"I have bent to make the avowal I thought I never could have spoken,"

said Theodora.

"And there is my hope of you. Now for the next step."

"The next! what is it?"

"Thankfully and meekly to accept the consequences of these sad errors."

"You mean this lonely, unsatisfactory life?"

"And this displeasure of your father."

"But, indeed, he misjudges me."

"Have you ever given him the means of forming a different judgment?"

"He has seen all. If I am distrusted, I cannot descend to justify myself."

"I am disappointed in you, Theodora. Where is your humility?"

With these words Mr. Martindale quitted her. He had divined that her feelings would work more when left to themselves, than when pressed, and so it proved.

The witness within her spoke more clearly, and dislike and loathing of her proceedings during the last year grew more strongly upon her. The sense of her faults had been latent in her mind for months past, but the struggle of her external life had kept it down, until now it came forth with an overpowering force of grief and self-condemnation. It was not merely her sins against Mr. Fotheringham and Lord St. Erme that oppressed her, it was the perception of the wilful and rebellious life she had led, while making so high a profession.

Silently and sadly she wore through the rest of the day, unmolested by any remark from the rest of the family, but absorbed in her own thoughts, and the night pa.s.sed in acute mental distress; with longings after Violet to soothe her, and to open to her hopes of the good and right way of peace.

With morning light came the recollection that, after all, Violet would rejoice in what she had just done. Violet would call it a step in the right direction; and she had promised her further help from above and within, when once she should have had patience to take the right move, even in darkness. "She told me, if I put my trust aright, and tried to act in obedience, I should find a guide!"

And, worn out and wearied with the tossings of her mind, Theodora resolved to have recourse to the kind clergyman who had listened to her confidence. Perhaps he was the guide who would aid her to conquer the serpents that had worked her so much misery; and, after so much self-will, she felt that there would be rest in submitting to direction.

She sought him out, and joined his early walk.

"Help me," she said; "I repent, indeed I do. Teach me to begin afresh, and to be what I ought. I would do anything."

"Anything that is not required of you, Theodora, or anything that is?"

"Whatever you or Violet required of me," said she, "that I would do readily and gladly, cost me what it might."

"It is not for me to require anything," said Mr. Martindale. "What I advise you is to test the sincerity of your repentance by humbling yourself to ask your father"s forgiveness."

He watched her face anxiously, for his hopes of her almost might be said to depend upon this. It was one of those efforts which she made with apparent calmness. "You and Violet ask the same thing," she said; "I will."

"I am glad to hear you say this. I could not think you going on right while you denied him the full explanation of your conduct."

"Did you mean that I should tell him all?" exclaimed Theodora.

"It would be a great relief to his mind. Few fathers would have left you such complete liberty of action, consented to your engagement, and then acted so kindly and cautiously in not forcing on you this, for which he had begun to wish ardently. You have grieved him extremely, and you owe it to him to show that this has not all been caprice."

I have promised," repeated Theodora.

"Your second effort," said Mr. Martindale, encouragingly. They were nearly opposite an hotel, where a carriage was being packed. Theodora turned, he understood her, and they walked back; but before they could quit the main road, the travellers rolled past them. Lord St. Erme bowed. Theodora did not look up; but when past asked if any one was with him.

"Yes; his sister."

"I am glad of it," said Theodora. "She is an excellent little thing, the very reverse of me."

Without failure of resolution, Theodora returned to breakfast, her mind made up to the effort, which was more considerable than can be appreciated, without remembering her distaste to all that bore the semblance of authority, and the species of proud reserve that had prevented her from avowing to her father her sentiments respecting Mr.

Fotheringham, even in the first days of their engagement; and she was honest enough to feel that the manner, as well as the subject of conversation, must show the sincerity of her change. She would not let herself be affronted into perverseness or sullenness, but would try to imagine Violet looking on; and with this determination she lingered in the breakfast-room after her mother and cousin had left it.

"Papa," said she, as he was leaving the room, "will you listen to me?"

"What now, Theodora?" said poor Lord Martindale, expecting some of those fresh perplexities that made him feel the whole family to blame.

It was not encouraging, but she had made up her mind. "I have behaved very ill about all this, papa; I want you to forgive me."

He came nearer to her, and studied her face, in dread lest there should be something behind. "I am always ready to forgive and listen to you,"

he said sadly.

She perceived that she had, indeed, given him much pain, and was softened, and anxious for him to be comforted by seeing that her fault, at least, was not the vanity and heartlessness that he supposed.

"It was very wrong of me to answer you as I did yesterday," she said. "I know it was my own fault that Lord St. Erme was allowed to follow us."

"And why did you consent!"

"I don"t know. Yes, I do, though; but that makes it worse. It was because my perverse temper was vexed at your warning me," said Theodora, looking down, much ashamed.

"Then you never meant to accept him!" exclaimed her father.

"No, not exactly that; I thought I might," said she, slowly, and with difficulty.

"Then what has produced this alteration?"

"I will tell you," said she, recalling her resolution. "I did not know how much I cared for Percy Fotheringham. Yesterday there came a foolish report about his forming another attachment. I know it was not true; but the misery it gave me showed me that it would be sin and madness to engage myself to another."

Lord Martindale breathed more freely. "Forgive me for putting the question, it is a strange one to ask now: were you really attached to Percy Fotheringham?"

"With my whole heart," answered Theodora, deliberately.

"Then why, or how--"

"Because my pride and stubbornness were beyond what any man could bear,"

she answered. "He did quite right: it would not have been manly to submit to my conduct. I did not know how bad it was till afterwards, nor how impossible it is that my feelings towards him should cease."

"And this is the true history of your treatment of Lord St. Erme!"

"Yes. He came at an unlucky moment of anger, when Violet was ill, and could not breathe her saving influence over me, and I fancied--It was very wrong, and I was ashamed to confess what I have told you now."

"Have you given him this explanation?"