begin practical life; and she eagerly related his schemes for being useful and distinguishing himself.
It was not easy to help replying and commenting on, or laughing at, plans which showed complete ignorance of English life, and then Theodora found herself drawn into discussions with Lord St. Erme himself, who took her suggestions, and built his projects with a reference to her, as his understood directress and assistant; till she grew quite frightened at what she had let him take for granted, and treated him with a fresh fit of coldness and indifference, soon thawed by his sister. She could not make up her mind to the humiliating confession by which alone she could have dismissed him, and the dominion she should enjoy with him appeared more and more tempting as she learnt to know him better, and viewed him as a means of escape from her present life. If it had not been for recollections of Violet, she would have precipitated the step, in order to end her suspense, but that perfect trust that she would not accept him unless she could do so with a clear conscience always held her back.
It was at this juncture that, one day when walking with her father, there was a sudden stop at the sight of another elderly gentleman. 'Ha! Hugh!' 'What, you here, Martindale!' were mutually exclaimed, there was an ardent shaking of hands, and she found herself introduced to a cousin, whom she had not seen since she was a child.
He and her father had been like brothers in their boyhood, but the lines they had since taken had diverged far and wide. The hard- working clergyman had found himself out of his element in visits to Martindale, had discontinued them, and almost even his correspondence, so that Lord Martindale had heard nothing of his cousin since his wife's death, two years ago, till now, when he met him on the promenade at Baden, sent abroad to recruit his worn-out health and eyesight.
All have either felt or beheld, how two such relations, on the verge of old age, meet and refresh themselves with looking back, beyond the tract of middle life, to the days shared together in youth! Lord Martindale had not looked so bright, nor talked and laughed so much for years, as over his boyish reminiscences, and his wanderings up and down the promenade with his cousin seemed as if nothing could terminate them.
Clergymen and school-loving young ladies have a natural affinity, and Theodora found a refuge from the Delavals and an opportunity for usefulness. She offered to read to Cousin Hugh, she talked over parish matters, and after relieving her mind with a conversation on the question of how much the march of intellect ought to penetrate into country schools, it was wonderful how much more equable and comfortable she became. The return to the true bent of her nature softened her on every side; and without the least attempt to show off, she was so free from the morose dignity with which she had treated her own family since going abroad, that Mr. Hugh Martindale could hardly believe the account of her strange ungovernable character, as it was laid before him by her father, in his wish for counsel.
He watched her anxiously, but made no attempt to force her confidence, and let her talk to him of books, school discipline, parish stories, and abstruse questions as much as she pleased, always replying in a practical, sobering tone, that told upon her, and soothed her almost like Violet's mild influence, and to her great delight, she made him quite believe in Violet's goodness, and wish to be acquainted with her.
But all the time, Lord St. Erme was treated as her acknowledged suitor. Perhaps Mr. Martindale thought it might be better if she were safely married; or, at any rate, only knowing her personally as a high-minded person of much serious thought, he believed her to be conscientiously waiting to overcome all doubts, and honoured her scruples: while it might be, that the desire for his good opinion bound Theodora the more to Lord St. Erme, for with all her sincerity, she could not bear the idea of his discovering the part she was playing, at the very time she was holding such conversations on serious subjects. The true history of her present conduct was that she could not endure to be known as the rejected and forsaken of Mr. Fotheringham, and thus, though outwardly tamer, she was more melancholy at heart, fast falling into a state of dull resignation; if such a name can be applied to mere endurance of the consequences of her own pride and self-will.
Now came Jane Gardner's letter. Theodora read it through, then, with calm contempt, she tore it up, lighted a taper, and burnt it to ashes.
'There, Jane!' said she, as it shrivelled, black and crackling, 'there is all the heed I take. Violet would no more allow me to be supplanted than Percy could be inconstant.'
Inconstant! Where was her right so to term him? Was he not released, not merely by the cold 'Very well,' which seemed to blister her lips in the remembrance, but by her whole subsequent course? That thought came like the stroke of a knife, and she stood motionless and stunned. Love of Percival Fotheringham was a part of herself! Certain from her confidence in Violet that Jane's news was untrue, the only effect of hearing it was to reveal to her like a flash that her whole heart was his. He had loved her in spite of her faults. Suppose he should do so still! Her spirits leapt up at this glimpse of forfeited unattainable joy; but she beheld a forlorn hope. At least she would restore herself to a condition in which she might meet him without despairing shame. The impulse was given, and eager to obey it, while it still buoyed her above the dislike to self- abasement, she looked round for the speediest measure, caring little what it might be.
Her father was reading his letters in the next room, when, with flushed cheek, and voice striving for firmness, she stood before him, saying, 'It is time to put an end to this. Will you let Lord St. Erme know that it cannot be!'
'Now, Theodora!' exclaimed the much-astonished Lord Martindale, 'what is the meaning of this?'
'It cannot be,' repeated Theodora. 'It must be put a stop to.'
'What has happened! Have you heard anything to change your mind?'
'My mind is not changed, but I cannot have this going on.'
'How is this? You have been encouraging him all this time, letting him come here--'
'I never asked him to come here,' said Theodora, temper coming in, as usual.
'Theodora! Theodora! did I not entreat you to tell me what you wished, when I first heard of this in London? Could I get a reasonable answer from you?'
Theodora was silent.
'Do you know what the world thinks of young ladies who go on in this manner?'
'Let it think as it may, I cannot accept him, and you must tell him so, papa--'
'No, indeed. I will not be responsible for such usage! It must be your own doing,' said Lord Martindale, thoroughly displeased. 'I should be ashamed to look him in the face!'
Theodora turned to leave the room.
'What are you going to do?' asked her father.
'I am going to write to Lord St. Erme.'
'Come back, Theodora. I must know that you are not going to carry further this ill-usage of a most excellent man, more sincerely attached to you than you deserve. I insist on knowing what you intend to say to him.'
To insist was not the way to succeed with Theodora.
'I do not exactly know,' said she.
'I wish I knew what to do with you!' sighed Lord Martindale, in anger, grief, and perplexity. 'You seem to think that people's affections are made to serve for your vanity and sport, and when you have tormented them long enough, you cast them off!'
Theodora drew her head up higher, and swelled at the injustice. It was at that moment that Lord St. Erme entered the room. She went forward to meet him, and spoke at once. 'I am glad you are here,' said she, proudly pleased that her father should see her vindication from the charge of trifling. 'You are come to hear what I had been desiring my father to tell you. I have used you very ill, and it is time to put a stop to it.'
Lord St. Erme looked from her to her father in wonder and dismay.
'First understand,' said Lord Martindale, 'that this is no doing of mine; I am heartily grieved, but I will leave you. Perhaps you may prevail on this wilful girl--'
Theodora began a protest, and desired him to remain; but he would not, and she found herself alone with her bewildered lover.
'What is this? what have I done?' he began.
'You have done nothing,' said she. 'It is all my own fault. The truth will be a cure for your regrets, and I owe you an explanation. I was engaged to one whom I had known from childhood, but we disputed--my temper was headstrong. He rejected me, and I thought I scorned him, and we parted. You came in my way while I was angry, before I knew that I can never lose my feelings towards him. I know I have seemed to trifle with you; but false shame hindered me from confessing how matters really stood. You ought to rejoice in being freed from such as I am.'
'But with time!' exclaimed Lord St. Erme, in broken words. 'May I not hope that time and earnest
