'It was a dismal story of an engagement to a clergyman's daughter; her father just dead, she reduced to go out as a governess, and he having half nothing of his own, mending the matter by working himself into a low fever, and doing his best to rid her of all care on his account. Of course I rowed him well, but I soon found I had the infection--a bad fit of soft-heartedness came over me.'
'Oh!' cried Violet, 'he gives up for this poor man's sake.'
'I thought all peace was over if I was to see poor Evans enacting the enamoured swain every day of my life, for the fellow had not the grace to carry it off like a man--besides having his business to do; or, if he should succeed in dying, I should not only be haunted by his ghost, but have to convey his last words to the disconsolate governess. So, on calculation, I thought trouble would be saved by giving notice that I was going home to publish the Crusaders, and sending him to fetch his bride, on whose arrival I shall bid a long farewell to the Grand Turk. I fancy I shall take an erratic course through Moldavia and some of those out-of-the-way locations, so you need not write to me again here, nor think of me till you see me about the end of August. I suppose about that time Theodora will have finished the course of severe toil reserved for young ladies every spring, so I shall come straight home expecting to see you all.'
'Home; does that mean Martindale?' said Violet.
'Yes. He has never looked on any place but Brogden as his home.'
'You don't think he repents of what he has done?'
'No, certainly not. He has seen what a long engagement is.'
'Yes; I almost wonder at his writing to you in that tone.'
'He banters because he cannot bear to show his real feeling. I am not anxious about him. He has L300 a year of his own, and plenty of resources,--besides, the baronetcy must come to him. He can afford to do as he pleases.'
'What a noble character he must be!' said Violet; 'it is like a story. How old is he?'
'About nine-and-twenty. I am glad you should see him. He is a very amusing fellow.'
'How clever he must be!'
'The cleverest man I know. I hope he will come soon. I should like to have a little time with him before my winter migration. We have not met since he was obliged to return, a fortnight after her death, when I little expected ever to see him again.'
This prospect seemed to set John's mind more than ever on Helen, as if he wanted to talk over her brother's conduct with her, and was imagining her sentiments on it.
He spoke much of her in the day, and in the evening brought down a manuscript-book.
'I should like to read some of this to you,' he said. 'She had so few events in her life at Elsdale that her letters, written to occupy me when I was laid up, became almost a journal of her thoughts. I copied out some parts to carry about with me; and perhaps you would like to hear some of them.'
'Indeed, I should, thank you, if you ought to read aloud.'
He turned over the pages, and seemed to be trying whether he could bear to read different passages; but he gave up one after another, and nearly half-an-hour had passed before he began.
'February 20. It was the winter after her coming to Martindale.'
'This morning was a pattern one for February, and I went out before the brightness was passed, and had several turns in the walled garden. I am afraid you will never be able to understand the pleasantness of such a morning. Perhaps you will say the very description makes you shiver, but I must tell you how beautiful it was. The frost last night was not sharp, but just sufficient to detain the dew till the sun could turn it into diamonds. There were some so brilliant, glancing green or red in different lights, they were quite a study. It is pleasant to think that this pretty frost is not adorning the plants with unwholesome beauty, though the poor little green buds of currant and gooseberry don't like it, and the pairs of woodbine leaves turn in their edges. It is doing them good against their will, keeping them from spreading too soon. I fancied it like early troubles, keeping baptismal dew fresh and bright; and those jewels of living light went on to connect themselves with the radiant coronets of some whom the world might call blighted in--'
It had brought on one of his severe fits of coughing. Violet was going to ring for Brown, but he stopped her by a sign, which he tried to make reassuring. It was worse, and lasted longer than the former one, and exhausted him so much, that he had to rest on the sofa cushions before he could recover breath. At last, in a very low voice, he said,
'There, it is of no use to try.'
'I hope you are better; pray don't speak; only will you have anything?'
'No, thank you; lying still will set me to rights. It is only that these coughs leave a pain--nothing to mind.'
He settled himself on the sofa, not without threatenings of a return of cough, and Violet arranged the cushions, concerned at his trying to thank her. After a silence, he began to breathe more easily, and said,
'Will you read me the rest of that?'
She gave him the book to find the place, and then read--
'The world might call them blighted in their early bloom, and deprived of all that life was bestowed for; but how different is the inner view, and how glorious the thought of the numbers of quiet, commonplace sufferers in homely life, like my currant and gooseberry bushes, who have found their frost has preserved their dewdrops to be diamonds for ever. If this is too fanciful, don't read it, but I go rambling on as the notions come into my head, and if you only get a laugh at my dreamings, they will have been of some use to you.'
'How beautiful!' said Violet; 'how you must have liked receiving such letters!'
'Yes; the greatest blank in the day is post time.'
He held out his hand for the book, and found another passage for her.
'I have been thinking how kindly that sentence is framed: 'Casting all your care on Him.' All, as if we might have been afraid to lay before Him our petty perplexities. It is the knowing we are cared for in detail, that is the comfort; and that when we have honestly done our best in little things, our Father will bless them, and fill up our shortcomings.
'That dressmaker must have been a happy woman, who never took home her work without praying that it might fit. I always liked that story particularly, as it shows how the practical life in the most trivial round can be united with thus casting all our care upon Him-- the being busy in our own station with choosing the good part. I suppose it is as a child may do its own work in a manufactory, not concerning itself for the rest; or a coral-worm make its own cell, not knowing what branches it is helping to form, or what an island it is raising. What a mercy that we have only to try to do right from moment to moment, and not meddle with the future!'
'Like herself,' said John.
'I never thought of such things,' said Violet. 'I never thought little matters seemed worth treating in this way.'
'Everything that is a duty or a grief must be worth it,' said John. 'Consider the worthlessness of what we think most important in That Presence. A kingdom less than an ant's nest in comparison. But, here, I must show you a more everyday bit. It was towards the end, when she hardly ever left her grandfather, and I had been writing to urge her to spare herself.'
Violet read--
'You need not be afraid, dear John; I am quite equal to all I have to do. Fatigue never knocks me up, which is a great blessing; and I can sleep anywhere at the shortest notice. Indeed, I don't know what should tire me, for there is not even any running up and down stairs; and as to spirits, you would not think them in danger if you heard how I talk parish matters to the curate, and gossip with the doctor, till grandpapa brightens, and I have to shout an abstract of the news into his ear. It is such a treat to bring that flash of intelligence on his face--and it has not been so rare lately; he seems now and then to follow one of the Psalms, as I read them to him at intervals through the day. Then for pastime, there is no want of that, with the two windows looking out different ways. I can't think how you could forget my two beautiful windows--one with a view of the back door for my dissipation, and the other with the garden, and the varieties of trees and the ever-changing clouds. I never look out without finding some entertainment; my last sight was a long-tailed titmouse, popping into the yew tree, and setting me to think of the ragged fir tree at Brogden, with you and Percy spying up, questioning whether golden-crest or long-tailed pye lived in the dome above. No, no; don't waste anxiety upon me. I am very happy, and have everything to be thankful for.'
''My mind to me a kingdom is,' she might have said,' observed John.
