Theodora and Violet went to receive the party in the house in Belgrave Square, both silent, yet conscious of each other’s feelings. Theodora paced the room, while Violet leant back in a great blue damask chair, overcome by the beatings of her heart; and yet, when the carriage arrived, it was she who spoke the word of encouragement: ‘Your father is so kind, I know he forgives us!’
Theodora knew Violet thought her own weakness and inefficiency needed pardon, and therefore could bear the saying, and allow it to turn her defiant shame into humility.
Mrs. Nesbit came in, supported between Lord and Lady Martindale, and as Theodora hastened to wheel round the large arm-chair, and settle the cushions for her, her eye glanced in keen inquiry from one niece to the other, and they felt that she was exulting in the fulfilment of her prediction.
Lord Martindale kissed his daughter with grave formality; and, as if to mark the difference, threw much warm affection into his greeting of Violet, and held her hand for some moments, while he asked solicitously if she were well and strong, and inquired for her little ones.
She made Arthur’s excuses and explanations, but broke off, blushing and disconcerted, by that harsh, dry cough of Mrs. Nesbit’s, and still more, by seeing Lord Martindale look concerned. She began, with nervous eagerness and agitation, to explain that it was an old engagement, he would not be away long, and then would take her out of town—she was hardly yet ready for a journey. From him she obtained kind smiles, and almost fatherly tenderness; from Lady Martindale the usual ceremonious civility. They asked her to dinner, but she was not equal to this; they then offered to send her home in the carriage, and when she refused, Lord Martindale said he would walk back with her, while Theodora remained with her mother.
He was much displeased with his son for leaving her, especially when he saw how delicate and weak she still looked; and he was much annoyed at being unable to prevent it, without giving Arthur a premium for selfishness; so that all he could do was to treat her with a sort of compassionate affection, increased at each of her unselfish sayings.
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I wish to have a little conversation with you, when it suits you. I am anxious to hear your account of this unfortunate affair.’
‘Very well;’ but he felt her arm tremble.
‘You must not alarm yourself. You are the last person deserving of blame. I am only sorry that you should have had so much to harass you.’
‘O, Theodora has been so very kind to me.’