‘I say,’ called Arthur, standing half in and half out of the French window, as Sarah paced round the little garden, holding a parasol over her charge, ‘if that boy kicks up a row at night, don’t mind Mrs. Martindale. Carry him off, and lock the door. D’ye hear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the unmoved Sarah.

‘Stern, rugged nurse!’ said Arthur, drawing in his head. ‘Your boy ought to be virtue itself, Violet. Now for you, John, if you see her at those figures, take them away. Don’t let her think what two and two make.’

‘You are like one of my little sisters giving her doll to the other to keep,’ said Violet.

‘Some folks say it is a doll, don’t they, John?’

‘Well, I will try to take as much care of your doll as she does of hers,’ said John, smiling.

‘Good-bye, then! I wish I could stay!’

Violet went to the gate with him, while John stood at the window watching the slender girlish figure under the canopy of clematis, as she stood gazing after her husband, then turned and slowly paced back again, her eyes on the ground, and her face rather sad and downcast.

That pretty creature was a strange new charge for him, and he dreaded her pining almost as he would have feared the crying of a child left alone with him.

‘Well, Violet,’ said he, cheerfully, ‘we must do our best. What time would you like to take a drive?’

‘Any time, thank you,’ said she, gratefully, but somewhat plaintively; ‘but do not let me be a trouble to you. Sarah is going to hire a chair for me to go down to the beach. I only want not to be in your way.’

‘I have nothing to do. You know I am no great walker, and I am glad of an excuse for setting up my carriage. Shall we dine early, and go out when the sun is not so high?’

‘Thank you! that will be delightful. I want to see those beautiful places that I was too tired to look at on Saturday.’

Sarah’s rounds again brought her in sight; Violet crossed the grass, and the next moment was under the verandah with the little long-robed chrysalis shape in her arms, declaring he was growing quite good, and getting fat already; and though to John’s eyes the face was as much as ever like a very wizened old man, he could not but feel heartfelt pleasure in seeing her for once enjoying a young mother’s exultation.

‘Poor thing!’ said he to himself, as she carried the babe upstairs, ‘she has done too much, thought too much, felt too much for her years. Life has begun before she has strength for the heat and burthen of the day. The only hope is in keeping those overtasked spirits at rest, guarding her from care, and letting her return to childhood. And should this work fall on me, broken down in spirits and energy, with these long-standing habits of solitude and silence? If Helen was but here!’

He was relieved by Violet’s reappearance at dinner-time, full of smiles, proud of Johnnie’s having slept half the morning, and delighted with “Mary Barton”, which, on his system of diversion for her mind, he had placed in her way. She was amazed and charmed at finding that he could discuss the tale with interest and admiration.

‘Arthur calls such books trash,’ said she.

‘He reads them, though.’

‘Yes, he always reads the third volume while I read the first.’

‘The best way. I always begin at the end to judge whether a book is worth reading.’

‘I saw a French book on the table; are you reading it?’

‘Consulting it. You are welcome to it.’

‘I think,’ she said, timidly, ‘I ought to read some history and French, or I shall never be fit to teach my little boy.’

‘I have a good many books at home, entirely at your service.’

‘Thank you, thank you! I thought last winter if I could but have read, I should not have minded half so much.’

‘And why could you not?’

‘I had finished all my own books, and they cost too much to hire, so there was only a great Roman History that Arthur had had at school. I could not read more than thirty pages of that a day, it was so stupid.’

‘And you read those as a task! Very wise!’

‘Matilda said my education was incomplete, and she feared I should be found deficient; and mamma told me to make a point of reading something improving every day, but I have not begun again.’

‘I have some work on my hands,’ said John. ‘I was with Percy Fotheringham eight years ago in Syria and Asia Minor. He has gone over the same places a second time, and has made the journals up into a book on the Crusaders, which he has sent from Constantinople for me to get ready for publication. I shall come to you for help.’

‘Me! How can I?’ exclaimed Violet, colouring with astonishment.

‘Let us enjoy our holiday first,’ he replied, smiling. ‘See there.’

A low open carriage and a pair of ponies came to the gate; Violet was enchanted, and stood admiring and patting them, while John looked on amused, telling her he was glad she approved, for he had desired Brown to find something in which Captain Martindale would not be ashamed to see her.

They drove along the Undercliff, and her enjoyment was excessive. To one so long shut up in town, the fresh air, blue sky, and green trees were charms sufficient in themselves, and when to these were added the bright extent of summer sea, the beautiful curving outline of the bay ending in the bold Culver Cliffs, and the wall of rocks above, clothed in part with garland-like shrubs and festoons of creepers, it was to her a perfect vision of delight. There was an alternation of long pauses of happy contemplation, and of smothered exclamations of ecstasy, as if eye and heart were longing to take a still fuller grasp of the beauty of the scene. The expression her face had worn at the cathedral entrance was on it now, and seemed to put a new soul into her features, varied by the beaming smiles as she cried out joyously at each new object-the gliding sails on the water, the curious forms of the crags, or the hawks that poised themselves in the air.

The flowers, too! They came to a lane bordered with copse, blue with wild hyacinth. ‘Oh! it was so long since she had seen a wild flower! Would he be so kind as to stop for one moment to let her gather one. She did so much wish to pick a flower for herself once more!’

He drew up, and sat, leaning back, watching her with one of his smiles of melancholy meaning, as she lightly sprang up the bank, and dived between the hazel stems; and there he remained musing till, like a vision of May herself, she reappeared on the bank, the nut-bushes making a bower around her, her hands filled with flowers, her cheek glowing like her wild roses, and the youthful delicacy of her form, and the transient brightness of her sweet face, suiting with the fresh tender colouring of the foliage, chequered with flickering sunshine.

‘Oh! I hope I have not kept you waiting too long! but, indeed, I did not know how to turn back. I went after an orchis, and then I saw some Solomon’s seal; and oh! such bluebells, and I could not help standing quite still to feel how delicious it was! I hope that it was not long.’

‘No, not at all, I am glad.’

There was a moisture around the bright eyes, and perhaps she felt a little childish shame, for she put up her hand to brush it off. ‘It is very silly,’ she said. ‘Beautiful places ought not to make one ready to cry—and yet somehow, when I stood quite still, and it was all so green, and I heard the cuckoo and all the little birds singing, it would come over me! I could not help thinking who made it all so beautiful, and that He gave me my baby too.’—And there, as having said too much, she blushed in confusion, and began to busy herself with her flowers, delighting herself in silence over each many-belled hyacinth, each purple orchis, streaked wood sorrel, or delicate wreath of eglantine, deeming each in turn the most perfect she had ever seen.

John let her alone; he thought the May blossoms more suitable companions for her than himself, and believed that it would only interfere with that full contentment to be recalled to converse with him. It was pleasure enough to watch that childlike gladsomeness, like studying a new life, and the relief it gave him to see her so happy perhaps opened his mind to somewhat of the same serene enjoyment.

That evening, when Brown, on bringing in the tea, gave an anxious glance to judge how his master fared, he augured from his countenance that the change of habits was doing him no harm.

In the evening, Mr. Fotheringham’s manuscript was brought out: John could never read aloud, but he handed over the sheets to her, and she enjoyed the vivid descriptions and anecdotes of adventures, further illustrated by comments and details from John, far more entertaining than those designed for the public. This revision was their usual evening occupation, and she soon became so well instructed in those scenes, that she felt as if she had been one of the travellers, and had known the handsome Arab sheik, whose chivalrous honour was only alloyed by desire of backsheesh, the Turkish guard who regularly deserted on the first alarm, and the sharp knavish Greek servant with his contempt for them all, more especially for the grave and correct Mr. Brown, pining to keep up Martindale etiquette in desert, caravanserai, and lazzeretto. She went along with them in the researches for Greek inscription, Byzantine carving, or Frank fortress; she shared the exultation of deciphering the ancient record in the venerable mountain convent, the disappointment when Percy’s admirable entrenched camp of Bohemond proved to be a case of ‘praetorian here, praetorian there;’ she listened earnestly to the history, too deeply felt to have been recorded for the general reader, of the feelings which had gone with the friends to the cedars of Lebanon, the streams of Jordan, the peak of Tabor, the cave of Bethlehem, the hills of Jerusalem. Perhaps she looked up the more to John, when she knew that he had trod that soil, and with so true a pilgrim’s heart. Then the narration led her through the purple mountain islets of the Archipelago, and the wondrous scenery of classic Greece, with daring adventures among robber Albanians, such as seemed too strange for the quiet inert John Martindale, although the bold and gay temper of his companion appeared to be in its own element; and in truth it was as if there was nothing that came amiss to Percival Fotheringham, who was equally ready for deep and scholarly dissertation, or for boyish drollery and good-natured tricks. He had a peculiar talent for languages, and had caught almost every dialect of the natives, as well as being an excellent Eastern scholar, and this had led to his becoming attached to the embassy at Constantinople, where John had left him on returning to England. He was there highly esteemed, and in the way of promotion, to the great satisfaction of John, who took a sort of affectionate fatherly pride in his well-doing.

The manuscript evinced so much ability and research, and was so full of beautiful and poetical description, as not only charmed Violet, but surpassed even John’s expectations; and great was his delight in dwelling on its perfections, while he touched it up and corrected it with a doubtful, respectful hand, scarcely perceiving how effective were his embellishments and refinements. Violet’s remarks and misunderstanding were useful, and as she grew bolder, her criticisms were often much to the point. She was set to search in historical authorities, and to translate from the French for the notes, work which she thought the greatest honour, and which kept her mind happily occupied to the exclusion of her cares.

Fresh air, busy idleness, the daily renewed pleasure of beautiful scenery, the watchful care of her kind brother, and the progressive improvement of her babe, produced the desired effect; and when the promised day arrived, and they walked to the coach-office to meet Arthur, it was a triumph to hear him declare that he had been thinking that for once he saw a pretty girl before he found out it was Violet, grown rosy in her sea-side bonnet.

If the tenor of John’s life had been far less agreeable, it would have been sufficiently compensated by the pleasure of seeing how happy he had made the young couple, so joyously engrossed with each other, and full of spirits and merriment.

Violet was gladsome and blithe at meeting her husband again, and Arthur, wholesomely and affectionately gay, appearing to uncommon advantage. He spoke warmly of his father. It seemed that they had been much together, and had understood each other better than ever before. Arthur repeated gratifying things which Lord Martindale had said of Violet, and, indeed, it was evident that interest in her was the way to find out his heart. Of his mother and sister there was less mention, and John began to gather the state of the case as he listened in the twilight of the summer evening, while Arthur and Violet sat together on the sofa, and he leant back in his chair opposite to them, his book held up to catch the fading light; but his attention fixed on their talk over Arthur’s news.

‘You have not told me about the drawing-room.’

‘Do you think I am going there till I am obliged!’

‘What! You did not go with Lady Martindale and Theodora? I should like to have seen them dressed. Do tell me how they looked.’

‘Splendid, no doubt; but you must take it on trust.’

‘You did not see them! What a pity! How disappointed Theodora must have been!’

‘Were there not folks enough to look at her?’

‘As if they were of any use without you.’

‘Little goose! I am not her husband, thank goodness, and wishing him joy that gets her.’

‘O, Arthur, don’t! I want to hear of Lady Albury’s party. You did go to that!’

‘Yes, my mother lugged me into it, and a monstrous bore it was. I wish you had been there.’

‘Thank you, but if it was so dull—’

‘Emma Brandon and I agreed that there was not a woman who would have been looked at twice if you had been there. We wanted you for a specimen of what is worth seeing. Fancy! it was such a dearth of good looks that they were making a star of Mrs. Finch! It was enough to put one in a rage. I told Theodora at last, since she would have it, there was nothing in the woman but impudence.’

John glanced over his book, and perceived that to Arthur there appeared profanation in the implied comparison of that flashy display of beauty with the pure, modest, tender loveliness, whose every blush and smile, as well as the little unwonted decorations assumed to honour his presence, showed, that its only value was the pleasure it gave to him. His last speech made her tone somewhat of reproof. ‘Oh! that must have vexed her, I am afraid. She is very fond of Mrs. Finch.’

‘Out of opposition,’ said Arthur. ‘It is too bad, I declare! That Georgina was well enough as a girl, spirited and like Theodora, only Theodora always had sense. She was amusing then, but there is nothing so detestable as a woman who continues “fast” after marriage.’

‘Except a man,’ observed John, in a tone of soliloquy. ‘She has grown so thin, too!’ continued Arthur. ‘She used to be tolerably handsome when she was a fine plump rosy girl. Now she is all red cheek-bone and long neck! We are come to a pretty pass when we take her for a beauty!’

Oh! but there is your sister,’ said Violet. ‘Do tell me how she likes going out. She thought it would be such a penance.’

‘All I know is, that at home she is as sulky as a Greenland bear, and then goes out and flirts nineteen to the dozen.’

Arthur!’ came the remonstrating voice again, ‘how you talk—do you mean that she is silent at home? Is she unhappy? What can be the matter with her?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Has not she said anything about baby?’

‘Not she. Not one of them has, except my father.’

‘I thought she would have liked to have heard of baby,’ said Violet, in a tone of disappointment; ‘but if there is anything on her spirits, perhaps she cannot think about him. I wonder what it can be. It cannot be any—any—’

‘Any love affair! No! no! Miss Martindale may break hearts enough, but she will take care of her own, if she has one.’

‘Is she so much admired?’

‘Of course she is. You do not often see her style, and she talks and goes on at no end of a rate.’

‘I remember how she grew excited at the ball, after disliking the prospect.’

‘Is this mere general admiration,’ asked John, ‘or anything more serious?’

‘Upon my word, I cannot say. There is no earnest on her part. She will rattle on with a poor fellow one night as if she had eyes for no one else, then leave him in the lurch the next. She cares not a rush for any of them, only wants to be run after. As to her followers, some of them are really smitten, I fancy. There was Fitzhugh, but he is an old hand, and can pay her in her own coin, and that sober-faced young Mervyn—it is a bad case with him. In fact, there is a fresh one whenever she goes out—a Jenny Dennison in high life—but the most bitten of all, I take it, is Lord St. Erme.’

‘Lord St. Erme!’ exclaimed both auditors in a breath.

‘Ay. She met him at that breakfast, walked about the gardens with him all the morning, and my mother wrote to my aunt, I believe, that she was booked. Then at this Bryanstone soiree, the next night, Fitzhugh was in the ascendant—poor St. Erme could not so much as gain a look.’

‘So he is in London!’ said Violet. ‘Do tell me what he is like.’

‘Like a German music-master,’ said Arthur. ‘As queer a figure as ever I saw. Keeps his hair parted in the middle, hanging down in long lank rats’ tails, meant to curl, moustache ditto, open collar turned down, black ribbon tie.’

‘Oh! how amazed the Wrangerton people would be!’

‘It is too much to study the picturesque in one’s own person in England!’ said John, laughing. ‘I am sorry he continues that fashion.’

‘So, of course,’ continued Arthur, ‘all the young ladies are raving after him, while he goes mooning after Theodora. How the fair sex must solace itself with abusing “that Miss Martindale!”’

‘I wish he would be a little more sensible,’ said John. ‘He really is capable of something better.’

‘Where did you know him?’

‘At Naples. I liked him very much till he persecuted me beyond endurance with Tennyson and Browning. He is always going about in raptures with some new-fashioned poet.’

‘I suppose he will set up Theodora for his muse. My mother is enchanted; he is exactly one of her own set, music, pictures, and all. The second-hand courtship is a fine chance for her when Miss Martindale is ungracious.’

‘But it will not come to anything,’ said John. ‘In the meantime, her ladyship gets the benefit of a lion, and a very tawny lion, for her soirees.’

‘Oh! that soiree will be something pleasant for you,’ said Violet.

‘I shall cut it. It is the first day I can be here.’

‘Not meet that great African traveller?’

‘What good would Baron Munchausen himself do me in the crowd my mother is heaping together?’

‘I am sure your mother and sister must want you.’

‘Want must be their master. I am not going to elbow myself about and be squashed flat for their pleasure. It is a dozen times worse to be in a mob at home, for one has to find chairs for all the ladies. Pah!’

‘That is very lazy!’ said the wife. ‘You will be sorry to have missed it when it is too late, and your home people will be vexed.’

‘Who cares? My father does not, and the others take no pains not to vex us.’

‘O, Arthur! you know it makes it worse if you always come to me when they want you. I could wait very well. Only one day above all you must come,’ said she, with lowered voice, in his ear.

‘What’s that?’

John could not see how, instead of speaking, she guided her husband’s hand to her wedding-ring. His reply transpired—‘I’ll not fail. Which day is it?’

‘Friday week. I hope you will be able!’

‘I’ll manage it. Why, it will be your birthday, too!’

‘Yes, I shall be so glad to be seventeen. I shall feel as if baby would respect me more. Oh! I am glad you can come, but you must be good, and go to the soiree. I do think it would not be right always to leave them when they want you. Tell him so, please, Mr. Martindale.’

John did so, but Arthur made no promises, and even when the day came, they were uncertain whether they might think of him at the party, or as smoking cigars at home.