cry of joy like a child, she almost sobbed out, 'Oh, Arthur, Arthur! thank you.'
He looked at her, amused, and enjoying her ecstasy. 'So you approve, Mrs. Martindale?'
'O, to go to mamma! to show mamma the children! Annette! home!-- Johnnie to see Helvellyn!--my sisters!-- Olivia's baby! ' cried Violet, in incoherent exclamations, almost choked with joy.
'My poor Violet,' said Arthur, surprised and almost remorseful; 'I did not know you wished it so very much.'
'I believe I had left off thinking about it,' said Violet; 'but I am so very much obliged to you, dear Arthur--how very kind it is.'
It never occurred to her, as it did to him, that the kindness might have come sooner. 'I only hope you like it,' she added, after a pause.
'Don't I like what makes you look as you do now?' said he, smiling. 'I shall enjoy looking up our old quarters. Besides,' he added, more gravely, 'it is your turn now; and liking apart, I know I have not used Mrs. Moss well, in keeping you so long from her. You must let her know it was not your fault.'
'May I write, then? Oh, Arthur, dearest! if I could but find words to tell you how happy you have made me!'
It was no sudden determination, for he brought a 'Bradshaw' out of his pocket, with all the various railways and trains underscored in pencil in a most knowing way, and a calculation of expenses on the cover, all wrong--for Arthur had never done an addition sum right in his life.
Violet was to write as soon as she pleased, and fix the day and hour.
Perhaps Violet had never been so happy in her life as when, in the afternoon, she wandered a little apart on the beach, to realize and feed on her new treasure of delight. Arthur and the children were felicitously dabbling in sand and sea-water, reducing the frocks to a condition that would have been Sarah's daily distraction, if she had not reconciled herself to it by observing, 'it did her heart good to see the Colonel take to the children, though he was no more to be trusted with them than a sea-mew; and if it was not for Master John, she believed they would all come home some day drownded.'
As soon as the spring was sufficiently advanced, Lord Martindale had sent the whole party to recruit by the sea-side, at their own dear Ventnor, and there the last six weeks had been spent in the daily joy of watching Arthur's progress in recovery;--until now a slight degree of weakness and languor, an occasional cough, and his greatly altered appearance, were the only evident remains of his illness; and though she could not feel that his health was absolutely re-established, there was such abundant cause for hope and thankfulness, as filled her heart to overflowing, especially when she was rejoiced by tokens of that more blessed change within.
His spirits had returned with his health. Perhaps it was part of his boyish nature, that his sorrow for his errors, though sincere and earnest, did not permanently depress him, when not brought before his mind; but rather the sense of behaving well added to his brightness. There was nothing to conceal; the guilty consciousness was gone, and the fear for the future was distant. His manners had a sweetness more engaging than ever. To his wife, who had, as he recovered, suffered from the effects of her exertions, he was most affectionately attentive, and his children were his delight, while little Johnnie throve and expanded into spirit and mirth, like a plant reviving in sunshine.
He had gone over Violet's old haunts with her, and she had enjoyed making him enter into the feelings associated with the scenes she had visited with his brother. John was expected to return in the summer, but even this anticipation paled in comparison with the present felicity. That longing for her own home had been forced into such a remote cell, that she had had no idea of its strength till now, when it was allowed to spring up and colour everything.
She walked along the shore within sight of the cottage, where she had been with John, too small and expensive for their present numbers and means, and looking up at its bowery wicket, gathered up the remembrances associated with it.
She had come thither a mere child, a wife and mother, before strength, spirits, or judgment were equal to her tasks,--terrified at her responsibility, perceiving her failures, sinking under the load too early laid on her. There had she been guided to comfort,--there had her hand been taught to clasp the rod and staff, that had led her safe through the shadow, well-nigh of death. How would her heart have fainted if she could have guessed what had awaited her! But these things were past, and their memory was sweetened by thankfulness. And now, where once stood the self-torturing, pining girl, was now the calm trustful woman,--serene beneath the overshadowing Wings, resting on the everlasting Arms,--relying, least of all, upon herself. Further trouble might be in store; the clouds might return after the rain; but her peace was not mere freedom from storms, it was the security that there was One who would be with her and her loved ones through all, and thus could she freely rejoice in present sunshine, without scanning each distant cloud, or marring present bliss by future dread.
It was complete gladness. There was not a misgiving whether home might be exactly as it stood in her memory, or in Johnnie's imagination; and she filled the children's heads so much with what they were to see, that their papa declared he had found Annie under the belief that Helvellyn was her grandfather.
Arthur was so much charmed with seeing his wife so happy, that, forgetting all his fears of tediousness, he partook the enjoyment of her anticipations. He was the first, when they came in sight of a mountain, to lift Johnnie on his knee and tell him it was Helvellyn; and mamma's resentment at the grievous error was one of the prettiest and merriest things imaginable.
However, when Helvellyn actually appeared, and she felt herself really coming home, she was silent, in anxiety and doubt. She must be very different from the Violet who had gone away. Would her mother and Matilda think she had improved according to her opportunities?
She could hardly reply when Arthur recognized the High-street, so much wider in her imagination, and her heart beat as the garden wall and the lawn were before her. At the door--yes!--it was, it was the mother for whose embrace, she had so often longed! Timidly affectionate and hastily nervous, she could hardly afford one moment to her daughter in her frightened haste to greet her son-in-law, before he was ready, as he was lifting the children out. Here, too, were Annette and Mr. Moss, the young ladies were in the drawing-room, detained by etiquettes of Matilda's; but Violet hardly knew who spoke to her, the joy was to see a baby of hers at last in her mothers arms.
She could hardly see any one but the slight worn-looking mother, whose low, sad-toned voice awoke such endless recollections, and made her realize that she was once more beside mamma. To look at her sisters almost disturbed her; and it well-nigh struck her as unnatural to find the children hanging on her.
Still more unnatural was it to be conducted up-stairs, like company, to the best room, and to find her mother in distress and solicitude lest things should not be comfortable, and such as they were used to. And oh! the strangeness of seeing her little ones in her own old nursery, waited upon by the sisters she had left as children--and by Sarah, settled in there as if she had never been away. One part of her life or the other must be a dream.
Dear as all the faces were, it was a relief to be silent for a little while, as Arthur, half-asleep, rested in the large old armchair, and she unpacked, too happy for weariness; and the clear pure mountain air breathing in at the open window, infusing life into every vein, as she paused to look at the purple head above the St. Erme woods, and to gaze on the fragrant garden beneath; then turned away to call to mind the childish faces which she had not yet learnt to trace in those fine-looking young women.
'Ha!' said Arthur, rousing himself; 'are all the pretty plaits and braids come out again? A welcome sight.'
'Mamma thought me altered,' said Violet; 'and I thought I would not look more old than I could help; so I would not put on my cap for fear it should distress her.'
'Old! altered!' said Arthur. 'How dare you talk of such things!'
'I can't help it,' said Violet, meekly.
'Well! I believe I see what you mean,' he said, studying her with a gravity that was amusing. 'There's your youngest sister, Octavia, is not she?'
'Oh, is not she pretty?'
'Whish! don't praise yourself; she is the image of you at sixteen. Now that I have seen her, I see you are changed; but somehow--the word that always suited you best was lovely; and you have more of that style of thing than even when your cheeks were pink. Not your oval face and white skin, you know, but that--that look that is my Violet--my heart's-ease, that used to keep my heart up last winter. Ay! you are more to my mind!'
That little episode was the special charm of Violet's evening--a happy one, though there were some anxieties, and a few fond little illusions dispelled.
