Arthur did not succeed in eluding Lady Elizabeth. She called the day after the funeral, begging especially to see Mrs. Martindale. She looked absent and abstracted, while Lord Martindale was talking to her, and soon entreated Violet to come with her for a short drive.

No sooner were they in the carriage than she said, ‘Violet, my dear, can you or Arthur tell me anything of this Mr. Gardner?’

‘I know very little of him personally,’ said Violet, for he was too much an associate of her husband’s for her to be willing to expose him; ‘but are you sure we mean the same person?’

‘Quite sure. Did you not hear that Arthur met him at Gothlands?’

‘No; I have had very little talk with him since he came back, and this fire has put everything out of our minds.’

‘Of course it must, my dear. However, Arthur came with Mr. Herries to dine there, and met Mr. Gardner as an old friend; so he must be the same, and I am particularly anxious for some account of him. I must tell you why—I know I am safe with you—but you will be very much surprised, after all her declarations—’

‘O, Lady Elizabeth, it cannot be that.’

‘I have always been prepared for something of the sort. But what, my dear?’ seeing her agitation, and quickly infected by it.

‘O, don’t let her,’ was all Violet could utter.

‘Tell me! what is he?—what do you know of him? They spoke of him as once having been extravagant—’

Violet drew a long breath, and tried to speak with composure. ‘He is a dreadful man, gambling, betting, dissipated—such a person that Arthur never lets him come near me or the children. How could he dare think of her?’

‘Can it be the same?’ said Lady Elizabeth, infinitely shocked, but catching at the hope. ‘This man is Lady Fotheringham’s nephew.’

‘Yes, he is,’ said Violet sadly. ‘There is no other cousin named Mark. Why, don’t you remember all the talk about Mrs. Finch?’

So little had Lady Elizabeth heeded scandal, that she had hardly known these stories, and had not identified them with the name of Gardner. Still she strove to think the best. ‘Arthur will be able to tell me,’ she said; ‘but every one seems fully satisfied of his reformation—the curate of the parish and all. I do not mean that I could bear to think of her being attached to a person who had been to blame. Her own account of him alarmed me enough, poor dear child, but when I hear of the clergyman, and Theresa Marstone, and all admiring his deep feeling of repentance—’

‘How can he be so wicked!’ exclaimed Violet.

‘You are convinced that he is not sincere?’

‘Why, of course, one does not like to say anything uncharitable; but there is something shocking in the notion of his talking of being good. If he did repent he would know how horrible it would be for him to marry Emma—’

‘He does affect great humility. He declares that no one can be more conscious of his unfitness than himself; but he was betrayed into this confession of his sentiments—Emma’s purity and devotedness, as Theresa writes to me, having been such powerful instruments in leading him to a better course. If it was not for poor Emma’s fortune, one might trust this more! Oh! Violet, I never so much was inclined to wish that her brother had been spared!’

‘But surely—surely Emma cannot like him?’

‘I grieve to say that she and her friend have been in one of their fits of enthusiasm. He seemed to accord with their idea of a penitent—only longing for stricter rules than are to be found with us. From what I have heard, I should have been much less surprised if he had become a monk of La Trappe; in fact, I was almost afraid of it.’

‘And does not this undeceive them?’

‘No; poor Emma’s only doubt is because she cannot bear to be unstable, and to desert the work to which she was almost pledged; but she says she is ashamed to perceive how much the sacrifice would cost her. She adds, that decide as she may, he concurs with her in devoting everything to the restoration of the Priory.’

‘Poor Emma! He has debts enough to swallow two-thirds! And Miss Marstone, what does she say?’

‘His becoming a suitor seems to have been a surprise and disappointment to her; but if she thinks him a pupil of her own, or expects to govern the Priory in poor Emma’s stead, she will be in his favour. No; I have no hope from Theresa Marstone’s discretion.’

‘The rest of the family?’

‘Theresa despises the others too much to attend to them. Mr. Randall seems to be startled at the present aspect of affairs, and asks me to come; and I should have set off this morning, but that I thought I might learn something from you and Arthur.’

‘Every one would tell you the same. He was expelled from the University, and has gone on shockingly ever since, breaking his mother’s heart! Poor Emma! after dreading every gentleman!’

‘I fear she has much to suffer. He made her think him not a marrying man, and put her off her guard. Did you say he was agreeable?’

‘Perhaps I might think so if I knew nothing about him; but I have always had a repugnance to him, and it is all I can do not to dislike him more than is right. If I saw him speak to Johnnie, I think I should!’

‘And now tell me, for I ought to have every proof, if you know anything that would convince Emma that this present repentance is assumed?’

Violet coloured excessively. ‘Arthur could tell’ she said, half choked, and as Lady Elizabeth still waited, she was obliged to add, He was active in the same way at the last races. I know there are things going on still that a man who really meant to reform would have broken off. Arthur could give you proofs.’

Violet could not bear to be more explicit. Her own secret feeling was that Mr. Gardner was her husband’s evil genius, leading him astray, and robbing her of his affection, and she was not far mistaken. Sneers, as if he was under her government, were often employed to persuade him to neglect her, and continue his ruinous courses; and if she shrunk from Gardner, he in return held her in malicious aversion, both as a counter influence and as a witness against him. It was the constant enmity of light to darkness, of evil to innocence.

The whole drive was spent in conversing on this engrossing theme; Lady Elizabeth lamenting the intimacy with Sarah Theresa, a clever, and certainly in many respects an excellent person, but with a strong taste for singularity and for dominion, who had cultivated Emma’s naturally ardent and clinging nature into an exclusive worship of her; and, by fostering all that was imaginative in her friends composition, had led her to so exalted an estimate of their own ideal that they alike disdained all that did not coincide with it, and spurned all mere common sense. Emma’s bashfulness had been petted and promoted as unworldly, till now, like the holes in the philosopher’s cloak, it was self-satisfaction instead of humility. This made the snare peculiarly dangerous, and her mother was so doubtful how far she would be guided, as to take no comfort from Violet’s assurances that Mr. Gardner’s character could be proved to be such that no woman in her senses could think, a second time, of accepting him.

‘I cannot tell,’ said poor Lady Elizabeth; ‘they will think all wiped out by his reform. Emma speaks already of aiding him to redeem the past. Ah! my dear,’ in answer to a look, ‘you have not seen my poor child of late: you do not know how much more opinionative she has become, or rather, Theresa has made her. I wish she could have been more with you.’

‘I never was enough of a companion to her, said Violet. ‘In my best days I was not up to her, and now, between cares and children, I grow more dull every day.’

‘Your best days! my dear child. Why, how old are you?’

‘Almost twenty-two,’ said Violet; ‘but I have been married nearly six years. I am come into the heat and glare of middle life. Not that I mean to complain,’ said she, rousing her voice to cheerfulness; ‘but household matters do not make people companions for those who have their youthfulness, and their readings, and schemes.’

‘I wish Emma could have been drawn to take interest in your sound practical life.’

‘If she would make a friend of Theodora!’

‘Yes, but the old childish fear of her is not gone; and Emma used to think her rather wild and flighty, and so indeed did I; but how she is changed! I have been much pleased with conversations with her of late. Do you think it is owing to Mr. Hugh Martindale’s influence?’

‘In great part it is. What a blessing it is to them all to have him here.’

‘Ah! it has been one of the things that made me most dread Theresa, that she will not like that good man.’

‘What can she say against him?’

‘I don’t exactly understand them. They called him a thorough Anglican, and said he did not feel the universal pulse! Now, I know it has been unfortunate for Emma that our own vicar does not enter into these ways of thinking; but I thought, when Mr. Hugh Martindale came into the neighbourhood, that there would be some one to appeal to; but I believe Theresa will trust to no one but of her own choosing.’

They had come back to the parsonage-gate, and Lady Elizabeth set Violet down, promising to write as soon as she arrived at Gothlands; Arthur was sauntering in the garden, and as soon as the carriage was out of sight, came to meet her.

‘O, Arthur, Lady Elizabeth wanted to speak to you. Cannot you catch her?’

‘I? No. Nonsense.’

‘She wanted to ask you about Mr. Gardner. Was it he whom you met at Gothlands?’

‘Well, what of that?’

‘Poor Lady Elizabeth! Is it not shocking that he has been making an offer to Emma?’

‘He has, has he? Well, and what is she going to do?’

‘There can be but one answer,’ said Violet. ‘Lady Elizabeth came to hear about him.’

‘A fine chance for gossip for you.’

‘I was forced to tell her,’ said she, trying to hide the pain given her by his contemptuous tone. ‘I would not have spoken if I could have helped it.’

‘Ay!’ said Arthur, ‘as he says, set on a lady to talk of her husband’s friends.’

‘But, oh! Arthur, what could I do? Think of poor Emma.’

‘Emma is a fool.’

‘Only you must not be angry with me. I would have said nothing without cause, but when it comes to this,—and he is pretending to be reformed.’

‘Well, so he might be if you would let him.’

‘But, Arthur!’ then eagerly seizing a new hope, ‘you don’t mean that he is really improving? Oh! has he given up those horses, and released you?

He turned petulantly away. ‘How can he? You have taken away any chance of it now. You have done for him, and it is of no use to go on any more about it.’

He marched off to his own abode, while she was obliged to sit down under the verandah to compose herself before Theodora should see her.

Theodora perceived that much was amiss; but was spared much anxiety by not being with the family, and able to watch her brother. The cottage was completely furnished from the wreck of Martindale; but the removal thither was deferred by her slow recovery. Though not seriously ill, she had been longer laid up than had been anticipated in a person so healthy and strong; the burns would not heal satisfactorily, and she was weak and languid. It seemed as if the unsparing fatigues she had been in the habit of undergoing; her immoderate country walks—her over late and over early hours, had told on her frame, and rendered the effects of her illness difficult to shake off. Or, thought Violet, those tidings might be the secret cause, although she never referred to them, and continued not merely patient, but full of vigour of mind, cheerful, and as independent and enterprising as submission to orders permitted. Her obedience to irksome rules was so ready and implicit, that Violet marvelled, till she perceived that it was part of her system of combat with self-will; and she took the departure of her sister in the same manner, forbearing to harass Violet with lamentations; and when her mother deplored it, made answer, ‘It is my fault. If I had not persuaded Arthur out of living at Brogden, we should be staying with them.’

As to the chance of permanent disfigurement, she treated it very coolly, listening with indifference to her mother’s frequent inquiries of the surgeon. ‘Never mind, mamma, you and Violet will keep up the beauty of the family till Helen comes out.’

The first time she was able to come down-stairs was the last evening before they were to depart. One of Arthur’s sparks of kindly feeling awoke when he beheld his once handsome, high-spirited sister, altered and wrapped up, entering the room with an invalid step and air; and though she tried to look about in a bright ‘degage’ manner, soon sinking into the cushioned chair by the window with a sigh of languor. The change was greater than he had anticipated from his brief visits to her in her bed-room; and, recollecting the cause of the injuries, he perceived the ingratitude of depriving her of Violet; but his contrition came too late, for he had already exchanged his leave of absence with another officer.

All that was in his power was to wait upon her with that engaging attention that rendered him so good a nurse. He was his pleasantest self, and she was so lively as to put every one else into good spirits. It was pretty to see the universal pleasure in her recovery—the weeding woman, going home late, and looking up at the window to see if she was there, as Miss Helen had promised, and curtseying, hardly able to speak for joy and grief together, when Theodora beckoned her to the window, and asked after her children. The dumb page, too, had watched an hour for her crossing the hall and when Arthur would have taken the tea from him, to hand to her, he gave such a beseeching glance as was quite irresistible, and the more affecting as Theodora’s hands were not yet in condition to converse with him, and she was forced to constitute Johnnie her interpreter.

It was long since any of them had spent so happy an evening; and at night Arthur insisted on helping her up-stairs, and said, ‘I declare it is a shame not to leave you Violet. Suppose you keep her till you are all right again?’

‘O, thank you, Arthur; but—’ for Violet looked doubtful.

‘Why, I thought you wanted to stay, Violet?’ said Arthur.

‘If you could.’

‘Too late for that; but you must settle it between you before to-morrow morning. Good night.’

Lady Martindale warmly pressed Violet to stay, and she found it much worse to have personally to make the choice than to be only a piece of property at Arthur’s disposal. She was, however, firm, saying that he would be uncomfortable without her; and she was grateful to Theodora for perceiving her motives, and preventing further entreaties.

‘You are right,’ said Theodora, when her mother was gone. ‘It would not be fit to leave him with an empty house, so I must yield you up; but I cannot bear to think of you in London.’

‘I am used to it,’ said Violet, with her patient smile.

‘And it will not be four years before we meet again. I shall try hard to come to you in the autumn.’

‘How comfortable that would be! But you must not be uneasy about me, nor put any one out of the way. I can get on very well, as long as I have Johnnie.’

It was not till both had laid down to rest, and the room was dark, that Theodora said, ‘I understand it now. Her poor sister must have brought her into some bad foreign society, from which he could only rescue her by marrying her.’

So abrupt was this commencement that Violet had to recollect who was meant, and so decided was the tone, that she asked, ‘What have you heard?’

‘Nothing fresh; have you?’

‘No. Arthur had heard nothing from Mr. Mark Gardner; and I am afraid we shall hear no more till John answers my letter.’

‘No matter; I have found out how it must have been. Lady Fotheringham, of whom he made a sort of mother, always liked Jane. Depend upon it, she was anxious about the way in which poor Georgina was reported to be going on abroad, and told Percy, when she died, to try if he could do anything to save Jane. You see he goes to Italy, and there finds, of course, that there is no way of fulfilling his aunt’s wishes but by sacrificing himself.’

‘You have arranged it all most fully!’

‘See if I am not right—or, rather, you will not see; but I know that was the way. It is his nature to be fantastically generous, as some people would call it; and as long as he is the same Percival Fotheringham, the rest is as nothing. I was unjust at the first moment. Jane has a better nature, which he can develop. There is a sense of religion to work on—a power of adaptation to those she is with, and if what she has seen in Italy has shocked her and made her turn to him, he may be the making of her. She is clever enough; and when she finds that nothing but truth and honesty will succeed with him, she will learn them at last.’

‘How glad I am you take it in this way.’

‘This quiet time has been good for me,’ said Theodora. ‘It would have been maddening to have had no pause before waking to ordinary life.’

‘Then the fire came at the right time for you.’

‘Have you not read of men rushing into battle, hoping each shot would strike them?’

‘O, Theodora!’

‘It did not last long. Don’t be frightened. Woman fear, and the stifling smell, and burning feel, and the sight of the red-hot gulf, were enough to drive it off. I shall never forget the touch of the floor in Charles’s room! I thought of nothing but the fire. The feeling only came back with the fainting. I remember a confused notion that I was glad to be dying with you holding my head and papa so kind. How savage I felt when every one would rouse me, and tell me I was better! I was in hopes the world was all over with me; but I see I have a great deal to do first, and the comfort of lying torpid here has been very great. I have had time to be stunned, and to get a grasp of it and of my own mind.’

‘Dear Theodora! It is indeed sometimes a blessing to be laid up. It brings out so much kindness. It is the easiest of all the crosses.’

‘I should not wonder if my rampant health had helped to make me the more wayward,’ said Theodora. ‘I would not but have been ill for the sake of the kindness from my father and mother. I was sure of you, but there is—It has given me spirit to look out upon life.’

‘I hope there is peace at least in the look.’

‘There is. It is not worse than before, except the vanishing of a lingering foolish hope, and that is safest. Repentance must always be there. My life is like myself; the wounds may heal, but the marks will remain and the freshness and glow will never return here. I am glad I am so much altered. I should not like to be again within the pale of attractive people.’

‘It is strange to hear you say such things so calmly.’

‘I made up my mind long ago. In following poor Georgina—or rather, my own self-will—I threw away the bloom of life. Percy warned me that those who reject light crosses have heavy loads imposed. I made what now seems hardly a cross of reed, into a scourge! Oh, Violet! would that I had done no harm but to myself by those races!’

‘Hush!’ said Violet’s smothered voice.

‘But for that,’ said Theodora, recovering steadiness of tone, ‘I should bear everything peacefully. I was unworthy of Percy, and am better off than I deserve. Oh, Violet! I have wished to thank you for making me go to Baden, and promising that if I would submit, guidance would come. There it was, the instant I really sought it. What would have become of me if I had not been haunted by your look and your words? How many times they saved me from accepting Lord St. Erme! And if I had, how my self-will, and pride, and jealousy would have grown! and how wretched I should be making him now!’

‘It is much better as it is.’

‘Yes, whatever pain I did give him by my very shameful usage, it would have been far worse to have gone on. I was thankful that I was stopped. Now I think I see my own life. There are my home duties; and oh! how could I have spoken as I once did of papa! How shocking it must have seemed to you!’

‘I do not know what it was, but it was under great provocation, and you did not understand him then.’

‘No, you and Hugh drove me to him, and in seeing him pleased with anything I can do for him, there is solid happiness. I have learnt to enter into his affection and deep feeling and anxieties, and I would not have missed these four years of reciprocity with him for anything! And I shall get on better with mamma now. I fancy she has a different nature after all, from what my aunt forced on her. Well, then, you know I have long set up for a maiden aunt, and there is John, who might want a housekeeper. Or if I am of no use to my own folks, there are the poor always. Perhaps I may come to Emma Brandon’s priory. It would be fine discipline to be under Mother Theresa.

This unexpected pleasantry Violet could only answer by a groan.

‘Seriously,’ continued Theodora, ‘my doubt would be whether it would be right to turn to such a course only when one has nothing else to do. It is a different thing from giving the energies and wishes and visions of youth, as Emma has done. I could only offer the worn-out. But that is speculation. There is present duty at home and in the village, and brightness in your children, and my hopes are on John. I have used him vilely, because he tried to teach me to take to you, and I do long to see him and ask his pardon, and you will help me, so that he shall believe in my sorrow, and we will be a sober old brother and sister together.’

‘I believe he wishes for nothing more. He will feel your having worked for him, instead of saving anything of your own.’

‘I had little to care for: my childhood had few recollections, and I had nothing of Helen’s. It was a pleasure to work for him. Do you know, when I saw that marble chess-table which had belonged to the parsonage, and which Percy had left in John’s charge, a horrid feeling came that I would not save it for Jane, and I left it. Then I remembered that was a nasty spiteful bit of revenge, and I hated myself, and dashed in when I really did know that it was not safe. I was altogether mad, I believe. I felt desperate, and rather enjoyed facing danger for it. And then I felt the heat of the fire from the gallery again, and the spout from the fire-engine came, and the smoke was so thick that I missed my footing with that great heavy thing, and fell down-stairs to the first landing, and I believe that must have been what hurt my hand and side so much.’

Then as she heard Violet’s tightened breath at the thought of the frightful peril,

‘Well for me I did not perish with these wild thoughts! I am glad I have told you at last. I have felt as if I ought to confess it, and yet I was ashamed. Is the thing safe?’

‘Yes, I saw it at Brogden; but oh, to think of it!’

‘I am glad it is safe; it was John’s charge, and he ought to restore it: but you will dream of it, like poor little Johnnie, if you take it so much to heart. I should not have told you at night. Put it out of your head, and let us sleep in peace.’

‘Good night, dear sister. Thank you for talking to me. O, this is better than the night we parted before.’

‘As much better as it is to have found one’s anchor than to be tossed at the will of the waves. That was a frightful time. Thank heaven that you made me feel for the cable! There is a dreary voyage to come, but after all, every day we end the Creed with “The life everlasting.”’