All went well and smoothly at Ventnor, until a sudden and severe attack of some baby ailment threatened to render fruitless all Mr. Martindale’s kind cares.

Violet’s misery was extreme, though silent and unobtrusive, and John was surprised to find how much he shared it, and how strong his own personal affection had become for his little nephew; how many hopes he had built on him as the point of interest for his future life; the circumstances also of the baptism giving him a tenderness for him, almost a right in him such as he could feel in no other child.

Their anxiety did not last long enough for Arthur to be sent for; a favourable change soon revived the mother’s hopes; and the doctor, on coming down-stairs after his evening’s visit, told John that the child was out of danger for the present; but added that he feared there were many more such trials in store for poor Mrs. Martindale; he thought the infant unusually delicate, and feared that it would hardly struggle through the first year.

John was much shocked, and sat in the solitary drawing-room, thinking over the disappointment and loss, severely felt for his own sake, and far more for the poor young mother, threatened with so grievous a trial at an age when sorrow is usually scarcely known, and when she had well-nigh sunk under the ordinary wear and tear of married life. She had been so utterly cast down and wretched at the sight of the child’s suffering, that it was fearful to imagine what it would be when there would be no recovery.

‘Yes!’ he mused with himself; ‘Violet has energy, conscientiousness, high principle to act, but she does not know how to apply the same principle to enable her to endure. She knows religion as a guide, not as a comfort. She had not grown up to it, poor thing, before her need came. She wants her mother, and knows not where to rest in her griefs. Helen, my Helen, how you would have loved and cherished her, and led her to your own precious secret of patience and peace! What is to be done for her? Arthur cannot help her; Theodora will not if she could, she is left to me. And can I take Helen’s work on myself, and try to lead our poor young sister to what alone can support her? I must try—mere humanity demands it. Yes, Helen, you would tell me I have lived within myself too long. I can only dare to speak through your example. I will strive to overcome my reluctance to utter your dear name.’

He was interrupted by Violet coming down to make tea. She was now happy, congratulating herself on the rapid improvement in the course of the day, and rejoicing that John and the doctor had dissuaded her from sending at once for Arthur.

‘You were quite right, she said, ‘and I am glad now he was not here. I am afraid I was very fretful; but oh! you don’t know what it is to see a baby so ill.’

‘Poor little boy—’ John would have said more, but she went on, with tearful eyes and agitated voice.

‘It does seem very hard that such a little innocent darling should suffer. He is not three months old, and his poor little life has been almost all pain and grief to him. I know it is wrong of me, but I cannot bear it! If it is for my fault, why cannot it be myself? It almost makes me angry.’

‘It does seem more than we can understand, said John, mournfully; ‘but we are told, “What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter.”’

‘When all the other young things—lambs, and birds, and all—are so happy, and rejoicing in the sunshine!’ continued Violet; ‘and children too!’ as some gay young voices floated in on the summer air, and brought the tears in a shower.

‘Don’t grudge it to them, dear Violet,’ said John, in his gentlest tone; ‘my dear little godson is more blessed in his gift. It seems to accord with what was in my mind when we took him to church. I do not know whether it was from my hardly ever having been at a christening before, or whether it was the poor little fellow’s distressing crying; but the signing him with the cross especially struck me, the token of suffering even to this lamb. The next moment I saw the fitness—the cross given to him to turn the legacy of pain to the honour of partaking of the Passion—how much more for an innocent who has no penalty of his own to bear!’

‘I have read things like that, but—I know I am talking wrongly—it always seems hard and stern to tell one not to grieve. You think it very bad in me to say so; but, indeed, I never knew how one must care for a baby.’

‘No, indeed, there is no blaming you; but what would comfort you would be to think of the Hand that is laid on him in love, for his highest good.’

‘But he wants no good done to him,’ cried Violet. ‘He has been good and sinless from the time before even his father or I saw him, when you—’

‘We cannot tell what he may need. We are sure all he undergoes is sent by One who loves him better than even you do, who may be disciplining him for future life, or fitting him for brighter glory, and certainly giving him a share in the cross that has saved him.’

His gentle tones had calmed her, and she sat listening as if she wished him to say more. ‘Do you remember,’ he added, ‘that picture you described to me this time last year, the Ghirlandajo’s Madonna?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Violet, pleased and surprised.

‘She does not hold her son back from the cross, does she, though the sword was to pierce through her own heart?’

‘Yes; but that was for the greatest reason.’

‘Indeed, it was; but He who was a Child, the firstborn Son of His mother, does not afflict your baby without cause. He has laid on him as much of His cross as he can bear; and if it be yours also, you know that it is blessed to you both, and will turn to glory.’

‘The cross!’ said Violet; adding, after some thought, ‘Perhaps thinking of that might make one bear one’s own troubles better.’

‘The most patient person I ever knew found it so,’ said John; and with some hesitation and effort, ‘You know about her?’

‘A little,’ she timidly replied; and the tears flowed again as she said, ‘I have been so very sorry for you.’

‘Thank you,’ he answered, in a suppressed tone of grateful emotion, for never was sympathy more refreshing to one who had long mourned in loneliness.

Eager, though almost alarmed, at being thus introduced to the melancholy romance of his history, Violet thought he waited for her to speak. ‘It was dreadful,’ she said; ‘it was so cruel, to sacrifice her to those old people.’

‘Was it cruel? Was it wrong?’ said John, almost to himself. ‘I hope not. I do not think I could have decided otherwise.’

‘Oh, have I said anything wrong? I don’t properly know about it. I fancied Arthur told me—I beg your pardon.

‘I do not think Arthur knew the circumstances; they have never been much talked of. I do not know whether you would care to listen to a long story; but I should like you, as far as may be, to understand her, and consider her as your sister, who would have been very fond of you.’

‘And do you like to talk of it?’

‘That I do, now,’ said John; her delicate, respectful sympathy so opening his heart, that what had been an effort became a relief.

‘I should be so glad. Baby is asleep, and I came down to stay with you. It is very kind of you.’

‘You are very kind to listen,’ said John. ‘I must go a long way back, to the time when I lost my little sisters.’

‘Had you any more sisters?’ said Violet, startled.

‘Two; Anna and another Theodora. They died at four and two years old, within two days of each other, while my father and mother were abroad with my aunt.’

‘What was their illness, poor little things?’ anxiously asked Violet.

‘I never knew. We all of us have, more or less, a West Indian constitution; that accounts for anything.’

‘How old were you? Do you remember them?’

‘I was five. I have no distinct recollection of them, though I was very fond of Anna, and well remember the dreariness afterwards. Indeed, I moped and pined so much, that it was thought that to give me young companions was the only chance for me; and the little Fotheringhams were sent for from the parsonage to play with me.’

‘And it really began then!’

‘Yes,’ said John, more cheerfully. ‘She was exactly of my own age, but with all the motherly helpful kindness of an elder sister, and full of pretty, childish compassion for the little wretched solitary being that I was. Her guarding me from the stout riotous Percy—a couple of years younger—was the first bond of union; and I fancy the nurses called her my little wife, I know I believed it then, and ever after. We were a great deal together. I never was so happy as with them; and as I was a frail subject at the best, and Arthur was not born till I was nine years old, I was too great a treasure to be contradicted. The parsonage was the great balance to the home spoiling; Mr. and Mrs. Fotheringham were most kind and judicious; and Helen’s character could not but tell on all around.’

‘Was she grave?’

‘Very merry, full of fun, but with a thoughtful staidness in her highest spirits, even as a girl. I saw no change when we met again’—after a pause: ‘No, I cannot describe her. When we go home you shall see her picture. No one ever reminded me of her as you do, though it is not flattering you to say so. If the baby had been a girl, I think I should have asked you to call it by your second name. Well, we seldom spent a day without meeting, even after I had a tutor. The beginning of our troubles was her fifteenth birthday, the 10th of July. I had saved up my money, and bought a coral cross and a chain for her; but Mrs. Fotheringham would not let her keep it; she said it was too costly for me to give to any one but my sister. She tried to treat it lightly; but I was old enough to perceive her reason; and I can feel the tingling in all my veins as I vowed with myself to keep it till I should have a right to offer it.’

‘What did she do?’

‘I cannot tell; we did not wish to renew the subject. The worst of it was, that my aunt, who hears everything, found this out. She interrogated me, and wanted me to give it to Theodora, a mere baby. I felt as if I was defending Helen’s possession, and refused to give it up unless at my father’s command.’

‘I hope he did not order you.’

‘He never said a word to me. But our comfort was over; suspicion was excited; and I am afraid my aunt worried Mrs. Fotheringham. Nothing was said, but there was a check upon us. I was sent to a tutor at a distance; and when I was at home, either she went out on long visits in the holidays, or there was a surveillance on me; and when I did get down to the parsonage it was all formality. She took to calling me Mr. Martindale (by the bye, Violet, I wish you would not), was shy, and shrank from me.’

‘Oh! that was the worst,’ cried Violet. ‘Did not she care?’

‘I believe her mother told her we were too old to go on as before. They were all quite right; and I can now see it was very good for me. When Mr. Fotheringham died, and they were about to leave the parish, I spoke to my father. He had the highest esteem for them all, was fond of her, knew they had behaved admirably. I verily believe he would have consented at once—nay, he had half done so, but—’

‘Mrs. Nesbit, I am sure,’ exclaimed Violet.

‘He was persuaded to think I had not had time to know my own mind, and ought not to engage myself till I had seen more of the world.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘Nineteen! If you did not know your own mind then, when could you?’

John smiled, and replied, ‘It was better to have such a motive. My position was one of temptation, and this was a safeguard as well as a check on idle prosperity. An incentive to exertion, too; for my father held out a hope that if I continued in the same mind, and deserved his confidence, he would consent in a few years, but on condition I should neither say nor do anything to show my feelings.’

‘Then you never told her?’

‘No.’

‘I should not have liked that at all. But she must have guessed.’

‘She went with her mother to live in Lancashire, with old Mr. and Mrs. Percival, at Elsdale. There she lost her mother.’

‘How long did it go on before Lord Martindale consented?’ asked Violet, breathlessly.

‘Five years, but at last he was most kind. He did fully appreciate her. I went to Elsdale’—and he paused. ‘For a little while it was more than I can well bear to remember.’

‘You gave her the cross?’ said Violet, presently.

‘On her next birthday. Well, then came considerations. Old Mrs. Percival was nearly blind, and could hardly move from her chair, the grandfather was very infirm, and becoming imbecile. His mind had never been clear since his daughter’s death, and he always took Helen for her. She was everything to them.’

‘And they would not spare her?’

‘She asked me what was to be done. She put it entirely in my hands, saying she did not know where her duty lay, and she would abide by my decision.’

‘Then it was you! I can’t think how you could.’

‘I trust it was not wrong. So asked, I could not say she ought to leave those poor old people to their helplessness for my sake, and I could not have come to live with them, for it was when I was in Parliament, and there were other reasons. We agreed, then, that she should not leave them in her grandfather’s lifetime, and that afterwards Mrs. Percival should come to our home, Brogden, as we thought it would be. Indeed, Violet, it was a piteous thing to hear that good venerable old lady entreating my pardon for letting Helen devote herself, saying, she would never have permitted it but for Mr. Percival, for what would become of him without his granddaughter—hoping they would not long stand in our way, and promising us the blessing that Helen enjoys. We could not regret our decision, and to be allowed to stand on such terms with each other was happiness enough then; yet all the time I had a presentiment that I was giving her up for ever, though I thought it would be the other way; the more when the next year I had the illness that has made me good for nothing ever since. That made it much easier to me, for I should have led her such a life of nursing and anxiety as I would not inflict on any woman.’

‘Surely she had the anxiety all the same?’

‘There is a good deal spared by not being on the spot.’

‘How can he think so! said Violet to herself. I can’t imagine how she lived as long as she did. ‘Did you not see her at all when you were ill?’ she said.

‘Yes, we had one great treat that winter when I was at the worst. It was one of my father’s especial pieces of kindness; he wrote to her himself, and sent Simmonds to fetch her to Martindale.’

‘And were you able to enjoy having her?’

‘It was inflammation on the chest, so all my senses were free. She used to sit by me with her sober face, at work, ready to read and talk to me, and left sayings and thoughts that have brought refreshment at every such time. It was indeed a blessing that she could come that first time to teach me how to bear illness.’

‘How long did she stay?’

‘Only three weeks, for her absence only showed how little she could be spared; but she left an influence on that room of mine that it has never lost.’

‘How solitary it must have been when you were recovering.’

‘I had her letters. I will show you some of them some day. She used to write almost daily.’

‘And it was when you were getting better that you took the great journey in the East?’

‘Yes; Percy had just left Cambridge, and was ready to take the care of me on his hands. Those two years went pleasantly by, and what a happy visit it was at Elsdale afterwards! You can’t think how this talking over our travels has brought it back. As long as Mrs. Percival lived we did pretty well. She made Helen take care of herself, and I could go and stay there; but after her death the poor old man grew more childish and exacting. I once tried staying at the curate’s, but it did not answer. He could not bear to have her out of his sight, and had taken an unhappy aversion to me, fancying me some old admirer of his own daughter, and always warning her against me.’

‘How distressing! How wretched! It would have killed me long before! How did she bear it? I know it was patiently, but I cannot understand it!’

‘Her letters will best show you. It was the perfect trust that it was good for us; but what she underwent in those last three years we never knew. Her brother was at Constantinople. I could not go to Elsdale, and there was no one to interfere. We could not guess from her cheerful letters how she was wearing herself out, bearing his caprices, giving up sleep and exercise. I knew how it would be the first moment I met her, when I went to Elsdale to the funeral; but it was supposed to be only over-fatigue, and her aunt, Lady Fotheringham, took her home to recover. She grew worse, and went to London for advice. There I met her, and—and there she herself told me she had disease of the heart, and could not live a year.’

Violet gave a sort of sob.

‘She held up to me that cross—that first gift—she bade me think of the subjection of wills and affections it betokened. Little had we once thought of that meaning!’

‘And then?’ asked Violet, with face flushed and hands clasped.

‘Lady Fotheringham took her to Worthbourne.’

‘Could you be with her?’

‘Yes. One of the especial subjects of thankfulness was that I was well enough to stay with her. She was perfectly happy and contented, chiefly concerned to soften it to me. It was as if she had finished her work, and was free to enjoy, as she sank into full repose, sunsets, hoar frosts, spring blossoms, the having me with her, her brother’s return—everything was a pleasure. I can hardly call it a time of grief, when she was so placid and happy. All the wishing and scheming was over, and each day that I could look at her in her serenity, was only too precious.’

‘Was there much suffering?’

‘At times there was, but in general there was only languor. She used to lie by the window, looking so smiling and tranquil, that it was hard to believe how much she had gone through; and so peaceful, that we could not dare to wish to bring her back to care and turmoil. The last time she was able to talk to me, she showed me the cross still round her neck, and said she should like to think it would be as much comfort to any one else as it had been to her. I did not see her again till I was called in for her last look on anything earthly, when the suffering was passed, and there was peaceful sinking.’

Violet was crying too much for words, until at last she managed to say, ‘How could you—what could you do?’

‘My illness was the best thing that could happen to me.’

‘How sorry you must have been to get well.’

He replied,

‘Those lines haunted me when I found myself reviving to the weary useless life I spend here.’

‘O how can you call it so?’ cried Violet. ‘How could Arthur and I do without you?’

There was a sound up-stairs, and she started to the door, ran up, but came down in a few moments. ‘He is awake and better,’ she said. ‘I cannot come down again, for Sarah must go to supper. Good night; thank you for what you have told me;’ then, with an earnest look, ‘only I can’t bear you to say your life is useless. You don’t know how we look to you.’

‘Thank you for your kind listening,’ he answered. ‘It has done me a great deal of good; but do not stay,’ as he saw her evidently longing to return to her child, yet lingering in the fear of unkindness to him. ‘I am glad he is better; you and he must both have a good night.’

John was indeed refreshed by the evening’s conversation. It had disclosed to him a new source of comfort, for hitherto his grief had never known the relief of sympathy. His whole soul had been fixed on one object from his boyhood; the hopes of deserving Helen had been his incentive to exertion in his youth, and when disabled by sickness, he had always looked forward to a new commencement of active usefulness with her. It had been a life of waiting: patient, but without present action, and completely wrapped up in a single attachment and hope. When that was taken from him he had not failed in faith and submission, but he had nothing to occupy him or afford present solace and interest; he had no future save lonely waiting still, until he should again rejoin her who had been his all on earth.

However, the effort made to reconcile his brother with the family had produced an unlooked-for influence, and enlarged his sphere of interest. At first came languid amusement in contemplating the pretty young bride, then liking and compassion for her, then the great anxiety in her illness, and afterwards real affection and solicitude for her and her child had filled his mind, and detached him from his own sorrows; and he now became sensible that he had, indeed, while trying to serve her and his brother, done much for his own relief. What she said of their dependence on him was not only a pleasure to him, but it awoke him to the perception that he had not been so utterly debarred from usefulness as he had imagined, and that he had neglected much that might have infinitely benefited his brother, sister, and father. He had lived for himself and Helen alone!

He tried to draw out Helen’s example to teach Violet to endure, and in doing so the other side of the lesson came home to himself. Helen’s life had been one of exertion as well as of submission. It had not been merely spent in saying, ‘Thy will be done,’ but in doing it; she had not merely stood still and uncomplaining beneath the cross, but she had borne it onward in the service of others.