'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.'
