"I was going into the town on an errand."

"Just the moment I wanted you. There"s a cricket match in the College Meads. Come along."

And with her arm in his, Violet"s clouds vanished, and she had no recollection of anxieties or vexations. The summer sky was overhead, the river shone blue and bright, the meadows smiled in verdure, the whole scene was full of animation, and the game, of which she knew nothing, was made charming by Arthur"s explanations. Nearly an hour had pa.s.sed before she bethought herself of suggesting it was almost time to go home.

"Presently," said Arthur, "let us see this fellow out."

Another ten minutes. "Would you look at your watch please? There"s your brother waiting for his luncheon."

"O, ay, "tis nearly time," and he was again absorbed. She thought he would not be pleased if she went home alone, nor was she sure of the way; so she waited in much annoyance, till at length he said, "Now, Violet," and they walked briskly home, all that she had endured pa.s.sing entirely out of her mind.

She rejoiced to find Mr. Martindale unconscious that it was not far from two o"clock. He said he had been glad of time to finish his letters, and Arthur, as his eye fell on one of them, asked, "What is Percy doing now?"

"He has been in Anatolia, going over some of the places we saw together.

He has made some discoveries about the Crusades, and is thinking of publishing some of his theories."

"Did I not hear of his writing something before this?"

"Yes; he sent some curious histories of the eastern Jews to some magazine. They are to be published separately, as they have been very successful; but I am glad this book is to be what he calls "self-contained." He is too good to be wasted upon periodicals."

Violet, curious to know who was this literary correspondent, glanced at the letter, and read the address, to "Antony Percival Fotheringham, Esquire, British Emba.s.sy, Constantinople." She started to find it was the surname of that lost betrothed of whom she thought with an undefinable reverent pity.

All speculations were put to flight, however, by the entrance of the luncheon tray, containing nothing but slices of cold mutton and bread and b.u.t.ter. With a grievous look of dismay, and lamentable exclamation, she began to pour out explanations and apologies, but the gentlemen seemed too intent on conversing about Mr. Fotheringham either to hear her or to perceive anything amiss.

She remembered black looks and sharp words at home; and feeling dreadfully guilty at having failed immediately after her resolutions, she retreated to her room, and there Arthur found her in positive distress.

"Oh, I am so much concerned! It was so wrong to forget those biscuits.

Your brother ate nothing else yesterday at luncheon!"

"Is that all?" said Arthur, laughing; "I thought something had happened to you. Come, on with your bonnet. Fancy! John will actually walk with us to St. Cross!"

"Let me first tell you how it happened. There are a couple of ducks--"

"Let them be. No housekeeping affairs for me. Whatever happens, keep your own counsel. If they serve you up a barbecued puppy dog, keep a cool countenance, and help the company round. No woman good for anything mentions her bill of fare in civilized society. Mind that."

Violet was left imagining her apologies a breach of good manners. What must Mr. Martindale think of her? Silly, childish, indiscreet, giggling, neglectful, underbred! How he must regret his brother"s having such a wife!

Yet his pleasant voice, and her husband"s drawing her arm into his, instantly dispelled all fear and regret, and her walk was delightful.

She was enchanted with St. Cross, delighted with the quadrangle of gray buildings covered with creepers, the smooth turf and gay flowers; in raptures at the black jacks, dole of bread and beer, and at the silver-crossed brethren, and eager to extract all Mr. Martindale"s information on the architecture and history of the place, lingering over it as long as her husband"s patience would endure, and hardly able to tear herself from the quiet gla.s.sy stream and green meadows.

"If Caroline were only here to sketch it!" she cried, "there would be nothing wanting but that that hill should be Helvellyn."

"You should see the mountain convents in Albania," said John; and she was soon charmed with his account of his adventures there with Mr.

Fotheringham. She was beginning to look on him as a perfect mine of information--one who had seen the whole world, and read everything.

All that was wanting, she said, was Matilda properly to enter into his conversation.

Another day brought letters, inviting Arthur to bring home his bride for a fortnight"s visit, as soon as he could obtain leave of absence.

CHAPTER 3

Who is the bride? A simple village maid, Beauty and truth, a violet in the shade.

She takes their forced welcome and their wiles For her own truth, and lifts her head and smiles.

They shall not change that truth by any art, Oh! may her love change them before they part.

She turns away, her eyes are dim with tears, Her mother"s blessing lingers in her ears, "Bless thee, my child," the music is unheard, Her heart grows strong on that remembered word.

FREDERICK TENNYSON

"Here we are!" said Arthur Martindale. "Here"s the lodge." Then looking in his wife"s face, "Why! you are as white as a sheet. Come! don"t be a silly child. They won"t bite."

"I am glad I have seen Mr. John Martindale," sighed she.

"Don"t call him so here. Ah! I meant to tell you you must not "Mr.

Martindale" me here. John is Mr. Martindale."

"And what am I to call you?"

"By my name, of course."

"Arthur! Oh! I don"t know how."

"You will soon. And if you can help shrinking when my aunt kisses you, it will be better for us. Ha! there is Theodora."

"O, where?"

"Gone! Fled in by the lower door. I wish I could have caught her."

Violet held her breath. The grand parterre, laid out in regularly-shaped borders, each containing a ma.s.s of one kind of flower, flaming elscholchias, dazzling verbenas, azure nemophilas, or sober heliotrope, the broad walks, the great pile of building, the innumerable windows, the long ascent of stone steps, their bal.u.s.trade guarded by sculptured sphinxes, the lofty entrance, and the tall powdered footmen, gave her the sense of entering a palace. She trembled, and clung to Arthur"s arm as they came into a great hall, where a vista of marble pillars, orange trees, and statues, opened before her; but comfort came in the cordial brotherly greeting with which John here met them.

"She is frightened out of her senses," said Arthur.

John"s reply was an encouraging squeeze of the hand, which he retained, leading her, still leaning on her husband"s arm, into a room, where an elderly gentleman was advancing; both her hands were placed within his by her supporters on either side, and he kissed her, gravely saying, "Welcome, my dear." He then presented her to a formal embrace from a tall lady; and Arthur saying, "Well, Theodora! here, Violet," again took her hand, and put it into another, whose soft clasp was not ready, nor was the kiss hearty.

Presently Violet, a little rea.s.sured by Lord Martindale"s gentle tones, ventured on a survey. She was on the same sofa with Lady Martindale; but infinitely remote she felt from that form like an eastern queen, richly dressed, and with dark majestic beauty, whose dignity was rather increased than impaired by her fifty years. She spoke softly to the shy stranger, but with a condescending tone, that marked the width of the gulf, and Violet"s eyes, in the timid hope of sympathy, turned towards the sister.

But, though the figure was younger, and the dress plainer, something seemed to make her still more unapproachable. There was less beauty, less gentleness, and the expression of her countenance had something fixed and stern. Now and then there was a sort of agitation of the muscles of the face, and her eyes were riveted on Arthur, excepting that if he looked towards her, she instantly looked out of the window. She neither spoke nor moved: Violet thought that she had not given her a single glance, but she was mistaken, Theodora was observing, and forming a judgment.

This wife, for whose sake Arthur had perilled so much, and inflicted such acute pain on her, what were her merits? A complexion of lilies and roses, a head like a steel engraving in an annual, a face expressing nothing but childish bashfulness, a manner ladylike but constrained, and a dress of studied simplicity worse than finery.

Lady Martindale spoke of dressing, and conducted her meek shy visitor up a grand staircase, along a broad gallery, into a large bed-room, into which the western sun beamed with a dazzling flood of light.

The first use Violet made of her solitude was to look round in amaze at the size and luxury of her room, wondering if she should ever feel at home where looking-gla.s.ses haunted her with her own insignificance. She fled from them, to try to cool her cheeks at the open window, and gaze at the pleasure-ground, which reminded her of prints of Versailles, by the sparkling fountain rising high in fantastic jets from its stone basin, in the midst of an expanse of level turf, bordered by terraces and stone steps, adorned with tall vases of flowers. On the bal.u.s.trade stood a peac.o.c.k, bending his blue neck, and drooping his gorgeous train, as if he was "monarch of all he surveyed."