‘Pray, pray come with me. Theodora is so ill! It would do her so much good to see you; and we are afraid of her being anxious or distressed, lest she should have fever. Won’t you come?’
A motion, as if she could not bear this, made Violet fear she must desist, and she paused for a short interval, then said, ‘SHE was very fond of Theodora.’
‘Oh! Yes, yes—’
‘She would not like her to be left so long.’
‘I thought you were taking care of her.’
‘Oh, yes! but I cannot be the same as you would. One always wants one’s mother so much in illness.’
‘She was always a mother to me!’ The tears came at last, and she wept unrestrainedly; while Violet hung over her with soft caressing words of sympathy that cannot be detailed, till the first grief had had its course, and she again tried the experiment of repeating Theodora’s name, and saying how much she was suffering.
Lady Martindale did not reply, but suffered Violet to put on her cloak, and gradually lead her from the room, saying at each pause something of ‘poor Theodora.’
The deed was done; it might be by importunity, but it was worth achieving, even at the risk of being vexatious. Lord Martindale could hardly believe his eyes when he saw his wife on her way to the carriage, and Theodora was equally astonished when she appeared at her bedside.
It was a new thing to see one, hitherto healthy and independent, so completely prostrated; and no more was needed to awaken the natural affection so long stifled or thrust aside. Lady Martindale was greatly shocked, and, perhaps magnifying her daughter’s illness, had no room for any other thought. She wished to do everything for her herself—would hardly admit Violet’s assistance—and took every care, with skilfulness that was marvellous in one trained to ineffectiveness.