Arthur met the new-comer, exclaiming, ‘Ha! Fotheringham, you have not brought me the amber mouth-piece I desired John to tell you of.’

‘Not I. I don’t bring Turks’ fashion into Christian countries. You ought to learn better manners now you are head of a family.’

Theodora entered, holding her head somewhat high, but there was a decided heightening of the glow on her cheek as Mr. Fotheringham shook hands with her. Lord Martindale gave him an affectionate welcome, and Lady Martindale, though frigid at first, grew interested as she asked about his journey.

The arriving guests met him with exclamations of gladness, as if he was an honour to the neighbourhood; and John had seldom looked more cheerful and more gratified than in watching his reception.

At length came the names for which Violet was watching; and the presence of Lady Elizabeth gave her a sense of motherly protection, as she was greeted with as much warmth as was possible for shy people in the midst of a large party. Emma eagerly presented her two friends to each other, and certainly they were a great contrast. Miss Marstone was sallow, with thin sharply-cut features, her eyes peered out from spectacles, her hair was disposed in the plainest manner, as well as her dress, which was anything but suited to a large dinner-party. Violet’s first impulse was to be afraid of her, but to admire Emma for being attracted by worth through so much formidable singularity.

‘And the dear little godson is grown to be a fine fellow,’ began Emma.

‘Not exactly that,’ said Violet, ‘but he is much improved, and so bright and clever.’

‘You will let us see him after dinner?’

‘I have been looking forward to it very much, but he will be asleep, and you won’t see his pretty ways and his earnest dark eyes.’

‘I long to see the sweet child,’ said Miss Marstone. ‘I dote on such darlings. I always see so much in their countenances. There is the germ of so much to be drawn out hereafter in those deep looks of thought.’

‘My baby often looks very intent.’

‘Intent on thoughts beyond our power to trace!’ said Miss Marstone.

‘Ah! I have often thought that we cannot fathom what may be passing in a baby’s mind,’ said Emma.

‘With its fixed eyes unravelling its whole future destiny!’ said Miss Marstone.

‘Poor little creature!’ murmured Violet.

‘I am convinced that the whole course of life takes its colouring from some circumstance at the time unmarked.’

‘It would frighten me to think so,’ said Violet.

‘For instance, I am convinced that a peculiar bias was given to my own disposition in consequence of not being understood by the nurse and aunt who petted my brother, while they neglected me. Perhaps I was not a prepossessing child, but I had deeper qualities which might have been drawn out, though, on the whole, I do not regret what threw me early on my own resources. It has made me what I am.’

Violet was rather surprised, but took it for granted that this was something admirable.

‘Your dear little boy, no doubt, occupies much of your attention. Training and instruction are so important.’

‘He is not five months old,’ said Violet.

‘You cannot begin too early to lead forward his mind. Well chosen engravings, properly selected toys, the habit of at once obeying, the choice of nursery songs, all are of much importance in forming these dear little lambs to the stern discipline of life.’

‘You must have had a great deal to do with little children,’ said Violet, impressed.

‘Why, not much personally; but I believe Emma has sent you my little allegory of the “Folded Lambs”, where you will find my theories illustrated.’

‘Yes, Emma gave it to me—it is very pretty,’ said Violet, looking down. ‘I am too stupid to understand it all, and I have been hoping for Emma to explain it to me.’

‘Many people find it obscure, but I shall be delighted to assist you. I am sure you will find some of the ideas useful to you. What were your difficulties?’

It made Violet so very shy to be spoken to by an authoress in public about her own books, that she was confused out of all remembrance of the whole story of the “Folded Lambs”, and could only feel thankful that the announcement of dinner came to rescue her from her difficulties. She was not to escape authors; for Mr. Fotheringham took her in to dinner, Lady Martindale assigned Miss Brandon to John; but Arthur, with a droll look, stepped between and made prize of her, leaving John to Miss Marstone.

Violet trusted she was not likely to be examined in the “Track of the Crusaders”, of which, however, she comprehended far more than of the “Folded Lambs”. Presently her neighbour turned to her, asking abruptly, ‘Who is that next to Theodora?’

‘Mr. Wingfield, the clergyman here.’

‘I know. Is he attentive to the parish!’

‘O yes, very much so.’

‘Does Theodora take to parish work?’

‘Indeed she does.’

‘What, thoroughly?’

‘She goes to school twice a week, besides Sundays, and has the farm children to teach every morning.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And she is so kind to the children at the Lodge.’

‘Let me see, they were afraid the boy was deaf and dumb.’

‘Yes, he is, poor little fellow, and Theodora teaches him most successfully.’

‘Well done! I knew the good would work out. How tall she is! and she looks as full of spirit as ever. She has had a season in London, I suppose!’

‘Yes, she went out a great deal this spring.’

‘And it has not spoilt her?’

‘O no!’ cried Violet, warmly, feeling as if she had known him all her life, ‘she is more eager than ever in her parish work. She spares no trouble. She got up at four one morning to sit with old Betty Blain, that her daughter might get a little rest.’

‘That head and brow are a fine study. She has grown up more striking than even I thought she would. Curious to see the difference between natural pride and assumed,’ and he glanced from Theodora to her mother. ‘How well Lady Martindale preserves! She always looks exactly the same. Who is that chattering in John’s ear?

‘Miss Marstone, a friend of Miss Brandon’s.’

‘What makes her go about such a figure?’

‘She is very good.’

‘I trust, by your own practice, that is not your test of goodness?’

‘I should not think it was, said Violet, blushing and hesitating.

‘What crypt did they dig her out of? Is she one of the Marstones of Gothlands?’

‘I believe she is. She has two sisters, gay people, whose home is with an uncle. She lives with a lawyer brother.’

‘Sam Marstone! I know him! I pity him. So Emma Brandon is come out? Which is she?’

‘She is next to Arthur, on this side the table where you cannot see her.’

‘What sort of girl is she!’

‘Oh!’ said Violet, and paused, ‘she is the greatest friend I have in the world!’

He looked surprised, laughed, and said, ‘So I must ask no more questions.’

Violet felt as if she had spoken presumptuously, and said, ‘Lady Elizabeth has been so very kind to me. Emma is my baby’s godmother.’

‘And John its godfather.’

‘Yes. Did he tell you so?’

‘Ay! he spoke as if it was very near his heart.’

‘He has been—O, so very—I believe he is very fond of baby,’ hastily concluded Violet, as her first sentence stuck in her throat.

‘I am heartily glad he has something to take interest in. He looks better and less frail. Is he so, do you think?’

‘O yes, much better. He hardly ever coughs—’

‘Does he get those bad fits of cough and breathlessness?’

‘Very seldom; he has not had one since the day we heard you were coming home, and that, Brown thought, was from the excitement.’

‘Ay! ay! he seems stronger every way.’

‘Yes, he can bear much more exertion.’

‘Then I hope he will be stirred up to do something. That’s what he wants.’

‘I am sure he is always very busy,’ said Violet, displeased.

‘Ay? Cutting open a book was rather arduous. If he was not at his best he left it to Brown.’

‘No! no! I meant going over parchments; writing for Lord Martindale;’ she did not know if she might mention the West Indian scheme.

‘Ho! there’s something in that. Well, if he comes to life after all, there’s no one so capable. Not that I am blaming him. Illness and disappointment broke him down, and—such a fellow seldom breathed. If I had not had him at Cambridge it might have been a different story with me. So you need not look like his indignant champion.’

‘I don’t know what Arthur and I should have done without him,’ said Violet.

‘Where’s the aunt? I don’t see her.’

‘She never comes down to dinner, she is only seen in the evening.’

There was a sound in reply so expressive of relief that Violet caught herself nearly laughing, but he said, gravely, ‘Poor woman, then she is growing aged.’

‘We thought her much altered this year.’

‘Well!’ and there was a whole sentence of pardon conveyed in the word. Then, after an interval, ‘Look at John and his neighbour.’

‘I have been trying to catch what they are saying.’

‘They! It is all on one side.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Violet, smiling, ‘it was something about chants.’

‘Yes. Is it not rare to see his polite face while she bores him with that kind of cant which is the most intolerable of all, and he quietly turning it aside?’

‘Is it cant when people are in earnest?’ asked Violet.

‘Women always think they are.’

‘How are they to know?’

‘If they hold their tongues’—a silence—Well!’

‘Well,’ said Violet.

‘Where’s the outcry?’

‘Did you mean me to make one!’

‘What could you do but vindicate your sex?’

‘Then you would not have thought me in earnest.’

He made a funny pleased face and a little bow.

‘The truth was,’ said Violet, ‘I was thinking whether I understood you.’

‘May I ask your conclusion?’

‘I don’t exactly know. I don’t think you meant we should never talk of what interests us.’

‘When they know when to hold their tongues, perhaps I should have said.’

‘O, yes, that I quite think.’

Another silence, while Violet pondered, and her neighbour continued his malicious listening to Miss Marstone, who spoke in a key too audible for such a party. Presently, ‘He has got her to the Royal Academy. She has gone forthwith to the Prae-Raffaelites. Oh! she is walking Prae-Raffaelitism herself. Symbols and emblems! Unfortunate John! Symbolic suggestive teaching, speaking to the eye! She is at it ding-dong! Oh! he has begun on the old monk we found refreshing the pictures at Mount Athos! Ay, talk yourself, ‘tis the only way to stop her mouth; only mind what you say, she will bestow it freshly hashed up on the next victim on the authority of Mr. Martindale.’

Violet was excessively entertained; and, when she raised her eyes, after conquering the laugh, was amazed to find how far advanced was the state dinner, usually so interminable. Her inquiries after the Athenian owl led to a diverting history of its capture at the Parthenon, and the adventures in bringing it home. She was sorry when she found Lady Martindale rising, while Mr. Fotheringham, as he drew back his chair, said, ‘How shall you get on with Prae-Raffaelitism? I should like to set her and Aunt Nesbit together by the ears!’

Certainly it was not convenient to be asked by Emma what made her look so much amused.

She felt as if it would be much pleasanter to show off her babe without the stranger, and was glad to find that Miss Marstone had fallen into a discussion with Theodora, and both looked much too eager to be interrupted.

So Violet fairly skipped up-stairs before her friends, turning round to speak to them with such smiling glee, that Lady Elizabeth dismissed all fears of her present well-doing. Emma fell into raptures over her godson’s little cot, and quoted the “Folded Lambs”, and “Pearls of the Deep”, another as yet unpublished tale of her friend’s, to teach his mother how to educate him, and stood by impatiently contemning the nursery hints which Violet was only too anxious to gather up from Lady Elizabeth.

‘And are you not charmed with her!’ said Emma, as they went down-stairs.

‘I have seen so little of her,’ replied Violet, embarrassed. ‘Why does she dress in that way?’

‘That is just what I say,’ observed Lady Elizabeth. ‘I was sorry to see her in that dress this evening.’

‘Mamma does not like it,’ said Emma; ‘but Theresa feels it such a privilege not to be forced to conform to the trammels of fashions and nonsense.’

‘She does everything on high principle,’ said Lady Elizabeth, as if she was trying to bring her mind as usual into unison with her daughter’s. ‘She is a very superior person, and one does not like to find fault with what is done on right motives; but I should be sorry to see Emma follow the same line. I have always been taught that women should avoid being conspicuous.’

‘That I could never bear to be, mamma,’ said Emma; ‘but Theresa is of a firmer, less shrinking mould.’

Lady Elizabeth repeated that she was a very superior person, but was evidently not happy in her guest.

Miss Marstone was holding earnest tete-a-tetes all the evening, but Violet having sheltered herself under Lady Elizabeth’s wing, escaped the expected lecture on the allegories.

When the Rickworth party had taken leave, Mr. Wingfield, the last guest, was heard to observe that Miss Marstone was an admirable person, a treasure to any parish.

‘Do you wish for such a treasure in your own?’ said Mr. Fotheringham, bluntly.

The curate shook his head, and murmuring something about Brogden being already as fortunate as possible, departed in his turn: while Arthur ejaculated, ‘There’s a step, Wingfield. Why, Theodora, he was setting up a rival.’

‘Who is she?’ said Theodora. ‘Where did Emma pick her up?’

‘Emma was struck with her appearance—’

‘So, it is a fit of blind enthusiasm,’ said John.

‘Pray do you partake it?’ asked Percy. ‘How do you feel after it?’

‘Why, certainly, I never met with a person of more conversation,’ said John.

‘Delicately put!’ said Arthur, laughing heartily. ‘Why, she had even begun lecturing my father on the niggers!’

‘I would not be Lady Elizabeth!’ said Mr. Fotheringham.

‘Those romantic exaggerations of friendship are not satisfactory,’ said John. ‘Emma is too timid to be eccentric herself at present; but a governing spirit might soon lead her on.’

‘That it might,’ said Theodora, ‘as easily as I used to drag her, in spite of her terrors, through all the cows in the park. I could be worse to her than any cow; and this Ursula—or what is her outlandish name, Violet?’

‘Theresa; Sarah Theresa.’

‘Well, really,’ said John, ‘it is not for the present company to criticize outlandish names.’

‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘it was a happy instinct that made us give my boy a good rational working-day name, fit to go to school in, and no choice either to give him the opportunity of gainsaying it, like Emma’s friend, and some others—Sir Percival that is to be! A hero of the Minerva press!’

‘No, indeed—if I was to be Sir Anything, which probably I never shall be, I would hold, like my forefathers, to my good old Antony, which it was not my doing to disregard.’

‘Which earned him the title of Lumpkin, by which only he was known to his schoolfellow!’ said Arthur. ‘If you ask after Fotheringham, they invariably say, “Oh, you mean old Lumpkin!” So much for romantic names!’

‘Or imperial ones,’ said Percy. ‘Did not you tell me Theodora came straight from the Palaeologos who died in the West Indies? I always considered that to account for certain idiosyncrasies.’

Theodora was called away to assist Mrs. Nesbit up-stairs; and as Violet followed, she heard the aunt observing that Percival Fotheringham was more bearish than ever; and that it was intolerable to see him encouraged in his free-and-easy manner when he had thrown away all his prospects.

‘For poor John’s sake,’ began Lady Martindale.

‘For his own,’ interrupted Theodora. ‘He has every right to be at home here, and it is an honour to the place that he should be so.’

‘Oh, yes, I know; and he will be expecting your father to exert himself again in his behalf.’

‘No, he will be beholden to no one,’ said Theodora.

‘I do wish his manners were less rough and eccentric,’ said Lady Martindale.

‘Presuming,’ said Mrs. Nesbit; ‘in extremely bad taste. I never was more sensible of our good fortune in having missed that connection. There was nothing but their being of a good old family that made it by any means endurable.’

At this hit at her brother’s wife, Theodora was going to speak, but she forbore, and only wished her aunt good night. It would not be repressed, however; she stood in the gallery, after parting with the elder ladies, and said, loud enough for them to hear,

‘I hate good old family, and all such humbug! She was a noble, self-devoted creature; as much above the comprehension of the rest of the world as her brother!’

‘Did you know her well?’ said Violet.

Theodora’s tone instantly changed. She was not going to gratify childish curiosity. ‘I never had the opportunity,’ she said, coolly. ‘Good night.’

Violet was disappointed; for the tone of enthusiasm had given her a moment’s hope that they had at last found a subject on which they could grow warm together, but it was evident that Theodora would never so have spoken had she been conscious of her presence.

The next morning as Arthur and his wife were going down to breakfast, he said, ‘We shall see some rare fun now Theodora and Fotheringham have got together.’

Theodora, with her bonnet on, was, according to her usual Sunday fashion, breakfasting before the rest of the party, so as to be in time for school. John and his friend made their appearance together, and the greetings had scarcely passed, before John, looking out of window, exclaimed, ‘Ah! there’s the boy! Pray come and see my godson. Come, Violet, we want you to exhibit him.’

Arthur looked up with a smile intended to be disdainful, but which was gratified, and moved across, with the newspaper in his hand, to lean against the window-shutter.

‘There’s John without his hat—he is growing quite adventurous. Very pretty Violet always is with the boy in her arms—she is the show one of the two. Hollo, if Percy has not taken the monkey himself; that’s a pass beyond me. How she colours and smiles—just look, Theodora, is it not a picture?’

If he had called her to look at Johnnie, she must have come; but she was annoyed at his perpetual admiration, and would not abet his making himself ridiculous.

‘I must not wait,’ she said, ‘I am late.’

Arthur shrugged his shoulders, and turned to his paper.

She put on her gloves, and took up her books. Percy meeting her, as she came down the steps, said, ‘I have been introduced to your nephew.’

‘I hope you are gratified.’

‘He has almost too much countenance,’ said Percy. ‘There is something melancholy in such wistful looks from a creature that cannot speak, just as one feels with a dog.’

‘I am afraid he is very weakly,’ said Theodora.

‘I am sorry to hear it; it seems like a new life to John, and that pretty young mother looks so anxious. Do you see much of her?’

‘Not much; I have not time to join in the general Violet worship.’

‘They are not spoiling her, I hope. It does one good to see such a choice specimen of womankind.’

‘There, don’t come any further; I must make haste.’

‘Like all the rest,’ she thought; ‘not a man but is more attracted by feminine airs and graces than by sterling qualities.’

On coming out of church, in the afternoon, John, looking at the beautiful green shady bank of the river, proposed a walk along it; all the party gladly acceded, except Theodora, who, not without a certain pleasure in separating herself from them, declared that there was a child who must be made to say her hymn before going home.

‘Can’t you excuse her for once?’ said Lord Martindale.

‘No, papa.’

‘Not if I beg her off publicly?’

‘No, thank you. There is a temper that must be overcome.’

‘Then flog her well, and have done with it,’ said Arthur. Deigning no reply, she pounced upon her victim as the procession of scholars came out of church, ‘Come, I am waiting to hear you say it. “How doth the little—“’

The child stood like a post.

‘That is a Benson, I am sure,’ said Mr. Fotheringham. Theodora told him he was right, and went on exhorting the child; ‘Come, I know you can say it. Try to be good.

‘“How doth—“’

‘You know I always keep my word, and I have said I will hear you before either of us goes home.’

‘“How doth—“’

‘If you please, papa, would you go on? I shall never make her do it with you all looking on.’

She sat down on a tombstone, and placed the child before her. After an hour’s walk, there was a general exclamation of amusement and compassion, on seeing Theodora and the child still in the same positions.

‘She will never say it at all now, poor child,’ said Violet; ‘she can’t—she must be stupefied.’

‘Then we had better send down the tent to cover Theodora for the night,’ said Arthur.

‘As if Theodora looking at her in that manner was not enough to drive off all recollection!’ said John.

‘It is too much!’ said Lord Martindale. ‘Arthur, go, and tell her it is high time to go home, and she must let the poor child off.’

Arthur shrugged his shoulders, saying, ‘You go, John.’

‘Don’t you think it might do harm to interfere?’ said John to his father.

‘Interfere by no means,’ said Arthur. ‘It is capital sport. Theodora against dirty child! Which will you back, Percy? Hollo! where is he? He is in the thick of it. Come on, Violet, let us be in for the fun.’

‘Patience in seven flounces on a monument!’ observed Mr. Fotheringham, in an undertone to Theodora, who started, and would have been angry, but for his merry smile. He then turned to the child, whose face was indeed stupefied with sullenness, as if in the resistance she had forgotten the original cause. ‘What! you have not said it all this time? What’s your name? I know you are a Benson, but how do they call you?’ said he, speaking with a touch of the dialect of the village, just enough to show he was a native.

‘Ellen,’ said the girl.

‘Ellen! that was your aunt’s name. You are so like her. I don’t think you can be such a very stupid child, after all. Are you? Suppose you try again. What is it Miss Martindale wants you to say?’

The child made no answer, and Theodora said, ‘The Little Busy Bee.’

‘Oh! that’s it. Not able to say the Busy Bee? That’s a sad story. D’ye think now I could say it, Ellen?’

‘No!’ with an astonished look, and a stolid countrified tone.

‘So you don’t think I’m clever enough! Well, suppose I try, and you set me right if I make mistakes. “How doth the great idle wasp—“’

‘Busy bee!’ cried the child, scandalized.

By wonderful blunders, and ingenious halts, he drew her into prompting him throughout, then exclaimed, ‘There! you know it much better. I thought you were a clever little girl! Come, won’t you say it once, and let me hear how well it sounds?’

She was actually flattered into repeating it perfectly.

‘Very well. That’s right. Now, don’t you think you had better tell Miss Martindale you are sorry to have kept her all this time?’

She hung her head, and Theodora tried to give him a hint that the apology was by no means desired; but without regarding this, he continued, ‘Do you know I am come from Turkey, and there are plenty of ladies there, who go out to walk with a sack over their heads, but I never saw one of them sit on a tombstone to hear a little girl say the Busy Bee. Should you like to live there?’

‘No.’

‘Do you suppose Miss Martindale liked to sit among the nettles on old Farmer Middleton’s tombstone?’

‘No.’

‘Why did she do it then? Was it to plague you?’

‘Cause I wouldn’t say my hymn.’

‘I wonder if it is not you that have been plaguing Miss Martindale all the time. Eh? Come, aren’t you sorry you kept her sitting all this time among the nettles when she might have been walking to Colman’s Weir, and gathering such fine codlings and cream as Mrs. Martindale has there, and all because you would not say a hymn that you knew quite well? Wasn’t that a pity?’

‘Yes,’ and the eyes looked up ingenuously.

‘Come and tell her you are sorry. Won’t you? There, that’s right,’ and he dictated as she repeated after him, as if under a spell, ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, that I was sulky and naughty; I’ll say it next Sunday, and make no fuss.’

‘There, that will do. I knew you would be good at last,’ said Percy, patting her shoulder, while Theodora signified her pardon, and they turned homewards, but had made only a few steps before the gallop of clumsy shoes followed, and there stood Ellen, awkwardly presenting a bunch of the willow herb. Theodora gave well-pleased thanks, and told her she should take them as a sign she was really sorry and meant to do better.

‘And as a trophy of the force of Percy’s pathetic picture of Miss Martindale’s seven flounces among the nettles on Farmer Middleton’s tombstone,’ said Arthur.

‘You certainly are very much obliged to him,’ said her father.

‘And most ungratefully she won’t confess it,’ said Arthur.

‘I despise coaxing,’ said Theodora.

‘The question is, what you would have done without it,’ said John.

‘As if I could not subdue a little sprite like that!’

‘You certainly might if it was a question of physical force,’ said Percy, as he seemed to be measuring with his eye the strength of Theodora’s tall vigorous person.

‘I spoke of moral force.’

‘There the sprite had decidedly the advantage. You could “gar her greet,” but you could not “gar her know.” She had only to hold out; and when Miss Martindale found it time to go home to dinner, and began to grow ashamed of her position, the victory was hers.’

‘He has you there, Theodora,’ said Arthur.

‘I don’t know what he is driving at,’ said Theodora.

‘I am trying to find out whether Miss Martindale has the power of confessing that she was in a scrape.’

‘That you may triumph,’ said Theodora.

‘No, not for the sake of triumph, but of old times,’ he answered, in a lower, more serious tone.

Theodora’s face softened, and drawing nearer, she asked, ‘How are old times to be satisfied by such an admission?’

‘Because then candour used to boast of conquering pride,’ said Percy, now speaking so as to be heard by her alone.

‘Well. It was becoming a predicament, and you rescued me very ingeniously. There, will that content you?’ said Theodora, with one of the smiles the more winning because so rare. I am perfectly ready to own myself in the wrong when I see it.’

‘When you see it,’ said Percy, drily.

‘I was wrong just now not to confess my obligation, because Arthur teased and triumphed; but I don’t see why you all treat me as if I was wrong to set myself to subdue the child’s obstinacy.’

‘Not wrong, but mistaken,’ said Percy. ‘You forgot your want of power to enforce obedience. You wanted victory, and treated her with the same determination she was treating you with. It was a battle which had the hardest will and could hold out longest.’

‘And if I had conquered she would have gone away angry with me, only having yielded because she could not help it. You softened her and made her sorry. I see. She really is a good child on the whole, and I dare say I shall do something with her now.’

‘Is old Benson alive?’

And a long conversation on village matters ensued. Theodora was happier that evening than she had been for more than a year. That home-thrust at her pride, astonishing as it was that any one should venture it, and the submission that followed, had been a positive relief. She thought the pleasure was owing to the appeal to old times, recalling happy days of wild frolics, sometimes shared, sometimes censured by her grown-up playfellow; the few hours with his sister that had influenced her whole life; and the lectures, earnest, though apparently sportive, by which he had strengthened and carried on the impression; that brief time, also, of their last spending together, when his sorrow for his sister was fresh, and when John was almost in a hopeless state, and when she had been the one of the family to whom he came to pour out his grief, and talk over what his sister had been.

It was a renewal of happiness to her heart, wearied with jealousy, to find one to whom old times were precious, and who took her up where he had last seen her. His blunt ways, and downright attacks, were a refreshment to a spirit chafing against the external smoothness and refinement of her way of life, and the pleasure of yielding to his arguments was something new and unexampled. She liked to gain the bright approving look, and with her universal craving for attention, she could not bear not to be engrossing him, whether for blame or praise, it did not matter; but she had the same wish for his notice that she had for Arthur’s.

Not that she by any means always obtained it. He was in request with every one except Mrs. Nesbit. Even Lady Martindale took interest in his conversation, and liked to refer questions about prints and antiques to his decision, and calls on his time and attention were made from every quarter. Besides, he had his own manuscript to revise, and what most mortified Theodora was to hear Violet’s assistance eagerly claimed, as she knew her way better than John did through the sheets, and could point to the doubtful passages. Never was work more amusing than this, interspersed with debates between the two friends, with their droll counter versions of each other’s anecdotes, and Mr. Fotheringham’s quizzings of John, at whom he laughed continually, though all the time it was plain that there was no one in the world whom he so much reverenced.

The solitary possession of her own mornings was now no boon to Theodora. She was necessary to no one, and all her occupations could not drive away the ever-gnawing thought that Violet attracted all the regard and attention that belonged to her. If the sensation went away when she was down-stairs, where Percy’s presence obliged her to be amiable against her will, it came back with double force in her lonely moments.

One day, when they had dispersed after luncheon, her father came in, inquiring for Violet. He was going to Rickworth, and thought she would like to go with him. He wished to know, as otherwise he should ride instead of driving; and, as she was up-stairs, desired Theodora to go and find out what would suit her.

‘Papa, too!’ thought Theodora, as with some reluctance she for the first time knocked at her sister’s door, and found her with the baby.

‘How very kind!’ said she. ‘I should be delighted, but I don’t know whether Arthur does not want me. Is he there?’

‘I think he is in the library.’

‘If I could but go down! But I must not take baby, and Sarah is at dinner. Should you mind holding him for one minute?’

Theodora held out her arms, but Johnnie, though usually delighted to come to her from Sarah, turned his head away, unwilling to leave his mother. He did not quite cry, but was so near it that she had to do her utmost to amuse him. She caught up something bright to hold before him, and was surprised to see it was a coral cross, which Violet, in changing her dress, had laid for a moment on the dressing-table. The coincidence was strange, thought Theodora.

Violet was coming back, and she would have laid it down, but Johnnie had grasped it in his little fingers. As his mother appeared, his merriest smile shone out, and his whole little person was one spring of eagerness to return to her.

‘Little man! Is he glad to come back to his mamma?’ Violet could not help saying, as he nestled joyously on her neck; but the cold face of Theodora made her sorry that the words had escaped her, and she began to express her thanks.

Theodora was stooping to pick up the cross, and a concerned exclamation passed Violet’s lips on observing its fall.

‘It is safe,’ said Theodora. ‘I beg your pardon, I took it up to amuse him.’

‘Thank you,’ said Violet. ‘I am sorry I seemed vexed. There’s no harm done; but I was frightened, because it was Helen’s.’

‘Helen’s’ exclaimed Theodora, extremely amazed. ‘Did John give it to you?’

‘Yes, a little while ago,’ said Violet, colouring. ‘He—’

But Theodora was gone, with bitterer feelings than ever. This girl was absorbing every one’s love! John had never given her anything that had belonged to Helen; he had never even adverted to his engagement, when she almost adored her memory! She had never supposed him capable of speaking of his loss; and perhaps it was the hardest blow of all to find Violet, whose inquiries she had treated as mere curiosity, preferred to such confidence as this. She did not remember how she had once rejected his sympathy. She forgot whose fault it was that she had not been in the Isle of Wight; she laid it all on the proneness of men to be interested by sweetness of manner, and thought of herself as a strong-minded superior woman, who could never be loved, and who could only suffer through her woman’s heart.

Yet she could not entirely harden herself as she intended, while combats with Percy cast brightening gleams across her existence. She thought she should again settle into the winter’s life of hard work and indifference, which was on the whole most comfortable to her.

When the party should be broken up, Percy was to be the first to depart; he was going to publish The Crusaders, take a lodging in London, and there busy himself with literature while awaiting the fulfilment of a promise of further diplomatic employment. Arthur and Violet were also to return home after paying a visit at Rickworth, and John would soon after sail for Barbuda. In the meantime he was much engaged in going over accounts, and in consulting with his father and the man of business.

One morning, towards the end of September, he came down to Violet in the drawing-room, looking much flushed and extremely annoyed.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I have often declared I would never let my aunt have a discussion with me again. I have been obliged to submit to this. I hope it will be the last.’

‘About the West Indian property,’ said Violet.

‘Yes. She does give me power to act for her; but it is dearly bought! I wish I had never asked her! Every subject that she knew to be most unpleasant to me has she stirred up! How a woman of her age can go on with her eyes fixed on these matters I cannot guess. I am sure it is a warning what one sets one’s heart upon!’

‘You are quite worried and tired. Oh! it has made you cough! You had better lie down and rest.’

‘I want you to put me into good humour,’ said he, half reclining on the sofa. ‘I feel as if I had been under a nutmeg-grater! What do you think of her taking me to task for having Fotheringham here, for fear he should marry Theodora! I wish there was any such chance for her; but Percy has far too much sense!’

‘Why, how could Mrs. Nesbit think it? They are always disputing!’

‘I should not take that as a reason for thinking it impossible. But Percy knows her far too well. No, it is only one of my aunt’s fancies. She has set her hopes on Theodora now; but it is of no use to talk of it. I don’t want to dwell on it. It is too pitiable to be angry about. What are you reading?’

Violet was as glad to talk to him of her book as he was to lose the thought of his vexatious conversation, which had been even more annoying that he had chosen to tell her.

Mrs. Nesbit had taken occasion to speak of the reversion of an estate, which she said she wished to go to augment the property of the title; and now she should have no hesitation in bequeathing it to him, provided she could see him, on his side, make such a connection as would be for the consequence of the family.

John tried silence, but she drove him so hard that he was obliged to reply that, since she had begun on the subject, he had only to say that he should never marry; and, with thanks for her views, the disposal of her property would make no difference to him.

She interrupted him by reproaches on a man of his age talking romantic nonsense, and telling him that, for the sake of the family, it was his duty to marry.

‘With such health as mine,’ replied John, quietly, ‘I have long made up my mind that, even if I could enter on a fresh attachment, it would not be right. I am not likely to live many years, and I wish to form no new ties. You will oblige me, ma’am, by not bringing forward this subject again.’

‘Ay, I know what you are intending. You think it will come to Arthur and his wife; but I tell you what, Mr. Martindale, no attorney’s daughter shall ever touch a sixpence of mine.’

‘That is as you please, ma’am. It was not to speak of these matters that I came here; and if you have told me all you wish with regard to the property, I will leave the papers for your signature.’

She was above all provoked by his complete indifference to the wealth, her chief consideration throughout her life, and could not cease from reproaching him with absurd disregard to his own interest, at which he very nearly smiled. Then she revived old accusations, made in the earlier days of her persecution about his engagement, that he was careless of the consequence and reputation of the family, and had all his life been trying to lower it in the eyes of the world; otherwise why had he set himself to patronize that wife of Arthur’s, or why bring Percy Fotheringham here, just to put his sister in the way of marrying beneath her? And when he had answered that, though he saw no probability of such an event, opinions might differ as to what was beneath Theodora, she took the last means that occurred to her for tormenting him, by predicting that Arthur’s sickly little child would never live to grow up—he need not fix any hopes on him.

He escaped at last, leaving her much irritated, as Theodora presently found her. She began to complain bitterly of the ingratitude of her great-nephews, after all her labours for the family! John treating her whole fortune as if it was not worth even thanks, when she had been ready to settle the whole on him at once, as she would have done, since (and she looked sharply at Theodora) he was now free from that Fotheringham engagement; for none of that family should ever have a share in her property.

Theodora looked, if possible, more indifferent than John, as she answered,

‘John could not want it. I always thought you meant it for Arthur.’

‘Arthur! as if you did not know he had forfeited all claim upon me!’

‘His marriage is a reason for his needing it more,’ said Theodora.

‘It is of no use to speak of him. No, Theodora, you alone have acted as I could wish; and if you continue to deserve my regard—’

‘Don’t say that, Aunt Nesbit,’ said Theodora. ‘I shall act as, I hope, may deserve regard; but I don’t want anybody’s fortune, and if you left me yours it would be very unfair, and I certainly should give at least half of it to Arthur. I give you fair warning; but I did not come to talk of such hateful things, but to read to you.’

That afternoon Mrs. Nesbit wrote a letter to her lawyer, and surprised Miss Piper by asking if that puny child up-stairs had any name but John.