satisfactory. He knew the name of every one at Wrangerton; he seemed to have learnt to love Helvellyn; he spoke very highly of Olivia's husband, Mr. Hunt, declaring that he liked nothing better than a visit to his most beautiful place, Lassonthwayte, a farm fit for the poets, and had learnt a great deal from him; and of Mrs. Moss he talked with affectionate gratitude that brought the tears into Violet's eyes, especially when he promised to go and call on her immediately on his return, to tell her how Colonel Martindale was going on, and describe to her her grandchildren. He repeated to Violet how kind her mother had been to his sister, and how beautifully she had nursed him. Lord Martindale began to ask questions, which brought out a narration of his adventures in the coal-pit, given very simply, as if his being there had been a mere chance.
He allowed that he knew it to be dangerous, but added, that it was impossible to get things done by deputy, and that he had no choice but to see about it himself, and he dwelt much on the behaviour of the men.
'Did you give up hope?' asked Lord Martindale.
'For myself I did. The confined air oppressed me so much, even before the sense of hunger came on, that it seemed to take away all power of thought and action.'
'Yet you did think?' said Violet.
'I was obliged, for the men were more confounded and helpless at first, though, when once directed, nothing could be more resolute and persevering! Brave fellows! I would not but have had it happen! One seldom has such a chance of seeing the Englishman's gallant heart of obedient endurance. It was curious to observe the instinctive submission. Some were men who would not for worlds have touched their hats to me above ground; yet, as soon as I tried to take the lead, and make them think what could yet be done, they obeyed instantly, though I knew almost nothing compared to them, and while they worked like giants, I could hardly move.'
'Was it very acute suffering?'
'For the last two days it was, but it was worse for those who had to work. I was generally faint and drowsy, and could hardly rouse myself to speak a word of encouragement, which was what they wanted. They fancied it was vain to work towards the old shaft, but I was sure none of them could live to be dug out from above, and that it would be wrong to let them cease. I think, as well as I recollect, that speaking was the worst pain of all. But it is no harm to know what the poor undergo.'
'Hardly to such extremity,' said Violet.
'Well, I know I shall never turn indifferently away again when I hear, 'We are starving.' A man feels little for what he has not experienced.'
'I suppose,' said Lord Martindale, 'that it has put an extinguisher on Chartism?'
'There are some determined village Hampdens still, but I think the fellow-feeling it has excited has done good. I have not been able to go among them since, but they have indefatigably come to inquire for me. The first Sunday I was able to come down-stairs, I found the hall door beset with them in their best, looking like a synod of Methodist preachers. Poor Lucy shocked my aunt by running about crying, and shaking hands with their great horny fists. I fancy 'our young lady,' as they call her, is the strongest anti-chartist argument.'
Though talking in this animated manner he was far from strong, and went away early, looking thoroughly tired. Theodora had stitched away throughout the conversation in silence; but Violet knew, by the very fixity of her eye, that she was feeling it deeply and there was consciousness in the absence of word or look, with which she let the Earl bid her good night. It was a strange thing to have been in part the means of forming so noble a character, and yet to regard her share in it with nothing but shame.
Self-reproachful and unhappy, Theodora went to take her turn of watching her brother for the first part of the night. She could not have borne to be told, what was in fact the case, that he was generally more uncomfortable under her care than that of any one else, chiefly because there was not the restraint either of consideration for his wife, or of the authority of his father. Besides, she was too visibly anxious, too grave and sad, to find anything cheerful with which to divert his attention; and he was sure to become restless and exacting, or else depressed, either as to his illness or his affairs.
To-night he had discovered Lady Elizabeth's visit, and was anxious to know whether Gardner had broken with Miss Brandon. Theodora would not encourage his talking; and this teased him, only making him say more till she had told all, adding, 'O Arthur! what a comfort it must be that this is brought upon you by your having tried to save Emma!'
'Not much of that. It was Violet. I would have stopped her writing if I could.'
Perhaps this downfall of the heroism with which she had been endowing his resistance, was one of the most cruel blows of all.
'If he marries Mrs. Finch, he must at least pay off what he owes me;' and he began perplexing himself with reckonings. Theodora saw his brow drawn together, and his lips moving, and begged him to desist and try to sleep.
'You have interrupted me--I have lost it!' and he tried again. 'No, I can't get it right. There is a lot of papers in my writing-case. You'll see to it. It will be something for Violet and the children. Mind the claim is sent in;' and again he strove to explain, while she entreated him to put such things out of his mind; and it ended in such violent coughing, that Lord Martindale heard, came in, and with a look that told her how ill she managed, sent her to bed, where she vexed herself for hours at Arthur's seeming to dwell only on his gaming debts, instead of on what she longed to see occupying his mind. Her elasticity seemed to have been destroyed by her illness, and she had lost the vigour which once would have made her rise against depression. The reappearance of Percy and of Lord St. Erme seemed only to have wearied and perplexed her; and she lay awake, feeling worn, confused, and harassed, and only wishing to hide her head and be at rest.
Arthur had a bad night, and was not so well in the morning, and while Lord Martindale was wondering why Theodora could not have been more cautious, the letters came in--one from Brogden--making it evident that Lady Martindale was so unwell and dispirited, that she ought not to be left alone any longer. Lord Martindale, therefore, decreed that Theodora should return, taking with her the three eldest children. And she could make no objection; she ought to submit to be passively disposed of; and, grievous as it was to leave her brother and Violet, there was compensation in avoiding her former suitors.
Lady Elizabeth came in almost at the same time as Lord Martindale went out, after breakfast. She was in great distress. Poor Emma treated the whole as a calumny; and when shown the absolute certainty that Mark was at Paris, daily calling on Mrs. Finch, remained persuaded that his cousin had perverted him from the first, and was now trying to revive her pernicious influence when he might have been saved; or that perhaps he was driven to an immediate wealthy marriage by his honourable feeling and his necessities. It was all her own fault for not having taken him at once. Lady Elizabeth had hardly been able to prevent her from writing to revoke the year's probation, and offer him all that was needed to satisfy his creditors.
Theodora could not help exclaiming, that she thought Emma would have had more dignity.
'So I told her, my dear; but it seemed to be no consolation. I do not feel secure that, though she has promised me not to write, Theresa Marstone may not.'
'Is Miss Marstone still in his favour?'
'I can still less understand her view,' said Lady Elizabeth, with a grave, sad simplicity, almost like satire; 'she says it only convinces her that the Church of England does not know how to treat penitents.'
Theodora could not help laughing, and Lady Elizabeth nearly joined her, though sighing and saying that such talk gave her other fears for Emma. She dreaded that Miss Marstone was unsettled in her allegiance to her Church, and that her power over Emma was infusing into her her own doubts.
'It is very sad--very strange! I cannot understand it,' said Theodora. 'I had always believed that such innocence and lowliness as Emma and Violet have was a guard against all snares; yet here is Emma led astray by these very excellences!'
'My dear,' said Lady Elizabeth, 'I think it is the want of that lowliness that is at the root with my poor child. It is a dangerous thing for a girl to throw herself into an exclusive friendship, especially when the disapproval of her own family is felt. I tried, but I never could like Theresa Marstone; and now I see that she liked to govern Emma, and depreciated my judgment--very justly, perhaps; but still I was her mother, and it was not kind to teach her to think doing as I wished a condescension.'
'So Emma sold all her senses to her friend?'
'Yes, and Miss Marstone keeps them still. Theresa taught her to think herself wiser than all, and their own way of talking the proof of goodness.'
'Ay! their passwords.'
