Mrs. Nesbit was recommended to spend some months at Baden Baden; and Theodora formed a design, which highly pleased Arthur and Violet, of spending this time, while the family were absent, and while Arthur was in Scotland, as hostess at Martindale to Violet and the children.

After seeing Arthur off to Windsor for the next fortnight, Theodora had begun writing to propose the scheme to her father, when she was interrupted by the announcement of Lord St. Erme.

To visit her alone was a strong measure, and she put on a panoply of dignified formality. He began to say he had brought a German book, to show her a poem of which their conversation had reminded him.

‘I understand very little German,’ said she, coldly. ‘I once had a German governess whom I disliked so much that I took a disgust to the language.’

‘There is so much that is beautiful and untranslatable in its literature, that I am sure it would recompense you.’

‘I do not like the German tone of mind. It is vapoury and unreal.’

‘I should like to show you cause to alter your opinion, but—’

‘This is English,’ said Theodora, as her eye fell on a paper of verses that marked the place.

‘Ah, Lucy made me put it in. A few lines that occurred to me after watching Mrs. Martindale’s little boy.’

Thankful that they were not inspired by Venus’s little boy, she glanced over them, and saw they were in his best style, simple and pretty thoughts on the child’s content, wherever he traced any symbol of his father.

‘Poor little Johnnie is highly flattered,’ she said. ‘His mamma will be delighted.’

He begged her attention to the German poem, she glanced onward as he read, watching for shoals ahead, and spied something about a “hochbeseeltes madchen” inspiring a “Helden sanger geist”, and grew hotter and hotter till she felt ready to box his ears for intoning German instead of speaking plain English, and having it over. A cotton umbrella arose before her eyes, she heard the plashing gravel, and an honest voice telling her she was a grand creature in great need of being broken in.

The critical stanza had commenced, the reader’s voice trembled; Theodora did not heed, her mind was in the avenue at home. An opening door startled them.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Albert Moss.’

Her brother’s brother-in-law! the son and partner of Lord St. Erme’s steward! Was it thus his suit was to be checked?

There was no recognition; he went on reading his German to himself, while Albert presented Mrs. Albert Moss, resplendent in bridal finery, and displaying her white teeth in a broad smile, as with a nod, half-gracious, half-apologetic, she said, ‘I fear we interrupt a lesson; but we will not inconvenience you; we will go at once to our dear convalescent.’

‘Thank you, you do not interrupt me, and I do not think my sister is dressed yet. Indeed, I doubt whether I ought to allow her to see any one.’

‘O, you cannot be so cruel!’ cried Mrs. Moss, holding up her hands; ‘one little peep! our only day in town.’

‘Yes,’ said Albert. ‘I could not but gratify my Louisa’s anxiety to be introduced to her new relatives.’

‘I am afraid you must be disappointed, for my brother is with his regiment at Windsor, and my sister is still so weak that she ought to have no excitement.’

‘And we have only a few hours in town. The inexorable claims of business have recalled us to Wrangerton.’

The Earl looked up surprised, as if the word had recalled him from the clouds.

‘You have been in Wales, I think,’ said Theodora. ‘Were you pleased?’

‘Oh, I was enraptured!’ exclaimed the bride; ‘the sublime and romantic could be carried no higher! It makes me quite discontented with our home scenery.

‘Your sister would not approve of that,’ said Theodora to Albert;’ she can bear no slight to Helvellyn.’

‘I forget—is there a view of Helvellyn from Wrangerton?’ said Lord St. Erme, still somewhat dreamily.

Mrs. Moss started at hearing such good English from the German master, and patronizingly said, ‘Yes. Helvellyn is monarch of our picturesque. Do you ever come northwards?’

‘Not so often as, perhaps, I ought. I am afraid I know more of the Alps than of Helvellyn.’

‘I am sure,’ continued the voluble lady, ‘if ever you thought of such a scheme when the season is over, it would be well worth your while. I could reckon up many respectable families, who with such introductions—let me see, there are the Joneses, and the Dunlops, and the Evelyns, to say nothing of my new sisters, the Miss Mosses.’

‘I have no doubt it is a very good neighbourhood,’ said Lord St. Erme, rising. ‘I must go, or we shall miss the train. Can you tell me how soon you expect Lord Martindale?’

‘About the tenth or eleventh,’ said Theodora.

‘Thank you. Then I must wish you good-bye—’

‘And I must thank you in my sister’s name for the pleasure she will take in what you have done for her little boy. Remember me to Lady Lucy.’

That name was a revelation to Albert, and the door had scarcely closed before he exclaimed—‘Surely, Miss Martindale, that could not be Lord St. Erme!’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘Well!’ cried Mrs. Moss, ‘there was something decidedly the aristocrat in his moustache!’

Albert could not recover from his vexation at having missed such a chance, and was nearly setting off in pursuit of his lordship. Theodora was glad to escape for a moment, on the plea of seeing whether Violet could receive a visit.

In her absence the bride began—‘I can’t see that she is so handsome, after all! And I should be ashamed to wear such a dress as that!’

‘Distinguished people have freaks, my love. Bless me! if I had but known the Earl!’

‘I see how it is,’ said the wife; ‘a proud Countess we shall have.’

‘If one of the girls had but been here! Every one of them is prettier than this Miss Martindale. Who knows?’

‘Ah! I shall take care in a friendly way to let your sister know how her own family feel at her keeping aloof—’

‘I do not believe it is her fault, poor child,’ said Albert. ‘Martindale has set this haughty young lady to keep guard over her—’

‘We shall see,’ said the bride. ‘I am not used to be refused, and once with your sister, I will discover all her secrets.’

Fortunately for Violet, Theodora had found her so much exhausted by the fatigue of dressing, that she thought it safest, considering what a bride it was, not to divulge her presence in the house; and she came down with this intelligence, trying to compensate for it by civility, and by showing the children.

Mrs. Moss was not easily repulsed, she begged Miss Martindale to reconsider her verdict.

‘I must not relent; I am accountable to the doctor and to my brother.’

‘It shall not be your fault. You shall know nothing of it. I will find my way. Ah! I’m a giddy young thing. Nothing can stop me!’ and she stepped forward, laughing affectedly, and trying to look arch.

‘I cannot permit this. It might do serious harm,’ said Theodora, obliged to stand in her path, and to put on such a look of haughty command, that she was positively subdued and frightened, and went back to her seat in a meek state of silence, whence she only recovered to overwhelm poor Johnnie with her attentions. He cried and was sent away, and Mrs. Moss was obliged to be satisfied with the baby, though she looked as dignified and as little to be taken liberties with as any Martindale of them all.

They lingered on, hoping to weary out Miss Martindale’s patience, or that some chance might reveal their presence to Violet; but in vain; Theodora’s politeness was exemplary, and she endured Mrs. Albert Moss’s familiarity so well, that when at length they departed, the last words were a parting whisper, ‘Good morning, Miss Martindale. If we had known what we interrupted—but ah! I have gone through those things so lately, that I know how to feel for you, and can keep your secret.’

‘There is no subject of secrecy that I know of,’ said Theodora, more coldly than ever.

Hateful woman! Poor Violet! There, now, it will be all over the country that I am engaged to him! I must take him now, or I hope he will give it up on discovering my connections! Then I can despise him. Foolish man! why could he not say what he wanted? I should have got rid of him then; I was in the mood! However, he is out of the way for the present. Now to make the best of it with Violet.

Violet was grieved, both for her own sake and the vexation at home, but she so sweetly acquiesced in its having been right, and was so sure that her sister meant nothing but kindness, that Theodora, knowing that she herself could not have submitted with anything like patience, admired and loved her more than ever.

The gentleness and quietness of her demeanour were a refreshment to Theodora’s tossed and undecided mind; and in administering to her comfort and pleasure, the anxieties and remorse subsided into a calm like her own. How delightful was the day of her introduction to Johnnie’s portrait; her admiration, and tearful gratitude to the kind deviser of the gift, were the greatest pleasure Theodora had known for months; the discussion of every feature, the comparison of Johnnie with it, the history of the difficulties, and of his papa’s assistance, seemed a never-ending treat to both giver and receiver. The poem, too; it was very amusing to see how she could hardly believe that original verses could possibly be written on her boy, and then when set to guess whose they were, she began with a hesitating ‘Miss Marstone is the only person near who makes verses, and these are too pretty to be hers.’

‘Ah! if you would follow Emma’s advice, and call the baby Osyth, after the first Prioress, you might have a chance from that quarter.’

It could not be Mr. Fotheringham, the only poet she could think of, and she could only beg to be told.

‘There is one whom a Wrangerton woman should not forget.’

‘Lord St. Erme! You ARE laughing at me, Theodora. He never even saw Johnnie!’

Theodora explained the two meetings, anxious to see her way of thinking. ‘It is a wonderful thing!’ was her first remark. ‘Who would have told me how it would be three years ago? They are very pretty.’

‘I do not think you like them the better for being his,’ said Theodora.

‘I ought,’ said Violet; ‘no other great man ever seems to me so grand as our own Earl.’

‘I want your real feeling.’

‘You know,’ said Violet, smiling, ‘I cannot think them done only for Johnnie’s sake—’

‘And, therefore, they do not please you.’

‘Not exactly that; but—if you don’t mind my saying so, I feel as if I had rather—it might be better—I don’t want to be ungrateful, but if you were getting into a scrape for the sake of pleasing me, I should be sorry. Forgive me, Theodora, you made me say so.’

‘You are consideration itself,’ said Theodora, affectionately. ‘Never mind, he is out of the way. We will let him go off poetizing to Germany; and under your wing at home, I will get into no more mischief.’

That was a pleasant prospect, and Violet reposed on the thought of the enjoyment of Martindale without its formidable inhabitants; trying in it to forget the pain of parting with her husband for a month, and her longings to spend it at her own home, and see Johnnie strengthened by Helvellyn breezes; while to Theodora it seemed like the opening into peace and goodness.

One forenoon, Violet, on coming down-stairs, found her sister writing extremely fast, and seeing an envelope on the table in Lord Martindale’s writing, asked if it was his answer to Theodora’s plan.

‘Yes.’

‘Ah!’ said Violet, perceiving something was amiss, ‘they have spared you to me a long time already.’

‘Don’t be uneasy,’ said Theodora; ‘I’ll settle it.’

‘But,’ exclaimed Violet, ‘I could not bear that you should be with me if they want you.’

‘That is not it; papa has something in his head; I will settle it.’

Violet knew what was indicated by the over-erectness of Theodora’s head. To be the cause of family discussion was frightful, but she had a nervous dread of thwarting Theodora.

‘I wish you would not look at me,’ exclaimed Theodora.

‘I beg your pardon,’ sighed she.

‘What’s the use of that when I know you are not satisfied, and do not trust me?’

‘Don’t be angry with me,’ implored Violet, with a quivering voice, and tears of weakness in her eyes. ‘I cannot help it. I do not want to interfere, but as it is for me, I must beg you to tell me you are not pressing to stay with me when Lady Martindale wishes for you.’

‘No one ever wants me. No, but papa thinks that you and I cannot be trusted together. He says he cannot leave me with one who has so little authority.’

That indignant voice contrasted with the gentle answer, ‘I do not wonder; I have always thought if I had been older and better able to manage—’

‘No such thing!’ exclaimed Theodora; ‘you are the only person who ever exercised any control over me.’

‘O, hush! you do not know what you are saying.’

‘It is the truth, and you know it. When you choose, every one yields to you, and so do I.’

‘Indeed, I did not know it,’ said Violet, much distressed. ‘I am very sorry if I am overbearing; I did not think I was.’

Theodora fairly laughed at such a word being applied to the mild, yielding creature, who looked so pale and feeble. ‘Very domineering, indeed!’ she said. ‘No, no, my dear, it is only that you are always right. When you disapprove, I cannot bear to hurt and grieve you, because you take it so quietly.’

‘You are so very kind to me.’

‘So, if papa wishes me to come to good, he had better leave me to you.’

‘I don’t think that ought to be,’ said Violet, feebly.

‘What, not that you should be my only chance—that you should calm me and guide me when every one else has failed—’

‘Theodora, dear, I do not think I ought to like to hear you say so. It cannot be safe for you to submit to me rather than to your father.’

‘He never had any moral power over me. He never convinced me, nor led me to yield my will,’ said Theodora, proud perhaps of her voluntary submission to her gentle sister-in-law, and magnifying its extent; but Violet was too right-minded, in her simplicity, to be flattered by an allegiance she knew to be misplaced.

‘I should not like baby to say so by and by,’ she whispered.

‘There’s an esprit de corps in parents,’ cried Theodora, half angrily; ‘but Helen will never be like me. She will not be left to grow up uncared for and unloved till one-and-twenty, and then, when old enough for independence, be for the first time coerced and reproached. If people never concern themselves about their children, they need not expect the same from them as if they had brought them up properly.’

‘That is a sad thought,’ pensively said the young mother.

‘I declare you shall hear the letter, that you may own that it is unreasonable—unbearable!’ And she read—

‘“I have been considering your request to spend the time of our absence at home with Mrs. Martindale, but I cannot think fit to comply with it. Arthur’s income is fully sufficient to provide change of air for his family; and he ought not to expect always to leave his wife on other people’s hands, while he is pursuing his own diversions.”’

Theodora was glad to see that this did rouse Violet’s indignation.

‘Oh! he does not know. Do tell him it was all your kindness! Tell him that Arthur is not going for long. He must not think such things.’

‘He thinks much more injustice,’ said Theodora. ‘Listen:—“After so long an absence, it is high time you should rejoin us; and, considering what has occurred, you cannot be surprised that I should be unwilling to leave you with one so young and of so little authority over you. Though I acquit her of all blame for your indiscretions—” (There, Violet, I hope you are much obliged to him!) “I should not have consented to your remaining with her up to the present time, if it had not been a case of urgent necessity, as I wish to have you under my own eye.” (As if he had ever made any use of it?) “You might as well be alone here as with her; and, after your late conduct, I cannot put the confidence in your prudence that I should desire. Violet has, I have no doubt, acted amiably; and her youth, inexperience, and gentleness fully excuse her in my eyes for having been unable to restrain you; but they are reasons sufficient to decide me on not leaving you with her at present. We shall be in London on Monday, the 11th, and I wish you to be in readiness to join us when we embark for Ostend on the following evening. Give my kind love to Violet, and tell her I am glad she is going on well, and that I am much pleased with my grand-daughter’s intended name.” There, Violet, what do you think of that?’

‘Pray make him understand that Arthur wanted a change very much, and will not be long gone.’

‘Arthur! You cannot feel for any one else!’

‘I did not mean to be selfish!’ said Violet, sorry for having seemed to be wanting in sympathy.

‘No, indeed! You never think what would become of you left alone, with two babies that cannot walk!’

‘Never mind me, I shall manage very well, I don’t like to have a disturbance made on my account. I cannot think how you can hesitate after such a letter as this.’

‘That is the very thing. He would never have dared to say these things to my face! Now let me tell you. I know I have been much to blame; you made me feel it. You are taming me; and if he leaves me to you I may be more dutiful when he comes back. But if he strains his new notion of authority too far, and if you throw me off, I shall be driven to do what will grieve and disappoint you.’

‘But surely,’ said Violet, ‘it cannot be the right beginning of being dutiful to resist the first thing that is asked of you.’

‘You wish me to go to be fretted and angered! to be without one employment to drown painful thoughts, galled by attempts at controlling me; my mind poisoned by my aunt, chilled by my mother—to be given up to my worse nature, without perhaps even a church to go to!’

‘It is very hard,’ said Violet; ‘but if we are to submit, it cannot be only when we see fit. Would it not be better to make a beginning that costs you something?’

‘And lose my hope of peaceful guidance!’

‘I do believe,’ said Violet, ‘that if you go patiently, because it is your duty, that you will be putting yourself under the true guidance; but for you to extort permission to stay with me, when your father disapproves, would be only following your own way. I should be afraid. I will not undertake it, for it would not be right, and mischief would be sure to ensue.’

‘Then you give me up?’

‘Give you up! dear, dear sister;’ and Violet rose and threw her arms round Theodora. ‘No, indeed! When I am so glad that I may love you as I always wished! I shall think of you, and write to you, and pray for you,’ whispered she. ‘All I can I will do for you, but you must not say any more of staying with me now. I can help you better in my right place than out of it.’

Theodora returned the caress and quitted the room, leaving Violet to her regrets and fears. It was a great sacrifice of herself, and still worse, of her poor little pale boy, and she dreaded that it might be the ruin of the beneficial influence which, to her amazement, she found ascribed to her, in the most unexpected quarter. It had gone to her heart to refuse Theodora’s kindness, and all that was left for her was to try to still her fluttering, agitated spirits by the consciousness that she had striven to do right, and by the prayer that all might work for good.

Indeed, it was very remarkable how, in this critical period of Theodora’s life, when repentance was engaged in so severe a conflict with her long-nourished pride and passion, in all the tossings of her mind she had, as it were, anchored herself to her docile, gentle sister-in-law, treating her like a sort of embodiment of her better mind. Violet’s serenity and lowliness seemed to breathe peace on a storm-tossed ocean; and her want of self-assertion to make Theodora proud of submitting to her slightest wish without a struggle. Those vehement affections were winding themselves about her and her children; and the temper that had flown into fierce insubordination at the first control from lawful authority, laid itself at the feet of one whose power was in meekness. It was the lion curbed by the maiden; but because the subjection was merely a caprice, it was no conquest of self-will.