They were at the foot of the steps, where Charles Layton, now a brisk page, was helping to unpack the carriage, more intelligently than many a youth with the full aid of his senses.
Lord Martindale met them with his grave kind welcome, which awed even Helen into quiet and decorum, though perhaps, from the corners of her eyes, she was spying the Scagliola columns as places for hide-and-seek. She opened them to their roundest extent as her grandmamma came down-stairs, and she tried to take shelter behind her brother from the ceremonious kiss, while Johnnie tightly squeezed his aunt’s hand, and Lady Martindale was quite as much afraid of them as they could be of her.
So began the visit—a very different one from any Violet had hitherto paid at Martindale. Theodora’s room was now her chief resort in the morning, and there Johnnie went through his lessons with almost too precocious ease and delight, and Helen was daily conquered over Mrs. Barbauld. There they were sure to be welcome, though they were seldom seen downstairs. Johnnie used to appear in the space before dinner, very demure and well-behaved, and there seemed to be a fellow-feeling arising between him and his grandfather, who would take possession of him if he met him out-of-doors, and conduct him to any sight suited to his capacity; but who was so much distressed at his forwardness in intellect and his backwardness in strength, that Violet hardly dared to hold a conversation about him for fear of a remonstrance on letting him touch a book.
One day Mrs. Nesbit suddenly said to Theodora, ‘Arthur’s wife and children are here, are not they?’
‘Yes; Violet would have come to see you, but we doubted if you were equal to it.’
‘I have nothing to say to Mr. Moss’s daughter, but bring that eldest boy here, I want to see him.’
Theodora stepped out into the gallery, where Johnnie was often to be found curled up in the end window, poring over and singing to himself the “White Doe of Rylstone”, which he had found among his uncle’s books.
She led him in, exhorting him not to be shy, and to speak out boldly in answer to Aunt Nesbit; but perhaps this only frightened him more. Very quiet and silent, he stood under his aunt’s wing with eyes cast down, answering with a trembling effort the questions asked in that sharp searching tone.
‘His mother all over!’ she said, motioning him away; but, the next day, she sent for him again. Poor Johnnie did not like it at all; he could hardly help shuddering at her touch, and at night begged his mamma not to send him to Aunt Nesbit; for he could not bear it without her. She had to represent that Aunt Nesbit was old and ill, and that it would be unkind not to go to her: but then came the difficult question, ‘Why don’t you go, mamma?’ However, when his compassionate feelings were aroused, he bore it better; and though he never got beyond standing silently by her chair for ten minutes, replying when spoken to, and once or twice reading a few sentences, or repeating some verses, when Theodora thought it would please her, it was evident that his visit had become the chief event of her day. One day she gave him a sovereign, and asked what he would do with it. He blushed and hesitated, and she suggested, ‘Keep it, that will be the wisest.’
‘No,’ came with an effort, and an imploring glance at Aunt Theodora.