‘To me!’ and Violet followed her, blushed and bent, then found her hand cordially shaken, and a most comfortable voice addressing her. Room was made for her on the sofa, between Lady Elizabeth and her daughter, and she was supremely happy in talking about her own dear lake country. Arthur smiled, and looked well pleased to see her in such company; and Mr. Martindale came and talked to Lady Elizabeth all the evening.
Violet expected Theodora to monopolize Miss Brandon the next morning, but Theodora had reasons of her own for not breaking her habit of spending the morning in her own occupations. She knew Lady Elizabeth to be perfectly guiltless of manoeuvring; but from the time she had become conscious of Mrs. Nesbit’s designs on Rickworth, first for Arthur and now for John, it had been her decided purpose to give no colour for throwing the heiress in their way by any friendship of hers; and as she considered Emma one of the dullest and most silly girls of her acquaintance, it was very pleasant to be justified in neglecting her.
The office of companionship to the younger visitor fell to Mrs. Martindale. She showed off the peacock, and they wandered happily in the gardens, most amiably received by Mr. Harrison, who delighted in displaying his treasures, and almost overwhelmed Violet with his graciousness, when she shyly asked if he could spare her a few of his white roses for her hair.
Miss Brandon groaned and sighed about the ball, declaring it her detestation; she should be tired to death; she hated dancing; and above all, there was the nuisance of dressing.
‘Oh! I am sorry you don’t like it,’ said Violet, ‘but that is the way with all sensible people.’
‘No; mamma says it is not being sensible, but because I don’t dance well, and she wishes I did.’
‘I am glad of that. My mamma does not think it foolish.’
‘Do you like dancing, then?’
‘That I do,’ cried Violet, making a few steps; ‘I only wish I might dance with him still!’
This was the only difference of opinion—on school-teaching books—heroes, historical and fictitious—on the “Bridal of Triermain”—and Wordsworth’s Waggoner, their sentiments accorded exactly. Perhaps Emma’s mind was the more formed and cultivated, but Violet’s was the more discerning and diffident in judgment.
Emma took the first opportunity of pouring out to her mother a perfect rapture about Mrs. Martindale, dwelling on her right views, and all that showed she had been well brought up.
‘She is a sweet-looking creature,’ said Lady Elizabeth, ‘and I do hope she is all she seems. Lord Martindale has been telling me how entirely the marriage was her father’s doing, and that she was perfectly ignorant and innocent, poor thing.’
‘She looks as if she could never do anything wrong. Mamma, I hardly know whether you would like me to make friends with her, but I could not help it, and she said such nice things that I knew you would like her. I never could get on with any one before, you know, but, from the moment she came blushing in, and spoke to me in that sweet low voice, I felt as if I most be fond of her—before I made out who she was—and even then I could not like her less.’
‘She is so unaffected and unassuming!’ said Lady Elizabeth. ‘I little expected Arthur Martindale’s marriage to have turned out so well.’
‘I don’t wonder at his falling in love at first sight! I don’t see how he could help it. I am sure I should!’
‘I think you have, said Lady Elizabeth, smiling.
‘Wasn’t it charming, mamma? Theodora never came near us all the morning, and very soon got out of my way in the afternoon, so we were so comfortable!’
‘Take care what you say about her, my dear.’
‘Oh, yes. We never spoke of her at all. I wonder what Mrs. Martindale does here! It is a dreadful place, and they are all one more stately than the other,’
‘Not the sons.’
‘Oh! poor Mr. Martindale is worse than stately. There’s something in that gentle melancholy tone of his that is so different from other people—and he looks so refined and thoughtful. He frightens me more than any of them!’
‘I hope he is in rather better spirits. I have had a good deal of talk with him this evening. Indeed, his father told me he had been roused by all this affair about his brother. But, Emma, my dear, you have not rung all this time! Here am I almost dressed. I shall have to fulfil my threat, and leave you to come down alone.’
It had to be fulfilled. Emma left insufficient time for her maid to try to set out her soft light scanty hair, to make her satin and gauze look anything but limp and flabby, and to put on her jewels, in the vain hope of their making her seem well dressed. Whatever was ordained for her to wear, Emma always looked exactly the same. She opened her door at the same moment as Violet advanced into the gallery, her tall taper figure arrayed in bridal lace, not much whiter than her long neck and rounded arms, a wreath of roses around her dark tresses, brilliant flowers in her hand, her soft eyes bright with pleasure, and her beauteous complexion deepened by bashfulness.
Emma could not repress her delight. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, ‘you can’t think how beautiful you are!’
‘Isn’t she?’ said a proud, playful voice. ‘Thank you;’ but seeing Emma disconcerted, Arthur hastened down-stairs.
‘Oh, I didn’t know he was there!’
‘Never mind!’ said Violet, among her blushes. ‘I’m glad he was. He liked it.’
‘I could not help it,’ said Emma. ‘You are so like a story! I can hardly believe you are real!’
Violet felt familiar enough to prove herself substantial by a playful pinch. ‘But look here! See what I found on my table.’
‘One of those serpent bracelets. It is very pretty!’
‘Was not it kind of Lord Martindale?’
‘You have to thank him for it! Oh! dreadful!’
‘I don’t mind speaking to him. It is so kind. “Mrs. A. Martindale, from her affectionate father,” the direction said. Oh! it is so very, very pleasant that he should be so kind to me. Is not it a beautiful creature! Look at its scales and its crown, and eyes. Arthur says they are sapphires.’
‘Yes, I never saw a prettier one.’
‘I wish Annette could see it, and all at home. Is it not like a creature in a fairy tale?’
‘Like Zelinda’s singing serpents?’
‘Just like them. Do you know, I sometimes think I have got into a fairy tale. Everything is so beautiful and so bewildering, and unlike what I fancied.’
‘Because you are so like a fairy princess yourself. Are you sure you have not a talisman ring!’
‘I think I have,’ and Violet pulled off her glove. ‘There—that forget-me-not—the first ring I ever had. From the day he gave me that it has all been so strange, that now and then I have been almost afraid to awake, for fear it should not be true. But may I look at that diamond butterfly of yours? It shines as if it would flash in the dark.’
‘Never mind mine. Stupid things that came as heir-looms, and have no pleasure belonging to them. The only thing I do care for is this’—and she drew out a locket from within her dress. ‘There, that is my father’s hair, and that is my little brother’s. They both died before I can remember; and there is dear mamma’s nice pepper-and-salt lock round them.’
Theodora swept by in black lace, her coronal of hair wreathed with large pearls, and her lofty air like the Tragic Muse.
‘Comparing ornaments! Worthy of such a friendship,’ thought she, as she held back, and made them go down before her, Emma glad to hold by Violet’s arm for protection.
Mrs. Nesbit was in the drawing-room talking to Lady Elizabeth, and with her keen piercing eyes watching John, who was reading the newspaper by the table. She was pleased to see him lay it aside,