.’

‘No, no!’

‘Then good-bye.’

They shook hands with lingering regret, as if unwilling to resign their relationship. ‘You will explain this to Arthur, and give him my thanks for his friendliness; and you—accept my very best thanks for your great kindness and sympathy. If she had known you earlier—But good-bye. Only, if I might venture to say one thing more—you and Arthur will not give me up as a friend, will you?’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Violet, as well as her tears would permit, ‘I am sure we are but too glad—’

He pressed her hand gratefully, and was gone; while overwhelmed with the agitation she sank weeping on the sofa, only conscious that they all were in some sort guilty of a great injury to Mr. Fotheringham. In this state of distress she was found by Theodora, who came down so lofty and composed, that no one could have divined who was the party chiefly concerned in what had taken place.

Without comment, she treated Violet as for a nervous attack, taking great care of her till the sobs subsided, and there only remained a headache which kept her on the sofa for the rest of the day. Theodora read aloud, but which of them marked the words? Late in the afternoon she put down the book, and wrote a note, while Violet silently marvelled at the unconcern of her countenance.

‘There, I shall take it to the post. You may read it if you like, while I put on my bonnet.’ Violet read.

‘MY DEAR MAMMA,—Our engagement is at an end. Mr. Fotheringham tried to exercise a control over my actions to which I could not submit; and in especial was affronted by my going to Epsom with Arthur, instead of staying at home for the chance of seeing Lady Fotheringham. We came to high words, perceived the error of thinking our tempers accorded, and agreed to part. I have no cause of complaint, though I am at this moment much displeased with him; for when he had done with me he went and stormed to poor Violet till he brought on one of her hysterical affections. No one can have acted with kinder or more conscientious intentions than she has done throughout the affair. I do not mean to come away till after her confinement. London is wide enough for him and for me, and I would not leave her on any account. ‘Your affectionate daughter,

‘THEODORA A. MARTINDALE.’

Violet glowed with indignation at such mention of Percy. She never loved him! It is as John thought!

Theodora, returning, took the note, and began to put it into its envelope without a word.

‘Thank you,’ said Violet; ‘it is very kind in you to stay with me. It is a great comfort to Arthur.’

‘Is it no comfort to you?’ said Theodora. ‘If I am in your way, I will go.’

‘Oh! what should I do without you? It makes such a difference to me. I rely upon you to take care of Arthur, and Johnnie, and everything. Only don’t do what is not pleasant to you.’

‘I wish to live to be useful. I had rather be useful to you and Arthur than to any one. If you will keep me, I stay.’

All the rest of the day Violet could only feel that she could not be displeased with one so devoted to her. She wondered what Arthur would say. His comment was—

‘Well, I always expected it. It is a pity! She has thrown away her only chance of being a reasonable woman.’

‘You saw no cause for that horrid report?’

‘Not a bit. She is not so frantic as that comes to. She went on in her old way, only a little stronger than usual; but Percy was quite right not to stand it, and so I shall tell her.’

However, Theodora kept him from the subject by the force of her imperturbability, and he could only declaim against her to his wife.

‘I don’t believe she cared a farthing for him.’

‘I almost fear not. Yet how could she accept him?’

‘He was the biggest fish that had ever come to her bait. She could not have played her pranks on him without hooking him; but he has broken the line, and it serves her right. I only wish she took it to heart! It is a lucky escape for him. What will his lordship think of it?’

Lord Martindale wrote, evidently in much annoyance, to desire Arthur to send him a full history of the transaction, and after much grumbling, he was obeyed. What he said to his daughter did not transpire, but Violet gathered that the opinion at Martindale was, that she had not age or authority sufficient for the care of the young lady. In this she fully acquiesced, and, indeed, had some trouble in silencing repining speculations on what might have happened if she had been older, or in stronger health, or more judicious.

It was a universal failure, and she felt as if they were all to blame, while it terrified her to recollect John’s predictions as to the effect on Theodora’s disposition.

Another question was, how Mrs. Finch would feel on the matter. Theodora had written to her, and received one of her warm impulsive answers, as inconsistent as her whole nature; in one place in despair that her friend’s happiness had been sacrificed—in another, rejoicing in her freedom from such intolerable tyranny, and declaring that she was the noblest creature and the naughtiest, and that she must see her at once.

But she never came, and when Theodora called was not at home. Violet had Jane to herself for an unpleasing hour of condolence and congratulation, regrets and insinuations, ending with the by no means unwelcome news that Mr. Finch was tired of London, and that they were going into the country—and not Mark—going to set off in a week’s time. Two more calls failed, and Theodora only received a note, in which Mrs. Finch declared herself “abimee desolee” that her husband would drag her off into the country at such short notice, that her world of engagements had hindered her from meeting her best of friends. Then, with a sudden transition to slang, she promised excellent fun in riding, boating, &c., if Theodora would come to see her, and plenty of admirers ready to have their heads turned, ending rather piteously with ‘Who knows but I might take a turn for good? I know I wish I could, if it was not so horridly tiresome. You won’t forget your poor G. F.’