LITMIR.BIZ

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that it was mere presumption in her to try to order one so much wiser than herself. The cook, a relation of Miss Standaloft, was much more smooth and deferential, full of resources, which seemed to come from Mrs. Martindale herself; and though the weekly bills always exceeded her reckonings, so many things were wanting, as Mrs. Cook observed, just getting into a house. The first time of having any guests at dinner, Violet was in much anxiety, but all went off to general satisfaction until the bills came in on Monday morning. The cost was beyond her calculations, exceeded her week’s portion, and devoured the savings of the days when they had not dined at home. Invitations had been sent out for another party, and Violet tried to bring it within bounds; but the cook was civilly superior—‘It was always so in the first families, such as she was accustomed to, but if Mrs. Martindale liked to have things in a different style—’

      She knew Arthur would consent to no external change, and all she could do was to look at the price of all she ordered, reject sundry expensive delicacies, and trust to living on the relics of the feast for the rest of the week; but, behold! they scarcely served for one luncheon, and on Monday the bills had mounted up in an inexplicable manner. There were no savings left, and she made up the deficiency from her own resources. A third party was impending, and she strove more resolutely for frugality. ‘Well, ma’am, if you choose, it must be so; but it was not what I was used to in the families such as I have lived in.’

      But Violet was firm, whereupon the cook harassed her with contrarieties; and late hours and London air had so far told upon her that she could not shake off her cares cheerfully. She knew all would turn out ill—tormented herself—brought on a headache, and looked unwell when the evening came. The cook sent up the dinner with just enough want of care to keep her in such continual apprehension that she could hardly attend to the conversation.

      ‘You did not make such a good hand of it to-day,’ said Arthur, when the guests were gone; ‘that soup was ditch-water, and—’

      Violet was so worn out that she burst into tears. ‘Hey? What’s the matter now? I said nothing to cry for.’

      She tried to speak, but the tears would not let her.

      ‘Well, if you can’t bear to be told everything is not perfection, I don’t know what is to be done.’ And Arthur, in displeasure, took up a candle and walked off to smoke a cigar in his sitting-room down-stairs.

      Her tears were checked by consternation, and, earnest to be forgiven, she followed; then, as he turned impatiently, said, in a trembling pleading voice, ‘Dear Arthur, I’ve done crying. I did not mean to be cross.’

      ‘Well, that’s enough, never mind,’ said he, not unkindly, but as if in haste to dismiss the subject, and be left to the peaceful enjoyment of his cigar.

      ‘And you forgive me?’

      ‘Forgive? nonsense—only don’t begin crying about nothing again. There’s nothing more intolerable than for a woman to be always crying, whenever one speaks to her.’

      ‘’Twas not so much that,’ said Violet, meekly, ‘as that I was vexed at the dinner not looking well, and it won’t, without spending such quantities of money!’

      ‘Quantities—what do you call quantities?’

      She named the cost of the last dinner, and he laughed at her horror; then, when she was going to prove that it was disproportionate to their means, he silenced her:

      ‘Well, well, never mind; we are not going to give any more dinners just yet; but when we do, have done with pinching and squeezing. Why, you don’t look fit to be seen after it.’

      ‘I’m only tired.’

      ‘Ay, with worrying. Go to bed and to sleep, and forget it all!’

      She was consoled for that time; but the perplexity continued. She strove to reduce the ordinary expenditure, but Arthur had a fashion of bringing home a friend to dinner without notice; and she underwent indescribable miseries, while reflecting on her one chicken, or five mutton chops; and though something was sure to be extemporized by the cook, the result was that these casual guests were as expensive as a banquet. She ventured to beg Arthur to tell her when he was going to ask any one, but he was vexed, and said he liked to bring home a man by chance; there need be nothing out of the common way, and a dinner for two was a dinner for three. Poor Violet thought, ‘Ah! this is not like the time at Winchester. It is my own fault, I am not companion, enough.’

      She began to grow tired of going out in the evening; late hours tried her; she felt listless and unwell; and her finances could not support the dress expenses, but when she tried to excuse herself, she found Arthur determined on taking her out, though he had previously grumbled, and declared he only went for her sake. When she looked pale and languid he seemed annoyed, in a way that gave her the impression that he valued nothing but her beauty. She believed he found home dull, and her not what he expected.

      The truth was, perhaps, that Violet’s spirits were naturally not strong, and she was scarcely equal to the cares that had come on her. She missed the companionship of the large family at home; and a slight degree of indisposition or of anxiety was sufficient to set her tormenting herself with every imaginable fear and grief; above all, the dread that he was not pleased with her.

      She believed herself to have strictly adhered to the rule of paying for everything at once; but she was dismayed by a shower of bills at Christmas, for things ordered by the cook without her knowledge, several of which she disowned altogether; and several that her memory and ‘great book’ both declared she had paid; though the tradesmen and the cook, through whom the money had been sent, stoutly denied it. She was frightened, paid the sums, and so went the last remains of Lord Martindale’s present.

      Sure that the woman was dishonest, yet not knowing how to prove it; afraid to consult Arthur on the household concerns, that he detested; and with a nervous dread of a disturbance, Violet made arrangements for conveying no more payments through Mrs. Cook; and, for the rest, thought she must go on as she could, till the time should come, when, near the end of May, she reckoned on having her mother with her. She would repair her mistakes, make her feel herself mistress in her own house, and help her to all she wanted to know, without fear of Wrangerton gossip. That hope strengthened and cheered her in all her troubles; and oh! suppose Annette came too!

      Poor Violet! the first time she referred to her mother’s coming, Arthur looked annoyed, gave a sort of whistle, and said, as if searching for an excuse, ‘Why, they never could spare her from Wrangerton.’

      ‘O, that they would,’ said Violet, eagerly; ‘or if not mamma herself, at least, I am sure, Matilda would come to me, or Annette.’

      ‘Whew!’ again whistled Arthur; ‘I don’t know whether that will do.’

      ‘Arthur!’

      ‘There will be my mother close by, and Lady Elizabeth. No, no, you won’t want to have any one up from there.’

      ‘May I not have my own mamma?’ pleaded poor Violet, urged into something like pertinacity.

      But Arthur cut her short; his great dislike to what he had to say making him speak the more ungraciously: ‘I don’t want to vex you, Violet, but once for all we must come to an understanding. You must not expect to have your family here. They are good sort of people, and all that style of thing,’—he faltered at her looks of imploring consternation, and tried to work himself into anger in order to be able to finish. ‘It is of no use looking wretched, I tell you, you must put it out of your head. They belong to a different set altogether, and it won’t do any way. There now, don’t go and be nervous about yourself; Theodora shall see to you, and you’ll do very well, I have no doubt.’

      With these words he hastily quitted her, that he might not witness the distress he had occasioned, though he had not the least idea what his refusal was to her.

      The sense of her own helplessness and inexperience, and the prospect of illness, without mother or sister, were lost in the more overpowering sorrow at his unkindness. How could he love her if he denied her this at such a time, and in such a manner?’ He is ashamed of my family! ashamed of me! He is disappointed in me! I can’t make it pleasant to him at home. I am not even good-tempered when I am

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