LITMIR.BIZ

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excitement and anxiety that brought on a recurrence of it, for his health is decidedly improved. He desired me to mention that Mrs. Martindale is much better. She is on the sofa to-day for the first time; and he saw her before leaving.’

      ‘Do you know how the little boy is?’ Theodora could not help asking.

      ‘He is a little stronger, thank you, ma’am,’ said Brown, with much interest; ‘he has cried less these last few days. He is said to be extremely like Mrs. Martindale.’

      Brown remounted to his place, the carriage drove on, and Theodora impetuously walked along the avenue.

      ‘That man is insufferable! Extremely like Mrs. Martindale! Servants’ gossip! How could I go and ask him? John has perfectly spoilt a good servant in him! But John spoils everybody. The notion of that girl sending him on her messages! John, who is treated like something sacred by my father and mother themselves! Those damp Rickworth meadows! How could Arthur allow it? It would serve him right if he was to marry Emma Brandon after all!’

      She would not go near her mother, lest she should give her aunt the pleasure of hearing where he was gone; but as she was coming down, dressed for dinner, she met her father in the hall, uneasily asking a servant whether Mr. Martindale was come.

      ‘Arthur’s wife has sent him with a message to Rickworth,’ she said.

      ‘John? You don’t mean it. You have not seen him?’

      ‘No; he went round that way, and sent Brown home. He said he should be here by dinner-time, but it is very late. Is it not a strange proceeding of hers, to be sending him about the country!’

      ‘I don’t understand it. Where’s Brown?’

      ‘Here’s a fly coming up the avenue. He is come at last.’

      Lord Martindale hastened down the steps; Theodora came no further than the door, in so irritated a state that she did not like John’s cheerful alacrity of step and greeting. ‘She is up to-day, she is getting better,’ were the first words she heard. ‘Well, Theodora, how are you?’ and he kissed her with more warmth than she returned.

      ‘Did I hear you had been to Rickworth?’ said his father.

      ‘Yes; I sent word by Brown. Poor Violet is still so weak that she cannot write, and the Brandons have been anxious about her; so she asked me to let them know how she was, if I had the opportunity, and I came round that way. I wanted to know when they go to London; for though Arthur is as attentive as possible, I don’t think Violet is in a condition to be left entirely to him. When do you go?’

      ‘Not till the end of May—just before the drawing-room,’ said Lord Martindale.

      ‘I go back when they can take the boy to church. Is my mother in the drawing-room? I’ll just speak to her, and dress—it is late I see.’

      ‘How well he seems,’ said Lord Martindale, as John walked quickly on before.

      ‘There was a cough,’ said Theodora.

      ‘Yes; but so cheerful. I have not seen him so animated for years. He must be better!’

      His mother was full of delight. ‘My dear John, you look so much better! Where have you been?’

      ‘At Rickworth. I went to give Lady Elizabeth an account of Violet. She is much better.’

      ‘And you have been after sunset in that river fog! My dear John!’

      ‘There was no fog; and it was a most pleasant drive. I had no idea Rickworth was so pretty. Violet desired me to thank you for your kind messages. You should see her to-day, mother; she would be quite a study for you; she looks so pretty on her pillows, poor thing! and Arthur is come out quite a new character—as an excellent nurse.’

      ‘Poor thing! I am glad she is recovering,’ said Lady Martindale. ‘It was very kind in you to stay with Arthur. I only hope you have not been hurting yourself.’

      ‘No, thank you; I came away in time, I believe: but I should have been glad to have stayed on, unless I made room for some one of more use to Violet.’

      ‘I wish you had come home sooner. We have had such a pleasant dinner-party. You would have liked to meet the professor.’

      It was not the first time John had been sensible that that drawing-room was no place for sympathy; and he felt it the more now, because he had been living in such entire participation of his brother’s hopes and fears, that he could hardly suppose any one could be less interested in the mother and child in Cadogan-place. He came home, wishing Theodora would go and relieve Arthur of some of the care Violet needed in her convalescence; and he was much disappointed by her apparent indifference—in reality, a severe fit of perverse jealousy.

      All dinner-time she endured a conversation on the subjects for which she least cared; nay, she talked ardently about the past dinner-party, for the very purpose of preventing John from suspecting that her anxiety had prevented her from enjoying it. And when she left the dining-room, she felt furious at knowing that now her father would have all the particulars to himself, so that none would transpire to her.

      She longed so much to hear of Arthur and his child, that when John came into the drawing-room she could have asked! But he went to greet his aunt, who received him thus:

      ‘Well, I am glad to see you at last. You ought to have good reasons for coming to England for the May east winds, and then exposing yourself to them in London!’

      ‘I hope I did not expose myself: I only went out three or four times.’

      ‘I know you are always rejoiced to be as little at home as possible.’

      ‘I could not be spared sooner, ma’am.’

      ‘Spared? I think you have come out in a new capacity.’

      John never went up his aunt without expecting to undergo a penance.

      ‘I was sorry no one else could be with Arthur, but being there, I could not leave him.’

      ‘And your mother tells me you are going back again.’

      ‘Yes, to stand godfather.’

      ‘To the son and heir, as they called him in the paper. I gave Arthur credit for better taste; I suppose it was done by some of her connections?’

      ‘I was that connection,’ said John.

      ‘Oh! I suppose you know what expectations you will raise?’

      John making no answer, she grew more angry. ‘This one, at least, is never likely to be heir, from what I hear; it is only surprising that it is still alive.’

      How Theodora hung upon the answer, her very throat aching with anxiety, but hardening her face because John looked towards her.

      ‘We were very much afraid for him at first,’ he said, ‘but they now think there is no reason he should not do well. He began to improve from the time she could attend to him.’

      A deep sigh from his mother startled John, and recalled the grief of his childhood—the loss of two young sisters who had died during her absence on the continent. He crossed over and stood near her, between her and his aunt, who, in agitated haste to change the conversation, called out to ask her about some club-book. For once she did not attend; and while Theodora came forward and answered Mrs. Nesbit, she tremulously asked John if he had seen the child.

      ‘Only once, before he was an hour old. He was asleep when I came away; and, as Arthur says, it is a serious thing to disturb him, he cries so much.’

      ‘A little low melancholy wailing,’ she said, with a half sob. But Mrs. Nesbit would not leave her at peace any longer, and her voice came beyond the screen of John’s figure:—

      ‘Lady Martindale, my dear, have you done with those books! They ought to be returned.’

      ‘Which, dear aunt?’ And Lady Martindale started up as if she had been caught off duty, and, with a manifest effort, brought her wandering thoughts back again, to say which were read and which were unread.

      John did not venture to revert to

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