Fated to Be Free by Jean Ingelow (page 6)

“You know it,” said Valentine.

“Yes,” John answered gravely, “of course.”

“Oh! what next, what next?” thought Valentine, and he spent two or three minutes in such a tumult of keen expectation and eager excitement, that he could hear every beat of his heart quite plainly, and then–

“It is a very great upset of all my plans,” John said, still with more gravity than usual. “I had fully intended–indeed, I had hoped, old fellow, that you and I would be partners some day.”

“Oh, John,” exclaimed Valentine, a sudden revulsion of feeling almost overcoming him now he found that his fears as to what John might be thinking of were groundless. “Oh, John, I wish we could! It might be a great deal better for me. And so you really did mean it? You are more like a brother than anything else. I hate the thought of that ill-starred house; I think I’ll stop here with you.”

“Nonsense,” said John, just as composedly and as gravely as ever; “what do you mean, you foolish lad?” But he appreciated the affection Valentine had expressed for him, and kindly put his hand on his young relative’s shoulder.

Valentine had never found it so hard to understand himself as at that moment. His course was free, Giles could not speak, and John knew nothing; yet either the firm clasp of a man’s hand on his shoulder roused him to the fact that he cared for this man so much that he could be happier under his orders than free and his own master, or else his father’s words gathered force by mere withdrawal of opposition.

For a moment he almost wished John did know; he wanted to be fortified in his desire to remain with him; and yet–No! he could not tell him; that would be taking his fate out of his own hands for ever.

“You think then I must–take it up; in short, go and live in it?” he said at length.

“Think!” exclaimed John, with energy and vehemence; “why, who could possibly think otherwise?”

“I’ve always been accustomed to go in and out amongst a posse of my own relations.”

“Your own relations must come to you then,” answered John pleasantly, “I, for one. Why, Melcombe’s only fifty or sixty miles off, man!”

“It seems to me now that I’m very sorry for that poor little fellow’s death,” Valentine went on.

“Nobody could have behaved better during his lifetime than you have done,” John said. “Why, Val,” he exclaimed, looking down, “you astonish me!”

Valentine was vainly struggling with tears. John went and bolted the door; then got some wine, and brought him a glass.

“As calm as possible during my father’s death and funeral,” he thought, “and now half choking himself, forsooth, because his fortune’s made, and he must leave his relations. I trust and hope, with all my heart, that Dorothea is not at the bottom of this! I supposed his nerves to be strong enough for anything.”

Valentine was deadly pale. He put up a shaking hand for the glass, and as he drank the wine, and felt the blood creeping warmly about his limbs again, he thought “John knows nothing whatever. No wonder he is astonished, he little thinks what a leap in the dark it is.”

And so the die was cast.

A few days after this Gladys and Barbara received letters; the first ran as follows:–

“My dear young Friends,–Owe you three-and-sixpence for Blob’s biscuits, do I? Don’t you know that it is not polite to remind people of their debts? When you would have been paid that money I cannot think, if it were not for a circumstance detailed below. I have just been reading that the finest minds always possess a keen sense of humour, so if you find nothing to laugh at in this, it will prove that there is nothing particular in you. Did I ever think there was? Well, why _will_ you ask such awkward questions?–Off!

THE NOBLE TUCK-MAN.

Americus as he did wend
With A.J. Mortimer, his chum,
The two were greeted by a friend, “And how are you, boys, Hi, Ho, Hum?”

He spread a note so crisp, so neat (Ho and Hi, and tender Hum),

“If you of this a fifth can eat
I’ll give you the remainder. Come!”

To the tuck-shop three repair
(Ho and Hum, and pensive Hi),
One looks on to see all’s fair
Two call out for hot mince pie.

Thirteen tarts, a few Bath buns
(Hi and Hum, and gorgeous Ho),
Lobster cakes (the butter’d ones), All at once they cry “No go.”

Than doth tuck-man smile. “Them there (Ho and Hi, and futile Hum)
Jellies three and sixpence air,
Use of spoons an equal sum.”

Three are rich. Sweet task ’tis o’er, “Tuckman, you’re a brick,” they cry,
Wildly then shake hands all four (Hum and Ho, the end is Hi).

“N.B.–He spoke as good English as we did, and we did not shake hands with him. Such is poetic license. I may have exaggerated a little, as to the number of things we ate. I repeat, I _may_ have done. You will never be able to appreciate me till you have learned to make allowance for such little eccentricities of genius.

“Yours, with sentiments that would do anybody credit,

“Gifford Crayshaw.”

The second letter, which was also addressed to both sisters, was from Johnnie, and ran as follows:–

“Now look here, you two fellows are not to expect me to spend all my spare time in writing to you. Where do you think I am now? Why, at Brighton.

“Val’s a brick. Yesterday was our _Exeat_, and he came down to Harrow, called for me and Cray, and brought us here to the Old Ship Hotel. We two chose the dinner, and in twenty minutes that dinner was gone like a dream. Val and Cray made the unlucky waiter laugh till he dropped the butter-boat. The waiter was a proud man–I never saw a prouder. He had made up his mind that nothing should make him laugh, but at last we had him. Beware of pride, my friends.

“Then we went to the Aquarium. My wig! I never saw anything so extraordinary. It ought to be called the Aquaria, for there are dozens of them. They are like large rooms full of water, and you go and look in at the fish through the windows. No, they’re more like caves than rooms, they have rocks for walls. Talk of the ancient Greeks! I’ll never wish to be one of those fogies again! I’ve seen turtles now under water, sitting opposite to one another, bowing and looking each in his fellow’s face, just like two cats on a rug. Why the world’s full of things that _they_ knew nothing about.

“But I had no notion that fish were such fools, some of them, at least. There were some conger eels seven feet long, and when we stared at them they went and stuck their little heads into crevices in the rocks. I should like to have reasoned with them, for they evidently thought they were hidden, while, in fact, they were wriggling upside down, full in view. Well, so then we went to see the octopus. One was just like a pink satin bag, covered with large ivory buttons, but that was only because it was inside out. While I was watching it I rather started, for I saw in a corner of the den close to me an enormous sort of bloated sea toadstool (as I thought), but it had eyes, it was covered with warts, it seemed very faint, and it heaved and panted. By that time a conglomeration like a mass of writhing serpents was letting itself down the side of the den, and when it got to the bottom it shot out a head, made itself into the exact shape of an owl without wings, and began to fly about the place. That made three.

“An old woman who was looking at them too, called out then, ‘Oh, you brute, I hate you,’ and Val said to her, ‘My good lady, allow me to suggest that it is not hatred you feel, but envy. Envy is a very bad passion, and it is our duty to try and restrain it.’ ‘Sir,’ said the old lady, rather fiercely. ‘No, we must not give way to envy,’ Val persisted, ‘though, indeed, what are we in comparison with creatures who can turn themselves inside out as soon as look at you, fly without wings, and walk up a precipice by means of one pearl button?’ ‘If the police were after you, it might be handy to turn yourself inside out, I’ll allow,’ she answered, in a very loud, angry voice, ‘so as they should not know you; but I wouldn’t, if I could, I’ll assure you, young man, no, that I wouldn’t, not for all the pearl buttons in the world.’

“Well, I never wrote such a long letter in my life, it must count for three, mind. We had a great deal more fun after that, but Val and I got away, because a little crowd collected. Cray stayed behind, pretending he did not belong to us, and he heard a man say, ‘Perhaps the gentleman’s a parson; that sort always think they ought to be _moralising_ about something or other.’ And he found out by their talk that the old lady was a clearstarcher, so when she was alone again we went back. Val said he should be some time at Brighton, and he gave her his address and offered her his washing. She asked for his name, too, and he replied–you know how grave Val is–‘Well, ma’am, I’m sorry to say I cannot oblige you with my name, because I don’t know it. All I am sure about is, that it begins with an M; but I’ve written up to London, and I shall know for a certainty the week after next.’ So she winked at me, and tapped herself on the forehead. Val is very much vexed because he came up to London about the will, and the lawyers say he cannot–or somebody else, I don’t know which–cannot administer it unless he takes the name of Melcombe. So what he said was quite true, and afterwards we heard the old lady telling her friends that he was demented, but he seemed very harmless and good.

“It’s an extraordinary thing, isn’t it, that Val has turned out to be rich. Please thank father for writing and telling me about it all. Val doesn’t seem to care, and he hates changing his name. He was quite crusty when we congratulated him.

“Give my love to the kids, and tell them if they don’t weed my garden they will catch it when I come home.

“I remain, your deservedly revered brother,

“A.J.M.”

A postscript followed, from Crayshaw:–

“What this fellow says is quite right, our letters are worth three of yours. You never once mentioned my guinea-pigs in your last, and we don’t care whether there is a baby at Wigfield or not. Pretty, is he? I know better, they are all ugly. Fanny Crayshaw has just got another. I detest babies; but George thinks (indeed many parents do) that the youngest infant is just as much a human being as he is himself, even when it is squalling, in fact more so.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

DANTE AND OTHERS.

“He climbed the wall of heaven, and saw his love Safe at her singing; and he left his foes In vales of shadow weltering, unassoiled, Immortal sufferers henceforth, in both worlds.”

It was the middle of April. Valentine was gone, and the Mortimer children were running wild, for their nurse had suddenly departed on account of the airs of the new lady-housekeeper, who, moreover, had quarrelled with the new governess.

John was now without doubt Mr. Mortimer, the head of his family and all alone of his name, for Valentine had been obliged to take the name of Melcombe, and, rather to the surprise of his family, had no sooner got things a little settled than he had started across the Continent to meet Mrs. Peter Melcombe, and bring her home to England.

Mr. Mortimer still felt his father’s death, and he regretted Valentine’s absence more than he cared to confess. He lost his temper rather often, at that particular season, for he did not know where to turn. The housekeeper and the governess insisted frequently on appealing to him against each other, about all sorts of matters that he knew nothing of, and the children took advantage of their feuds to do precisely as they pleased. John’s house, though it showed evidently enough that it was a rich man’s abode, had a comfortable homeliness about it, but it had always been a costly house to keep, and now that it was less than ever needful to him to save money, he did not want to hear recriminations concerning such petty matters as the too frequent tuning of the schoolroom piano, and the unprofitable fabrics which had been bought for the children’s dresses.

In less than two years Parliament would dissolve. It was now frequently said that Mr. Mortimer was to stand for the borough of Wigfield; but how this was compatible with the present state of his household he did not know.

“I suppose,” he said to himself one morning, with a mighty sigh, “I suppose there is only one way out of it all. I really must take a liking to red hair. Well! not just yet.”

It was about ten o’clock in the morning when he said this, and he was setting out to walk across the fields, and call for the first time on Mrs. Frederic Walker. He was taking his three younger children with him to make an apology to her.

Now that Mrs. Walker was a widow, she and Mr. Mortimer had half unconsciously changed their manner slightly towards each other; they were just as friendly as before, but not so familiar; the children, however, were very intimate with her.

“She didn’t want that bit of garden,” argued little Hugh, as one who felt aggrieved; “and when she saw that we had taken it she only laughed.”

The fact was, that finding a small piece of waste ground at the back of Mrs. Walker’s shrubbery, the children had dug it over, divided it with oyster-shells into four portions, planted it with bulbs and roots, and in their own opinion it was now theirs. They came rather frequently to dig in it. Sometimes on these occasions they went in-doors to see “Mrs. Nemily,” and perhaps partake of bread and jam. Once they came in to complain of her gardener, who had been weeding in _their_ gardens. They wished her to forbid this. Emily laughed, and said she would.

Their course of honest industry was, however, discovered at last by the twins; and now they were to give up the gardens, which seemed a sad pity, just when they had been intending to put in spring crops.

Some people never really _have_ anything. It is not only that they can get no good out of things (that is common even among those who are able both to have and to hold), but that they don’t know how to reign over their possessions and appropriate them.

Their chattels appear to know this, and despise them; their dogs run after other men; the best branches of their rose-trees climb over the garden-wall, and people who smell at the flowers there appear to supply a reason for any roses being planted inside. Such people always know their weak point, and spend their own money as if they had stolen it.

The little Mortimers were not related to them. Here was a piece of ground which nobody cultivated; it manifestly wanted owners; they took it, weeded it, and flung out all the weeds into Mrs. Walker’s garden.

The morning was warm; a south wind was fluttering the half-unfolded leaf-buds, and spreading abroad the soft odour of violets and primroses which covered the sunny slopes.

John’s children, when they came in at Mrs. Walker’s drawing-room window, brought some of this delicate fragrance of the spring upon their hair and clothes. Grown-up people are not in the habit of rolling about, or tumbling down over beds of flowers. They must take the consequences, and leave the ambrosial scents of the wood behind them.

John himself, who had not been prepared to see them run off from him at the last moment, beheld their active little legs disappearing as they got over the low ledge of the open window. He, however, did not follow their example, but walked round to the front of the house, and was shown into the drawing-room, after ringing the bell, Emily lifting up her head at his entrance with evident surprise. He was surprised too, even startled, for on a sofa opposite to her sat a lady whom he had been thinking of a good deal during the previous month–her of the golden head, Miss Justina Fairbairn. It was evident that the children had not announced his intended call.

Miss Justina Fairbairn was the daughter of an old K.C.B. deceased. She and her mother were poor, but they were much respected as sensible, dignified women; and they had that kind of good opinion of themselves which those who hold in sincerity (having no doubt or misgiving) can generally spread among their friends.

Miss Fairbairn was a fine, tall woman, with something composed and even motherly in her appearance; her fair and rather wide face had a satisfied, calm expression, excepting when she chanced to meet John, and then a flash would come from those cold blue eyes, a certain hope, doubt, or feeling of suspense would assert itself in spite of her. It never rose to actual expectation, for she was most reasonable; and John had never shown her any attention; but she had a sincere conviction that a marriage with her would be the best and most suitable that was possible for him. It was almost inconceivable, she thought, that he could escape the knowledge of this fact long. She was so every way suitable. She was about thirty-two years of age, and she felt sure he ought not to marry a younger woman.

Many people thought as she did, that Mr. Mortimer could not do better than marry Miss Fairbairn; and it is highly probable that this opinion had originated with herself, though it must be well understood that she had not expressed it. Thoughts are certainly able to spread themselves without the aid of looks or language. Invisible seed that floats from the parent plant can root itself wherever it settles and thoughts must have some medium through which they sail till they reach minds that can take them in, and there they strike root, and whole crops of the same sort come up, just as if they were indigenous, and naturally belonging to their entertainers. This is even more true in great matters than in small.

Miss Fairbairn, as usual when she saw John, became gracious. John was thought to be a very intellectual man; she was intellectual, and meant to be more so. John was specially fond of his children; her talk concerning children should be both wise and kind.

Real love of children and childhood is, however, a quality that no one can successfully feign. John had occasionally been seen, by observant matrons and maids, to attempt with a certain uncouth tenderness to do his children womanly service. He could tie their bonnet-strings and sashes when these came undone. They had been known to apply to him during a walk to take stones out of their boots, and also to lace these up again.

Why should we write of children as if they were just like grown-up people? They are not in the least like, any more than they are like one another; but here they are, and if we can neither love nor understand them, woe betide us!

“No more crying, my dear,” John had said that morning to his youngest daughter.

He had just administered a reproof to her as he sat at breakfast, for some infantile delinquency; and she, sniffing and sobbing piteously, testified a desire to kiss him in token of penitence.

“I’m good now,” she remarked.

“Where’s your pocket-handkerchief?” said her father, with magisterial dignity.

The infant replied that she had lost it, and straightway asked to borrow his.

John lent the article, and having made use of it, she pushed it back with all good faith into his breast-pocket, and repeating, “I’m good now,” received the coveted kiss, and presently after a donation of buttered toast, upon which she became as happy as ever.

In ordinary life it devolves on the mother to lend a handkerchief; but if children have none, there are fathers who can rise to such occasions, and not feel afterwards as if heroic sacrifices had been demanded of them.

John Mortimer felt that Miss Fairbairn had never before greeted him with so much _empressement_. They sat down, and she immediately began to talk to him. A flattering hope that he had known of her presence, and had come at once to see her, gave her just the degree of excitement that she wanted to enable her to produce her thoughts at their best; while he, accustomed by experience to caution, and not ready yet to commit himself, longed to remark that he had been surprised as well as pleased to see her. But he found no opportunity at first to do it; and in the meantime Emily sat and looked on, and listened to their conversation with an air of easy _insouciance_ very natural and becoming to her. Emily was seven-and-twenty, and had always been accustomed to defer to Miss Fairbairn as much older as well as wiser than herself; and this deference did not seem out of place, for the large, fair spinster made the young matron look slender and girlish.

John Mortimer remembered how Emily had said a year ago that he could not do better than marry Justina. He thought she had invited her there to that end; and as he talked he took care to express to her by looks his good-humoured defiance; whereupon she defended herself with her eyes, and punished him by saying–

“I thought you would come to-day perhaps and see my little house. Do you like it, John? I have been in it less than three months, and I am already quite attached to it. Miss Fairbairn only came last night, and she is delighted with it.”

“Yes,” said Justina, “I only came last night;” and an air of irrepressible satisfaction spread itself over her face–that Mr. Mortimer should have walked over to see her this very first morning was beyond her utmost hopes. She had caused Emily to invite her at that particular time that she might often see John; and here he was.

“Emily thinks it a pointed thing, my coming at once,” he cogitated. “She reminds me, too, that friendship for her did not bring me. Well, I was too much out of spirits to come a month ago.”

Emily’s eyes flashed and softened when she saw him out of countenance, and a little twist came in her lips where a smile would like to have broken through. She was still in crape, and wore the delicate gossamer of her widow’s cap, with long, wing-like streamers falling away at her back; and while she sat at work on a cumbersome knitted shawl she listened with an air of docility to Justina’s conversation, without noticing that a touch of dismay was beginning to show itself in John’s face; for Miss Fairbairn had begun to speak of Italian literature, a subject she had been getting up lately for certain good reasons of her own. She dared to talk about Dante, and John was almost at once keenly aware that all this learning was sham–it was the outcome of no real taste; and he felt like a fool while one of the ladies did the wooing and the other, as he thought, amused herself with watching it. He was accustomed to be wooed, and to be watched, but he had been trying for some time to bring his mind to like the present wooer. While away from her he fancied that he had begun to succeed, and now he knew well that this sort of talk would drive him wild in a week. It represented nothing real. No; the thing would not do. She was a good woman; she would have ruled his house well; she would have been just to his children; and if he had established her in all comfort and elegance over his family, he might have left her, and attended to those prospective Parliamentary duties as long as he liked, without annoying her. She was a lady too, and her mother, old Lady Fairbairn, was a pleasant and unexceptionable woman. But she was making herself ridiculous now. No; it would not do.

Giving her up then and there, he suddenly started from his seat as if he felt relieved, and drawing himself to his full height, looked down on the two ladies, one of whom, lifting her golden head, continued the wooing with her eyes, while the other said carelessly and with a dispassionate air–

“Well, I cannot think how you or John or any one can like that bitter-hearted, odious, cruel Dante.”

“Emily,” exclaimed Miss Fairbairn, “how can you be so absurd, dear?”

“I wonder they did not tear him into little bits,” continued Emily audaciously, “instead of merely banishing him, which was all they did–wasn’t it, John?”

“I cannot imagine what you mean,” exclaimed Miss Fairbairn, while John laughed, and felt that at least here was something real and natural.

“You cannot? That’s because you don’t consider, then, what we should feel if somebody now were to write a grand poem about our fathers, mothers, aunts, uncles, and dear friends deceased, setting forth how he had seen them all in the nether regions; how he had received their confidences, and how penitent most of them were. Persecuted, indeed! and misunderstood! I consider that his was the deadliest revenge any man ever took upon his enemies.”

Miss Fairbairn’s brow, on hearing this, contracted with pain; for John laughed again, and turning slightly towards Emily as he stood leaning against the window-frame, took the opportunity to get away from the subject of Italian literature, and ask her some question about her knitting.

“It must be something to give away, I am sure. You are always giving.”

“But you know, John,” she answered, as if excusing herself, “we are not at all sure that we shall have any possessions, anything of our own, in the future life–anything, consequently, to give away. Perhaps it will all belong to all. So let us have enough of giving while we can, and enjoy the best part of possession.”

“Dear Emily,” said Miss Fairbairn kindly, “you should not indulge in these unauthorised fancies.”

“But it so chances that this is not for a poor person,” observed Emily, “but for dear Aunt Christie.”

“Ah, she was always very well while she lived with me,” said John; “but I hear a very different account of her now.”

“Yes; she has rheumatism in her foot; so that she is obliged to sit up-stairs. John, you should go and see her.”

“I will take Mr. Mortimer to her,” said Justina, rising serenely. This she thought would break off the conversation, in which she had no part.

So John went up to Miss Christie’s little sitting-room, and there she was, bolt upright, with her lame foot on a cushion. By this visit he gave unmixed pleasure to the old lady, and afforded opportunity to the younger one for some pleasant, reasonable speeches, and for a little effective waiting on the invalid, as well as for some covert compliments.

“Ay, John Mortimer,” quoth Miss Christie, with an audacious twinkle in her eyes, “I’m no that clear that I don’t deserve all the pain I’ve got for my sins against ye.”

“Against me!” exclaimed John, amazed.

“Some very bad advice I gave ye, John,” she continued, while Miss Fairbairn, a little surprised, looked on.

“Make your mind easy,” John answered with mock gravity, for he knew well enough what she meant. “I never follow bad advice. I promise not to follow yours.”

“What was your advice, dear?” asked Miss Fairbairn sweetly, her golden head within a yard of John’s as she stooped forward. “I wonder you should have ventured to give advice to such a man as Mr. Mortimer. People always seem to think that in any matter of consequence they are lucky if they can get advice from him.”

John drew a long breath, and experienced a strong sense of compunction; but Miss Christie was merely relieved, and she began to talk with deep interest about the new governess and the new housekeeper.

Miss Fairbairn brought John down again as soon as she could, and took the opportunity to engage his attention on the stairs, by asking him a question on some political subject that really interested him; and he, like a straightforward man, falling into the trap, began to give her his views respecting it.

But as he opened the drawing-room door for her, his three children, who all this time had been in the garden, came running in at the window, and before he and Miss Fairbairn were seated, his two little boys, treading on Mrs. Walker’s crape, were thrusting some large handfuls of flowers almost into her face, while Anastasia emptied a lapful on to her knees. Emily accepted them graciously.

“And so,” little Hugh exclaimed, “as father said we were not to have the gardens, we thought we had better gather all the flowers, because _they_ are our own, you know,” he proceeded; “for we bought most of the bulbs with our own money; and they’re all for you.”

Hyacinths, narcissus, wallflowers, polyanthus, they continued to be held up for her inspection.

“And you’ll let us put them in water ourselves, won’t you?” said Bertram.

“Yes, she will, Bertie,” cried Hugh.

“Don’t tread on Mrs. Walker’s dress,” John began, and the sprites, as if in ready obedience, were off in an instant; but in reality they were gone to find vases for the flowers, Emily looking up with all composure, though a good deal of scrambling and arguing were heard through the open door.

“We found these in the pantry,” exclaimed the two little boys, returning, each with a dish in his hand. “Nancy wanted to get some water, but we wouldn’t let her.”

“Come here,” exclaimed John with gravity; “come here, and shut the door. Emily, I brought these imps on purpose to apologize for their high misdemeanours.”

Thereupon the two little boys blushed and hung their heads. It was nothing to have taken the garden, but it daunted them to have to acknowledge the fault. Before they had said a word, however, a shrill little voice cried out behind them–

“But I can’t do my _apologize_ yet, father, because I’ve got a pin in my cape, and it pricks, and somebody must take it out.”

“I cannot get the least pretence of penitence out of any one of them,” exclaimed John, unable to forbear laughing. “I must make the apology myself, Emily. I am very much afraid that these gardens were taken without leave; they were not given at all.”

“I have heard you say more than once,” answered Emily, with an easy smile, “that it is the privilege of the giver to forget. I never had a very good memory.”

“But they confessed themselves that they _took_ them.”

“Well, John, then if you said they were to apologize,” answered Emily, giving them just the shadow of a smile, “of course they must;” and so they did, the little boys with hot blushes and flashing eyes, the little girl with innocent unconsciousness of shame. Then “Mrs. Nemily” rather spoilt the dignity of the occasion by taking her up and kissing her; upon which the child inquired in a loud whisper–

“But now we’ve done our _apologize_, we may keep our gardens, mayn’t we?”

At this neither she nor John could help laughing.

“You may, if papa has no objection,” said Emily, suddenly aware of a certain set look about Miss Fairbairn’s lips, and a glance of reproof, almost of anguish, from her stern blue eye.

Miss Fairbairn had that morning tasted the sweetness of hope, and she now experienced a sharp pang of jealousy when she saw the children hanging about Emily with familiar friendliness, treading on her tucks, whispering confidences in her ears, and putting their flowers on the clean chintz of her ottomans. These things Justina would have found intolerable if done to herself, unless in their father’s presence. Even then she would have only welcomed them for the sake of diverting them from Emily.

She felt sure that at first all had been as she hoped, and as it ought to be; and she could not refrain from darting a glance of reproof at Emily. She even felt as if it was wrong of John to be thus beguiled into turning away when he ought to have been cultivating his acquaintance with her mind and character. It was still more wrong of Emily to be attracting his notice and drawing him away from his true place, his interest, and now almost his duty.

Emily, with instant docility, put the little Anastasia down and took up her knitting, while Miss Fairbairn, suddenly feigning a great interest in horticulture, asked after John’s old gardener, who she heard had just taken another prize.

“The old man is very well,” said John, “and if you and Mrs. Walker would come over some morning, I am sure he would be proud to show you the flowers.”

Miss Fairbairn instantly accepted the proposal.

“I always took an interest in that old man,” she observed; “he is so original.”

“Yes, he is,” said John.

“But at what time of day are you generally at home,” she continued, not observing, or perhaps not intending to observe that the flowers could have been shown during their owner’s absence. “At luncheon time, or at what time?”

John, thus appealed to, paused an instant; he had never thought of coming home to entertain the ladies, but he could not be inhospitable, and he concluded that the mistake was real. “At luncheon time,” he presently said, and named a day when he would be at home, being very careful to address the invitation to Mrs. Walker.

He then retired with his children, who were now in very good spirits; they gave their hands to Justina, who would have liked to kiss them, but the sprites skipped away in their father’s wake, and while he walked home, lost in thought on grave and serious things, they broke in every now and then with their childish speculations on life and manners.

“Swanny must put on his Sunday coat when they come, and his orange handkerchief that Janie hemmed for him because Mrs. Swan’s fingers are all crumpled up,” said the little girl.

“Father, what’s a Methodist?” asked Hugh.

Before John could answer little Bertram informed his brother, “It is a thing about not going to church. It has nothing to do with her fingers being crumpled up, that’s rheumatism.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

SELF-WONDER AND SELF-SCORN.

“Something there is moves me to love, and I Do know I love, but know not how, nor why.”

A. BROME.

As John and his children withdrew together through the garden, Justina Fairbairn sat with her work on her knees, watching them.

“Mr. Mortimer is six-and-thirty, is he not?” she asked.

“Yes,” answered Emily.

“How much he improves in appearance!” she observed; “he used not to be thought handsome when he was very young–he is both handsome and stately now.”

“It is the way with the Mortimers, I think,” said Emily. “I should not wonder if in ten years’ time Val is just as majestic as the old men used to be, though he has no dignity at all about him now.”

“Yes, majesty is the right word,” said Justina serenely. “Mr. Mortimer has a finer presence, a finer carriage than formerly; it may be partly because he is not so very thin as he used to be.”

“Perhaps so,” said Emily.

“And this was his first call,” continued Justina, obliged to make openings for herself through which to push what she had to say. “I suppose, dear, you could hardly fail to notice how matters were going. This calling at once, and his bringing the children too; and his wish to find out my opinions, and tell me his own on various subjects.”

Silence on the part of the hostess.

“I could almost have wished, dear Emily, that you had not—-“

She paused. “Had not what?” asked Emily.

Miss Fairbairn remembered that she was Mrs. Walker’s guest, and that it behoved her not to offend her hostess, because she wanted to stay in that house as long as possible. She would like to have finished her speech thus: “that you had not engrossed the children so completely;” but she said instead, with a little smile meant to look conscious, “I believe I meant, dear, that I should have been very glad to talk to the children myself.”

She felt that this reply fell rather flat, but she knew that Emily must immediately be made aware of what she now hoped was really the state of the case, and must also be made to help her.

No surprise was expressed, but Mrs. Walker did not make any reply whatever, so she continued,–

“You look surprised, dear, but surely what I have hinted at cannot be a new thought to you,” and as it did not suit her to drop the subject yet, she proceeded. “No, I see by your smile that it is not. I confess I should have liked to talk to them, for,” she added, with a sigh of contentment, “the task, I see very plainly before me, is always a difficult one to undertake.”

Still Emily was silent; she seemed lost in thought; indeed, she was considering among other things that it was little more than a year since she and John had discussed Justina together; was there, could there really be, anything between them now?

Justina watched her, and wished she could know what effect these hints had taken. Emily had always behaved in such a high-minded, noble way to her lovers, and been so generous to other women, that Justina depended on her now. The lower nature paid homage to the higher, even to the point of believing in a sense of honour quite alien to its own experience. There was not the least reason to suppose that Emily cared about John Mortimer, but she wanted her to stand aside lest he should take it into his head to begin to care for her. So many men had been infatuated about Emily, but Emily had never wished to rob another woman for the mere vanity of spoliation, and Justina’s opinion of her actually was that if she could be made to believe that she, Justina, had any rights in John Mortimer, she would not stand in her light, even though she might have begun to think highly of his house, and his position, as advantageous for herself. Love she did not take into her consideration, she neither felt that nor imputed it to others.

She was thoroughly mean herself, but if Emily had done anything mean, it would positively have shaken her faith and trust in Goodness itself. It would actually have been bad for her, and there is no saying how much lower she might have declined, if one of the few persons she believed in had made a descent.

Though she thought thus of Emily, she had notwithstanding felt towards her a kind of serene superiority, as might be felt towards one who could only look straight before her, by one who could see round a corner; but that morning, for the first time, she had begun to fear her, to acknowledge a certain charm in her careless, but by no means ungracious indifference; in her sweet, natural ways with John’s children, and in those dark lashes which clouded her soft grey eyes.

The contradictions in her face were dangerous; there was a wistful yearning in her smile; joyous as her laugh sounded, she often put a stop to its sudden sweetness with a sigh.

Justina felt Emily’s silence very oppressive, and while it lasted she fully expected that it would be broken at last by some important words.

Emily might tell her that she must be deceiving herself, and might be able to give such decisive proof of the fact as would oblige her to give up this new hope. That was what Justina feared. On the other hand, she might show her ignorance and lighten Justina’s heart by merely asking her whether she thought she could love and bear with another woman’s children. She might even ask whether John Mortimer had made his intentions plain.

But no, when Emily did speak, she appeared completely to ignore these hints, though her face retained its air of wonder and cogitation.

“By-the-bye, Justina,” she said, “you put me a little out of countenance just now. John Mortimer never meant to ask us to luncheon; I know he seldom or ever comes home in the middle of the day.”

“Are you sure of that?” said Justina.

“Quite sure; you invited yourself.”

“Did I make a mistake? Well, if he did not at first intend it, he certainly caught at the notion afterwards.”

“Do you think so? I thought, on the contrary, that he spent some moments in considering what day he could spare to come and receive us.”

“Perhaps it is just as well,” answered Justina; “I should have felt very awkward going about his house and garden in his absence.”

“Justina,” said Emily, driven at last to front the question, “how much do you wish me to understand?”

“Nothing at all, dear, but what you see,” she replied, without lifting her head from her work; then she added, “Do those children come here often?”

“Two or three times a week, I think,” answered Emily, with a degree of carelessness that attracted Miss Fairbairn’s attention. She had appeared more than commonly indifferent that morning, she had hardly responded to the loving caresses of John’s children, but this had seemed to signify nothing, they came and hung about her just the same.

“They had taken those gardens some time before I found it out,” she continued. “They run through the copses and through those three or four fields that belong to John, and get into my garden over the stepping-stones in the brook.”

“They must feel very sure of their welcome,” said Justina, rather pointedly.

“Yes,” answered Emily, also rather pointedly; “but I have never invited them to come, never once; there is, as you see, no occasion.”

Holding her graceful head a little higher than usual, she folded up her now finished shawl, ran up-stairs with it to Miss Christie’s room, and was conscious almost at once (or she fancied so) that her old aunt looked at her with a certain air of scrutiny, not unmixed with amusement. She was relieved when she had put on her gift to hear Miss Christie say, “Well, ye’ll be glad to know that I feel more at my ease now than I’ve done for some time.”

There had been such an air of triumph in Miss Christie’s glance that Emily was pleased to find she was only exultant on account of her health. She expressed her gladness, and assured the old lady she would soon be as active as ever.

“It’s no my foot I’m thinking of,” answered Miss Christie, “but some bad advice that weighed on my mind–bad advice that I’ve given to John Mortimer.” Thereupon she related the conversation in which she had recommended Miss Fairbairn to him.

Emily sat very still–so still, that she hardly seemed to breathe, then, looking up, she said, perhaps rather more calmly and quietly than was her wont–

“Several people have thought it would be a good thing for John to marry Justina Fairbairn.”

“And I was one of them,” quoth Miss Christie, her eyes sparkling with joy and malice, “but I’ve thought lately that I was just mistaken,” and she presently related what had passed between her and John that morning.

Emily’s fair cheek took a slight blush-rose tint. If she felt relieved, this did not appear; perhaps she thought, “Under like circumstances John would speak just so of me.” The old lady had been silent some moments before Emily answered, and when she did speak she said–

“What! you and John actually joked about poor Justina in her presence, auntie?”

“Did I see him in her absence?” inquired Miss Christie, excusing herself. “I tell ye, child, I’ve changed my mind. John Mortimer’s a world too good for her. Aye, but he looked grand this morning.”

“Yes,” answered Emily, “but it is a pity he thinks all the women are in love with him!” Then, feeling that she had been unjust, she corrected herself, “No, I mean that he is so keenly aware how many women there are in the neighbourhood who would gladly marry him.”

“Aware!” quoth Miss Christie, instantly taking his part. “Aware, indeed! Can he ever go out, or stop at home, that somebody doesn’t try to make him aware! Small blame to them,” she added with a laugh, “few men can hold their heads higher, either moreally or pheesically, and he has his pockets full of money besides.”

Emily got away from Miss Christie as soon as she could, put on her bonnet, and went into the garden.

The air was soft, and almost oppressively mild, for the bracing east wind was gone, and a tender wooing zephyr was fluttering among the crumbled leaves, and helping them to their expansion. Before she knew what instinct had taken her there, she found herself standing by the four little gardens, listening to the cheerful dance of the water among the stepping-stones, and looking at the small footsteps of the children, which were printed all over their property.

Yes, there was no mistake about that, her empty heart had taken them in with no thought and no fear of anything that might follow.

Only the other day and her thoughts had been as free as air, there was a sorrowful shadow lying behind her; when she chose, she looked back into it, recalled the confiding trust, and marital pride, and instinctive courage of her late husband, and was sufficiently mistress of her past to muse no more on his unopened mind, and petty ambitions, and small range, of thought. He was gone to heaven, he could see farther now, and as for these matters, she had hidden them; they were shut down into night and oblivion, with the dust of what had once been a faithful heart.

Fred Walker had been as one short-sighted, who only sees things close at hand, but sees them clearly.

Emily was very long-sighted, but in a vast range of vision are comprehended many things that the keenest eyes cannot wholly define, and some that are confused with their own shadows.

Things near she saw as plainly as he had done, but the wondrous wide distance drew her now and again away from these. The life of to-day would sometimes spend itself in gazing over the life in her whole day. Her life, as she felt it, yearning and passioning, would appear to overflow the little cup of its separation, or take reflections from other lives, till it was hardly all itself, so much as a small part of the great whole, God’s immortal child, the wonderful race of mankind, held in the hand of its fashioner, and conscious of some yearning, the ancient yearning towards its source.

Emily moved slowly home again, and felt rather sensitive about the proposed luncheon at John Mortimer’s house. She wished she had managed to spare him from being obliged to give the invitation. She even considered whether Justina could be induced to go alone. But there was no engagement that could be pleaded as a reason for absenting herself. What must be done was before they went, to try, without giving needless pain, to place the matter in a truer light. This would only be fair to poor Justina.

Emily scarcely confessed to her own heart that she was glad of what Miss Christie had said. She was not, from any thought that it could make the least difference to herself, but, upon reflection, she felt ashamed of how John Mortimer had been wooed, and of how he had betrayed by his smile that he knew it.

That day was a Tuesday, the luncheon was to take place on Saturday, but on Friday afternoon Emily had not found courage or occasion to speak to her friend. The more she thought about it, the more difficult and ungracious the matter seemed.

Such was the state of things. Miss Christie was still up-stairs, Justina was seated at work in the drawing-room, and Emily, arrayed in a lilac print apron, was planting some fresh ferns in her _jardiniere_ when the door was opened, and the servant announced Mr. Mortimer. Emily was finishing her horticulture, and was not at all the kind of person to be put out of countenance on being discovered at any occupation that it suited her fancy to be engaged in. She, however, blushed beautifully, just as any other woman might have done, on being discovered in her drawing-room so arrayed, and her hands acquainted with peat.

She presently left the room. John knew she was gone to wash her hands, and hoped she would not stay away long. “For it won’t do, my lady,” he thought, “however long you leave me. I will not make an offer to the present candidate, that I am determined!”

In the meantime Justina, wishing to say something of Emily that would sound amiable, and yet help her own cause, remarked pleasantly–

“Emily is a dear, careless creature–just like what she was as a girl” (careless creatures, by the bye, are not at all suited to be stepmothers).

“Yes,” answered John, in an abstracted tone, and as if he was not considering Mrs. Walker’s mental characteristics, which was the case, for he was merely occupied in wishing she would return.

“But she wishes to look well, notwithstanding,” continued Justina, as if excusing her, “so no wonder she goes to divest herself of her housemaid’s apron.”

“Ah,” said John, who was no great observer of apparel, “I thought she was not dressed as usual;” but he added, “she is so graceful, that in any array she cannot fail to look well.”

Justina looked up feeling hurt, and also a little surprised. Here she was, alone with John Mortimer for the first time in her life, and he was entertaining her with the praise of another woman; but she had a great deal of self-command, and she began almost at once to ask him some questions about his children. She had a most excellent governess to recommend, and was it not true that they wanted a nurse also? Yes, Mr. Mortimer did want both, and, as Justina had been writing to every friend she had about these functionaries, and had heard of several, she mentioned in each case the one she thought most suitable, and John, much pleased at the happy chance which brought such treasures before him, was deep in conversation about them when Emily reappeared, and then, to Justina’s great annoyance, he took down two addresses, and broke off the conversation with her instantly to say–

“Emily, I am come to make the humblest apologies possible. I find that I am absolutely obliged to go to London to-morrow on a matter that cannot be postponed.”

Justina was greatly mortified, but she answered instantly, and not Emily–

“Ah, then of course you are come to put us off, Mr. Mortimer?”

There was no undue stress on the words “put us off,” but they suggested an idea to John that was new to him, and he would have felt called upon to act upon them, and renew the invitation, if Emily had not answered just as if she had heard not a syllable.

“We shall be sorry to miss you, John, when we come, but no doubt the children will be at home, and the girls.”

“Yes,” said John, slipping into this arrangement so easily, that how little he cared about her visit ought to have been at once made plain to Justina. “Oh yes, and they will be so proud to entertain you. I hope you will honour them, as was intended, by coming to lunch.”

“Yes, to be sure,” Emily answered with readiness. “I hope the auriculas will not have begun to fade, they are Miss Fairbairn’s favourite flower.”

Then, to the intense mortification of Justina, John changed the subject, as if it had been one of no moment to him. “I have been over to Wigfield-house this afternoon to pay my respects to Mrs. Brandon and her boy.”

“You found them well, I know, for we were there this morning.”

“Perfectly well,” said John, and he laughed. “Giles was marching about in the garden with that astonishing infant lying flat on his arm, and with its long robes dangling down. Dorothea (come out, I was told, for the first time) was walking beside him, and looking like a girl of sixteen. I believe when I approached they were discussing to what calling in life they would bring up the youngster. I was desired to remark his uncommon likeness to his father; told that he was considered a very fine child, and I should have had the privilege of looking at his little downy black head, but his mother decided not to accord it, lest he should take cold.”

“And so you laugh at her maternal folly,” said Justina smiling, but not displeased at what sounded like disparagement of an attractive young woman.

“I laugh at it?–yes! but as a man who feels that it is the one lovely folly of the world. Who could bear to think of all that childhood demands of womanhood, if he did not bear in mind the sweet delusive glamour that washes every woman’s eyes ere she catches sight of the small mortal sent to be her charge.”

Then Justina, who had found a few moments for recovering herself and deciding how to act, took the conversation again into her own hands, and very soon, in spite of Emily, who did not dare to interfere again, John Mortimer was brought quite naturally and inevitably to add to the desire that they would the next day visit his children, an invitation to luncheon after he should have returned.

Justina accepted.

“But it must not be this day week,” she observed with quiet complacency, “for that is to be the baby’s christening day, and I am asked to be his godmother.”

Emily could not forbear to look up; John’s face was quite a study. He had just been asked to stand for the child, had consented, and whom he might have for companions he had not thought of asking.

“It will be the first anniversary of their wedding,” said Emily by way of saying something, for John’s silence began to be awkward.

Mrs. Brandon, having been charmed with the sensible serenity of Miss Fairbairn’s conversation, and with the candour and straightforwardness that distinguished her, had cultivated her acquaintance with assiduity, and was at that moment thinking how fortunate she was in her baby’s sponsors.

When Justina found that John Mortimer was to be present at this christening, and in such a capacity too, she accomplished the best blush her cheek had worn for years. It was almost like an utterance, so completely did it make her feelings known. As for John, he had very seldom in his life looked as foolish as he did then.

Why had he been asked together with Miss Fairbairn? Whatever he might have thought concerning her, his thought was his own; he had never made it manifest by paying her the least attention. He did not like her now so well as he might have done, if he had not tried and failed to make himself like her more. She was almost the only woman now concerning whom he felt strongly that she would not do for him. Surely people did not think he had any intentions towards her. He sat silent and discomfited till Emily, again quite aware of his feelings, and sure he wanted to go, made the opportunity for him, helped him to take advantage of it, and received a somewhat significant smile of thanks as he departed.

“Emily,” exclaimed Justina, as soon as the door was shut, “what can you be thinking of? You almost dismissed Mr. Mortimer! Surely, surely you cannot wish to prevent his coming here to see me.”

Justina spoke with a displeasure that she hardly cared to moderate. Emily stood listening till she was sure John Mortimer had left her house, then she said something that was meant to serve for an answer, got away as soon as she could, ran up-stairs, hurried to her own room, and locked the door.

“Not alone!” was her first startled thought, but it was so instantaneously corrected that it had scarcely time to shape itself into words. The large cheval glass had been moved by her own orders, and as she stood just within the door, it sent back her image to her, reflected from head to foot.

She advanced gazing at herself, at the rich folds of her black silk gown made heavy with crape, and at the frail gossamer she carried on her head, and which, as she came on, let its long appendages float out like pennons in her wake. Emily had such a high, almost fantastic notion of feminine dignity (fantastic because it left too much out of view that woman also is a human creature), that till this day it might almost have been said she had not taken even her own self into her confidence. She hardly believed it, and it seems a pity to tell.

Her eyes flashed with anger, while she advanced, as if they would defy the fair widow coming on in those seemly weeds.

“How dare you blush?” she cried out almost aloud. “Only a year and a fortnight ago kneeling by his coffin–how dare you blush? I scorn you!”

She put her hands to her throat, conscious of that nervous rising which some people call a ball in it; then she sat down full in view of herself, and felt as if she should choke. She was so new to the powerful fetters that had hold of her, were dragging her on, frightening her, subduing her.

Was she never to do or to be any more what she chose–never to know the rest and sweetness of forgetting even for a little while? Why must she be mastered by a voice that did not care at all whether its cadence and its fall were marked by her or not? Why must she tremble and falter even in her prayer, if a foot came up the aisle that she could not bear to miss, and yet that was treading down, and doomed, if this went on, to tread down all reviving joy, and every springtide flower that was budding in her heart?

“No more to be kept back than the rising of the tide”–these were her words–“but, oh, not foreseen as that is, and not to go down any more.”

She almost raged against herself. How could she have come there–how could she, why had she never considered what might occur? Then she shed a few passionate tears. “Is it really true, Justina Fairbairn’s would-be rival? And neither of us has the slightest chance in the world. Oh, oh, if anything–anything that ever was or could be, was able to work a cure, it would be what I have seen twice this week. It would be to watch another woman making a fool of herself to win his favour, and to see him smile and know it. Oh, this is too miserable, far too humiliating. The other day, when he came, I cared so little; to-day I could hardly look him in the face.”

Then she considered a little longer, and turned impatiently from her image in the glass.

“Why, I have known him all my life, and never dreamed of such a thing! But for that rainy Sunday three weeks ago, I never might have done. Oh, this must be a mere fancy. While I talked to him I felt that it ought to be–that it was. Yes, it is.”

Her eyes wandered over the lawn. She could see the edges of those little gardens. She had looked at them of late more often than was prudent. “Darlings!” she whispered with such a heartsick sigh, “how keenly I loved them for the sake of my little lost treasure, before ever I noticed their beautiful likeness to their father–no, that’s a mistake. I say it is–I mean to break away from it. And even if it was none, after the lesson I have had to-day, it must and shall be a mistake for ever.”

CHAPTER XXV.

THAT RAINY SUNDAY.

“He hath put the world in their hearts.”

This is how that had come about which was such a trouble and oppression to Emily.

Emily was walking to church on a Sunday morning, just three weeks before John Mortimer’s first call upon her.

Her little nephew, Dorothea’s child, was four days old. He had spent many of his new-found hours sleeping in her arms, while she cherished him with a keen and painful love, full of sweet anguish and unsatisfied memories.

The tending of this small life, which in some sort was to be a plenishing for her empty heart, had, however, made her more fully alive than usual to the loneliness of her lot, and as she walked on through a fir-wood, in the mild weather, everything seemed also to be more alive, waking, and going to change. The lights that slanted down were more significant. The little shaded hollows were more pathetic, but on the whole it seemed as if the best part of the year was coming on for the world. It made her heart ache to feel or fancy how glad the world was, and how the open sky laughed down upon it in helpful sympathy. The old question presents itself over and over again to be answered,–What is it that gives us so much joy in looking at earth and air and water?

We love a landscape, but not merely because remoteness makes blue the distant hills, as if the sky itself having come down, we could look through a portion of it, as through a veil. It is not the vague possibility of what may be shrouded in the blue that stirs our hearts. We know that if we saw it close it would be set full of villages, and farmhouses, lanes and orchards, and furrowed fields; no other, and not fairer than we have near.

Is it what we impart, or impute to nature from ourselves, that we chiefly lean upon? or does she truly impart of what is really in her to us?

What delight we find in her action, what sentiment in her rest! What passion we impute to her changes, what apathy of a satisfying calming sort to her decline!

If one of us could go to another world, and be all alone in it, perhaps that world would appear to be washed perfectly clean of all this kind of beauty, though it might in itself and for itself be far more beautiful than ours.

Who has not felt delight in the grand movements of a thunder-storm, when the heavens and earth come together, and have it out, and seem to feel the better for it afterwards, as if they had cleared off old scores? The sight of noble wrath, and vehement action, cannot only nerve the energetic; they can comfort those obliged to be still. There is so little these may do, but the elements are up and doing; and they are in some sort theirs.

And who does not like to watch the stately white cloud lying becalmed over the woods, and waiting in a rapture of rest for a wind to come and float it on? Yet we might not have cared to see the cloud take her rest, but for the sweetness of rest to ourselves. The plough turned over on one side under a hedge, while the ploughman rests at noon, might hint to us what is the key-note of that chord which makes us think the rest of the cloud so fair.

If the splendour of some intense passion had never suddenly glorified the spread-out ether of time in which our spirits float, should we feel such a strange yearning on looking at a sunset, with its tender preliminary flush, and then the rapid suffusions of scarlet and growth of gold? If it is not ourselves that we look at then, it is at one of the tokens and emblems which claim a likeness with us, a link to hold us up to the clear space that washes itself so suddenly in an elixir costly as the golden chances of youth, and the crimson rose of love. With what a sigh, even youth itself will mark that outpouring of coloured glory! It whelms the world and overcomes the sky, and then, while none withstand it, and all is its own, it will change as if wearied, and on a sudden be over; or with pathetic withdrawal faint slowly away.

Her apathy, too–her surrender, when she has had everything, and felt the toil in it, and found the hurry of living. The young seldom perceive the apathy of nature; eyes that are enlightened by age can often see her quiet in the autumn, folding up her best things, as they have done, and getting ready to put them away under the snow. They both expect the spring.

Emily was thinking some such thoughts as these while she walked on to the small country church alone. She went in. This was the first Sunday after the funeral of old Augustus Mortimer. A glance showed her that John was at church, sitting among his children.

The Mortimers were much beloved thereabout. This was not the place where the old man had worshipped, but a kindly feeling towards his son had induced the bringing out of such black drapery as the little church possessed. It was hung round the pulpit, and about the wall at the back of his pew; and as he sat upright, perfectly still, and with his face set into a grave, immobile expression, the dark background appeared to add purity to the fair clear tints of his hair and complexion, and make every line of his features more distinct.

And while she looked from time to time at this face, the same thing occurred to her, as does to us in looking at nature; either she perceived something she had never known of or looked for before, or she imparted to his manhood something from the tenderness of her womanhood, and mourned with him and for him.

For this was what she saw, that in spite of the children about him (all in deep mourning), his two tall young daughters and his sweet little girls and boys, there was a certain air of isolation about him, a sort of unconsciousness of them all as he towered above them, which gave him a somewhat desolate effect of being alone. The light striking down upon his head and the mourning drapery behind him, made every shadow of a change more evident. She knew how the withdrawal of this old father weighed on his heart, and his attitude was so unchanging, and his expression so guarded, that she saw he was keeping watch over his self-possession, and holding it well in hand.

All this appeared so evident to her that she was relieved, as the service went on, to find him still calm and able to command himself, and keep down any expression of trouble and pain. He began to breathe more freely too; but Emily felt that he would not meet any eyes that day, and she looked at him and his children many times.

In the middle of the sermon a dark cloud came over, and before the service was finished it poured with rain. Emily was not going back to her brother’s house; she had only the short distance to traverse that led to her own, and she did not intend to speak to the Mortimers; so she withdrew into the porch, to wait there till they should have passed out by the little door they generally used. They scarcely ever had out a carriage on Sunday, for John preserved many of his father’s habits, without, in all cases, holding the opinions which had led to them.

That day, however, the servants brought a carriage, and as the little girls were carried to it under umbrellas they caught sight of Emily, and to her annoyance, she presently saw John advancing to her. She had already begun to walk when he met her, and, sheltering her with his umbrella, proposed to take her home in the carriage; but she declined; she felt the oppression and sadness of his manner, and knew he did not want her company. “I would much rather walk,” she declared.

“Would you?” he said, and waved to the men to take the carriage on. “Well, it is not far;” and he proceeded to conduct her. Indeed there was nothing else for him to do, for she could not hold up her umbrella. He gave her his arm, and for two or three minutes the wind and the rain together made her plenty of occupation; but when they got under the shelter of the cliff-like rock near her house she felt the silence oppressive, and thinking that nothing to the purpose, nothing touching on either his thoughts or her own, would be acceptable, she said, by way of saying something,–

“And so Valentine is gone! Has he written from Melcombe to you, John?”

“No,” John answered, and added, after another short silence, “I feel the loss of his company; it leaves me the more alone.”

Then, to her surprise, he began at once to speak of this much-loved old man, and related two or three little evidences of his kindness and charity that she liked to hear, and that it evidently was a relief to him to tell. She was just the kind of woman unconsciously to draw forth confidences, and to reward them. Something poignant in his feeling was rather set forth than concealed by his sober, self-restrained ways and quiet words; it suited Emily, and she allowed herself to speak with that tender reverence of the dead which came very well from her, since she had loved him living so well. She was rather eloquent when her feelings were touched, and then she had a sweet and penetrative voice. John liked to hear her; he recalled her words when he had parted with her at her own door, and felt that no one else had said anything of his father that was half so much to his mind. It was nearly four weeks after this that Emily fully confessed to herself what had occurred.

The dinner, after John Mortimer withdrew that day and Emily made to herself this confession, was happily relieved by the company of three or four neighbours, otherwise the hostess might have been made to feel very plainly that she had displeased her guest. But the next morning Justina, having had time to consider that Emily must on no account be annoyed, came down all serenity and kindliness. She was so attentive to the lame old aunt, and though the poor lady, being rather in pain, was decidedly snappish, she did not betray any feeling of disapproval.

“Ay,” said Miss Christie to herself when the two ladies had set off on their short walk, “yon’s not so straightforward and simple as I once thought her. Only give her a chance, and as sure as death she’ll get hold of John, after all.”

Emily and Justina went across the fields and came to John’s garden, over the wooden bridge that spanned the brook.

The sunny sloping garden was full of spring flowers. Vines, not yet in leaf, were trained all over the back of the house, clematis and jasmine, climbing up them and over them, were pouring themselves down again in great twisted strands; windows peeped out of ivy, and the old red-tiled roof, warm and mossy, looked homely and comfortable. A certain air of old-fashioned, easy comfort pervaded the whole place; large bay windows, with little roofs of their own, came boldly forth, and commanded a good view of other windows–ivied windows that retired unaccountably. There were no right lines. Casements at one end of the house showed in three tiers, at the other there were but two. The only thing that was perfectly at ease about itself, and quite clear that it ought to be seen, was the roof. You could not possibly make a “stuck-up” house, or a smart villa, or a modern family house of one that had a roof like that. The late Mrs. Mortimer had wished it could be taken away. She would have liked the house to be higher and the roof lower. John, on the other hand, delighted in his roof, and also in his stables, the other remarkable feature of the place.

As the visitors advanced, children’s voices greeted them; the little ones were running in and out; they presently met and seized Mrs. Walker, dancing round her, and leading her in triumph into the hall. Then Justina observed a good-sized doll, comfortably put to bed on one of the hall chairs, and tightly tucked up in some manifest pinafores; near it stood a child’s wheel-barrow, half full of picture-books. “I shall not allow that sort of litter here when I come, as I hope and trust I soon shall do,” thought Justina. “Children’s toys are all very well in their proper places.”

Then Justina, who had never been inside the house before, easily induced the children to take her from room to room, of those four which were thoroughfares to one another. Her attentive eyes left nothing unnoticed, the fine modern water-colour landscapes on the walls of one, the delicate inlaid cabinets in another. Then a library, with a capital billiard-table, and lastly John’s den. There was something about all these rooms which seemed to show the absence of a woman. They were not untidy, but in the drawing-room was John’s great microscope, with the green-shaded apparatus for lighting it; the books also from the library had been allowed to overflow into it, and encroach upon all the tables. The dining-room alone was as other people’s dining-rooms, but John’s own den was so very far gone in originality and strangeness of litter, that Justina felt decidedly uneasy when she saw it; it made manifest to her that her hoped-for spouse was not the manner of man whom she could expect to understand; books also here had accumulated, and stood in rows on chairs and tables and shelves; pipes were lying on the stone chimneypiece, sharing it with certain old and new, beautiful and ugly bronzes; long papers of genealogies and calculations in John’s handwriting were pinned against the walls; various broken bits of Etruscan pottery stood on brackets here and there. It seemed to be the owner’s habit to pin his lucubrations about the place, for here was a vocabulary of strange old Italian words, with their derivations, there a list of peculiarities and supposed discoveries in an old Norse dialect.

Emily in the meantime had noticed the absence of the twins; it was not till lunch was announced, and she went back into the dining-room that she saw them, and instantly was aware that something was amiss.

Justina advanced to them first, and the two girls, with a shyness very unusual with them, gave her their hands, and managed, but not without difficulty, to escape a kinder salutation.

And then they both came and kissed Emily, and began to do the honours of their father’s table. There was something very touching to her in that instinct of good breeding which kept them attentive to Miss Fairbairn, while a sort of wistful sullenness made the rosy lips pout, and their soft grey eyes twinkle now and then with half-formed tears.

Justina exerted herself to please, and Emily sat nearly silent. She saw very plainly that from some cause or other the girls were looking with dread and dislike on Justina as a possible step-mother. The little ones were very joyous, very hospitable and friendly, but nothing could warm the cold shyness of Gladys and Barbara. They could scarcely eat anything; they had nothing to say.

It seemed as if, whatever occurred, Justina was capable of construing it into a good omen. Somebody must have suggested to these girls that their father meant to make her his second wife. What if he had done it himself? Of course, under the circumstances, her intelligence could not fail to interpret aright those downcast eyes, those reluctant answers, and the timid, uncertain manner that showed plainly they were afraid of her. They did not like the notion, of course, of what she hoped was before them. That was nothing; so, as they would not talk, she began to devote herself to the younger children, and with them she got on extremely well.

Emily’s heart yearned with a painful pity that returned upon herself over the two girls. She saw in what light they regarded the thought of a stepmother. Her heart ached to think that she had not the remotest chance of ever standing in such a relation towards them. Yet, in despite of that, she was full of tender distress when she considered that if such a blissful possibility could ever draw near, the love of all these children would melt away. The elder ones would resent her presence, and teach the younger to read all the writing of her story the wrong way. They would feel her presence their division from the father whom they loved. They would brood with just that same sullen love and pouting tenderness–they would pity, their father just the same, whoever wore his ring, and reigned over them in his stead.

Emily, as she hearkened to Justina’s wise and kindly talk, so well considered and suitable for the part she hoped to play–Emily began to pity John herself. She wanted something so much better for him. She reflected that she would gladly be the governess there, as she could not be the wife, if that would save John from throwing himself into matrimony for his children’s sake; and yet had she not thought a year ago that Justina was quite good enough for him? Ah, well! but she had not troubled herself then to learn the meaning of his voice, and look so much as once into the depths of his eyes.

Lunch was no sooner over than the children were eager to show the flowers, and all went out. Barbara and Gladys followed, and spoke when appealed to; but they were not able to control their shoulders so well as they did their tongues. Young girls, when reluctant to do any particular thing, often find their shoulders in the way. These useful, and generally graceful, portions of the human frame appear on such occasions to feel a wish to put themselves forward, as if to bear the brunt of it, and their manner is to do this edgeways.

Emily heard Justina invited to see the rabbits and all the other pets, and knew she would do so, and also manage to make the children take her over the whole place, house included. She, however, felt a shrinking from this inspection, an unwonted diffidence and shyness made her almost fancy it would be taking a liberty. Not that John would think so. Oh, no; he would never think about it.

They soon went to look at the flowers; and there was old Swan ready to exhibit and set off their good points.

“And so you had another prize, Nicholas. I congratulate you,” remarked Emily.

“Well, yes, ma’am, I had another. I almost felt, if I failed, it would serve me right for trying too often. I said it was not my turn. ‘Turn,’ said the umpire; ‘it’s merit we go by, not turn, Mr. Swan,’ said he.”

“And poor Raby took a prize again, I hear,” said Emily. “That man seems to be getting on, Swan.”

“He does, ma’am; he’s more weak than wicked, that man is. You can’t make him hold up his head; and he’s allers contradicting himself. He promised his vote last election to both sides. ‘Why,’ said I, ‘what’s the good of that, William? Folks’ll no more pay you for your words when you’ve eaten them than they will for your bacon.’ But that man really couldn’t make up his mind which side should bribe him. Still, William Raby is getting on, I’m pleased to say.”

Justina had soon seen the flowers enough, and Emily could not make up her mind to inspect anything else. She therefore returned towards the library, and Barbara walked silently beside her.

As she stepped in at the open window, a sound of sobbing startled her. An oil painting, a portrait of John in his boyhood, hung against the wall. Gladys stood with her face leaning against one of the hands that hung down. Emily heard her words distinctly: “Oh, papa! Oh, papa! Oh, my father beloved!” but the instant she caught the sound of footsteps, she darted off like a frightened bird, and fled away without even looking found.

Then the twin sister turned slowly, and looked at Emily with entreating eyes, saying–“Is it true, Mrs. Walker? Dear Mrs. Walker, is it really true?”

Emily felt cold at heart. How could she tell? John’s words went for nothing; Miss Christie might have mistaken them. She did not pretend to misunderstand, but said she did not know; she had no reason to think it was true.

“But everybody says so,” sighed Barbara.

“If your father has said nothing–” Emily began.

“No,” she answered; her father had said nothing at all; but the mere mention of his name seemed to overcome her.

Emily sat down, talked to her, and tried to soothe her; but she had no distinct denial to give, and in five minutes Barbara, kneeling before her, was sobbing on her bosom, and bemoaning herself as if she would break her heart.

Truly the case of a step-mother is hard.

Emily leaned her cheek upon the young upturned forehead. She faltered a little as she spoke. If her father chose to marry again, had he not a right? If she loved him, surely she wanted him to be–happy.

“But she is a nasty, nasty thing,” sobbed Barbara, with vehement heavings of the chest and broken words, “and–and–I am sure I hate her, and so does Gladys, and so does Johnnie too.” Then her voice softened again–“Oh, father, father! I would take such care of the little ones if you wouldn’t do it! and we would never, never quarrel with the governesses, or make game of them any more.”

Emily drew her yet nearer to herself, and said in the stillest, most matter-of-fact tone–

“Of course you know that you are a very naughty girl, my sweet.”

“Yes,” said Barbara ruefully.

“And very silly too,” she continued; but there was something so tender and caressing in her manner, that the words sounded like anything but a reproof.

“I don’t think I am silly,” said Barbara.

“Yes, you are, if you are really making yourself miserable about an idle rumour, and nothing more.”

“But everybody says it is true. Why, one of Johnnie’s schoolfellows, who has some friends near here, told him every one was talking of it.”

“Well, my darling,” said Emily with a sigh, “but even if it is true, the better you take it, the better it will be for you; and you don’t want to make your father miserable?”

“No,” said the poor child naively; “and we’ve been so good–so very good–since we heard it. But it is so horrid to have a step-mother! I told you papa had never said anything; but he did say once to Gladys that he felt very lonely now Grand was gone. He said that he felt the loss of mamma.”

She dried her eyes and looked up as she said these words, and Emily felt a sharp pang of pity for John. He must be hard set indeed for help and love and satisfying companionship if he was choosing to suppose that he had buried such blessings as these with the wife of his youth.

“Oh!” said Barbara, with a weary sigh, “Johnnie does so hate the thought of it! He wrote us such a furious letter. What was my mother like, dear Mrs. Walker? It’s so hard that we cannot remember her.”

Emily looked down at Barbara’s dark hair and lucid blue-grey eyes, at the narrow face and pleasant rosy mouth.

“Your mother was like you–to look at,” she answered.

She felt obliged to put in those qualifying words, for Janie Mortimer had given her face to her young daughter; but the girl’s passionate feelings and yearning love, and even, as it seemed, pity for her father and herself, had all come from the other side of the house.

Barbara rose when she heard this, and stood up, as if to be better seen by her who had spoken what she took for such appreciative words, and Emily felt constrained to take the dead mother’s part, and say what it was best for her child to hear.

“Barbara, no one would have been less pleased than your mother at your all setting yourselves against this. Write and tell Johnnie so, will you, my dear?”

Barbara looked surprised.

“She was very judicious, very reasonable; it is not on her account at all that you need resent your father’s intention–if, indeed, he has such an intention.”

“But Johnnie remembers her very well,” said Barbara, not at all pleased, “and she was very sweet and very delightful, and that’s why he does resent it so much.”

“If I am to speak of her as she was, I must say that is a state of feeling she would not have approved of, or even cared about.”

“Not cared that father should love some one else!”

The astonishment expressed in the young, childlike face daunted Emily for the moment.

“She would have cared for your welfare. You had better think of her as wishing that her children should always be very dear to their father, as desirous that they should not set themselves against his wishes, and vex and displease him.”

“Then I suppose I’d better give you Johnnie’s letter,” said Barbara, “because he is so angry–quite furious, really.” She took out a letter, and put it into Emily’s hand. “Will you burn it when you go home? but, Mrs. Walker, will you read it first, because then you’ll see that Johnnie does love father–and dear mamma too.”

Voices were heard now and steps on the gravel. Barbara took up her eyeglass, and moved forward; then, when she saw Justina, she retreated to Emily’s side with a gesture of discomfiture and almost of disgust.

“Any step-mother at all,” she continued, “Johnnie says, he hates the thought of; but that one–Oh!”

“What a lesson for me!” thought Emily; and she put the letter in her pocket.

“It’s very rude,” whispered Barbara; “but you mustn’t mind that;” and with a better grace than could have been expected she allowed Justina to kiss her, and the two ladies walked back through the fields, the younger children accompanying them nearly all the way home.

CHAPTER XXVI.

MRS. BRANDON ASKS A QUESTION.

“Your baby-days flowed in a much-troubled channel; I see you as then in your impotent strife, A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplexed with that newly-found fardel call’d life.”

Locker.

John Mortimer was the last guest to make his appearance on the morning of the christening. He found the baby, who had been brought down to be admired, behaving scandalously, crying till he was crimson in the face, and declining all his aunt’s loving persuasions to him to go to sleep. Emily was moving up and down the drawing-room, soothing and cherishing him in her arms, assuring him that this was his sleepy time, and shaking and patting him as is the way of those who are cunning with babies. But all was in vain. He was carried from his father’s house in a storm of indignation, and from time to time he repeated his protest against things in general till the service was over.

Some of the party walked home to the house. Justina lingered, hastened, and accosted John Mortimer. But all in vain; he kept as far as possible from her, while Emily, who had gone forward, very soon found him close at her side.

“Madam,” he said, “I shall have the honour of taking you in to luncheon. Did you know it?”

“No, John,” she answered, laughing because he did, and feeling as if the occasion had suddenly become more festive, though she knew some explanation must be coming.

“I shall easily find an opportunity,” he said, “of telling St. George what I have done. I went through the dining-room and saw the names on the plates, and I took the liberty to change one or two. You can sit by the curate at any time. In fact, I should think old friendship and a kind heart might make you prefer to sit by me. Say that they do, Mrs. Walker.”

“They do,” answered Emily. “But your reason, John?”

“That little creature is a match-maker. Why must she needs give me the golden head?”

“Oh, she did? Perhaps it was because she thought you would expect it.”

“Expect it! _I_ expect it? No; I am in the blessed case of him who expects nothing, and who therefore cannot be disappointed. I always thought you were my friends, all of you.”

“So we are, John; you know we are.”

“Then how can you wish such a thing for me? Emily, you cannot think how utterly tired I am of being teased about that woman–that lady. And now St. George has begun to do it. I declare, if I cannot put a stop to it in any other way, I’ll do it by marrying somebody else.”

“That is indeed a fearful threat, John,” said Emily, “and meant, no doubt, to show that you have reached the last extremity of earnestness.”

“Which is a condition you will never reach,” said John, laughing, and lapsing into the old intimate fashion with her. “It is always your way to slip into things easily.”

John and Emily had walked on, and believed themselves to be well in front, and out of hearing of the others; but when the right time has come for anything to be found out, what is the use of trying to keep it hidden? Justina, seeing her opportunity, went forward just as Brandon drew the rest of the party aside to look at some rather rare ferns, whose curled-up fronds, like little crosiers, were showing on the sandy bank. She drew on, and one more step would have brought her even with them, when John Mortimer uttered the words–

“If I cannot put a stop to it in any other way, I’ll do it by marrying somebody else.”

Justina stopped and stooped instantly, as if to gather some delicate leaves of silver-weed that grew in the sand; and Emily, who had caught her step, turned for one instant, and saw her without being perceived.

Justina knew what these words meant, and stood still arranging her leaves, to let them pass on and the others come up. Soon after which they all merged into one group. John gave his arm to Mrs. Henfrey, and Emily, falling behind, began to consider how much Justina had heard, and what she would do.

Now Dorothea had said in the easiest way possible to Justina, “I shall ask our new clergyman to take Emily in to luncheon, and Mr. Mortimer to take you.” Justina knew now that the game was up; she was not quick of perception, but neither was she vacillating. When once she had decided on any course, she never had the discomfort of wishing afterwards that she had done otherwise. There was undoubtedly a rumour going about to the effect that John Mortimer liked her, and was “coming forward.” No one knew better than herself and her mother how this rumour had been wafted on, and how little there was in it. “Yet,” she reflected, “it was my best chance. It was necessary to put it into his head somehow to think about me in such a light; but that others have thought too much and said too much, it might have succeeded. What I should like best now,” she further considered, pondering slowly over the words in her mind, “would be to have people say that I have refused him.”

She had reached this point when Emily joined her walking silently beside her, that she might not appear companionless. Emily was full of pity for her, in spite of the lightening of her own heart. People who have nothing to hope best know what a lifting of the cloud it is to have also nothing to fear.

The poetical temperament of Emily’s mind made her frequently change places with others, and, indeed, become in thought those others–fears, feelings, and all.

“What are you crying for, Emily?” her mother had once said to her, when she was a little child.

“I’m not Emily now,” she answered; “I’m the poor little owl, and I can’t help crying because that cruel Smokey barked at me and frightened me, and pulled several of my best feathers out.”

And now, just the same, Emily was Justina, and such thoughts as Justina might be supposed to be thinking passed through Emily’s mind somewhat in this way:–

“No; it is not at all fair! I have been like a ninepin set up in the game of other people’s lives, only to be knocked down again; and yet without me the game could not have been played. Yes; I have been made useful, for through me other people have unconsciously set him against matrimony. If they would but have let him alone”–(Oh, Justina! how can you help thinking now?)–“I could have managed it, if I might have had all the game to myself.”

Next to the power of standing outside one’s self, and looking at _me_ as other folks see me, the most remarkable is this of (by the insight of genius and imagination) becoming _you_. The first makes one sometimes only too reasonable, too humble; the second warms the heart and enriches the soul, for it gives the charms of selfhood to beings not ourselves.

“Yet it is a happy thing for some of us,” thought Emily, finishing her cogitations in her own person, “that the others are not allowed to play all the game themselves.”

When Brandon got home John saw his wife quietly look at him. “Now what does that mean?” he thought; “it was something more than mere observance of his entering. Those two have means of transport for their thoughts past the significance of words. Yes, I’m right; she goes into the dining-room, and he will follow her. Have they found it out?”

All the guests were standing in a small morning-room, taking coffee; and Brandon presently walking out of the French window into the garden, came up to the dining-room outside. There was Dorothea.

“Love,” she said, looking out, “what do you think? Some of these names have been changed.”

“Perhaps a waft of wind floated them off the plates,” said Brandon, climbing in over the window-ledge, “and the servants restored them amiss. But, Mrs. Brandon, don’t you think if that baby of yours squalls again after lunch, he had better drink his own health himself somewhere else? I say, how nice you look, love!–I like that gown.”

“He must come in, St. George; but do attend to business–look!”

“Whew!” exclaimed Brandon, having inspected the plates; “it must have been a very intelligent waft of wind that did this.”

Two minutes after Brandon sauntered in again by the window, and John Mortimer observed the door. When Mrs. Brandon entered, she saw him standing on the rug keeping Emily in conversation. Mrs. Brandon admired Mr. Mortimer; he was tall, fair, stately, and had just such a likeness to Valentine as could not fail to be to his advantage in the opinion of any one who, remembering Valentine’s smiling face, small forehead, and calm eyes, sees the same contour of countenance, with an expression at once grave and sweet; features less regular, but with a grand intellectual brow, and keen blue eyes–not so handsome as Valentine’s, but with twice as direct an outlook and twice as much tenderness of feeling in them; and has enough insight to perceive the difference of character announced by these varieties in the type.

John Mortimer, who was persistently talking to Emily, felt that Brandon’s eyes were upon him, and that he looked amused. He never doubted that his work had been observed, and that his wish would be respected.

“Luncheon’s on the table.”

“John,” said Brandon instantly, “will you take in my wife?”

John obeyed. He knew she did not sit at the head of the table, so he took it and placed her on his right, while Emily and her curate were on his left. It was a very large party, but during the two minutes they had been alone together Brandon and Dorothea had altered the whole arrangement of it.

John saw that Brandon had given to him his own usual place, and had taken the bottom of the table. He thought his own way of managing that matter would have been simpler, but he was very well content, and made himself highly agreeable till there chanced to be a little cessation of the clatter of plates, and a noticeable pause in the conversation. Then Justina began to play her part.

“Mr. Mortimer,” she said, leaning a little before Emily’s curate, “this is not at all too late for the north of Italy, is it? I want to visit Italy.”

“I should not set out so late in the year,” John answered. “I should not stay even at Florence a day later than the end of May.”

“Oh, don’t say that!” she answered. “I have been so longing, you know, for years to go to the north of Italy, and now it seems as if there was a chance–as if my mother would consent.”

“You know!” thought John. “I know nothing of the kind, how should I?”

“It really does seem now as if we might leave England for a few months,” she continued. “There is nothing at all to keep her here, if she could but think so. You saw my brother the other day?”

“Yes.”

“And you thought he looked tolerably well again, did you not?”

“Yes; I think I did.”

“Then,” she continued persuasively, and with all serenity, several people being now very attentive to the conversation–“then, if my mother should chance to see you, Mr. Mortimer, and should consult you about this, you will not be so unfriendly to me as to tell her that it is too late. You must not, you know, Mr. Mortimer, because she thinks so much of your opinion.”

This was said in some slight degree more distinctly than usual, and with the repetition of his name, that no one might doubt whom she was addressing.

It made a decided impression, but on no one so much as on himself. “What a fool I have been!” he thought; “in spite of appearances this has been very far from her thoughts, and perhaps annoyance at the ridiculous rumour is what makes her so much want to be off.”

He then entered with real interest into the matter, and before luncheon was over a splendid tour had been sketched out in the Austrian Tyrol, which he proved to demonstration was far better in the summer than Italy. Justina was quite animated, and only hoped her mother would not object. It was just as well she expressed doubts and fears on that head, for Lady Fairbairn had never in her life had a hint even that her daughter was dying to go on the Continent; and Justina herself had only decided that it was well to intend such a thing, not that it would be wise or necessary to carry the intention out.

She exerted herself, keeping most careful watch and guard over her voice and smile. It was not easy for her to appear pleased when she felt piqued, and to feign a deep interest in the Austrian Tyrol, when she had not known, till that occasion, whereabouts on the map it might be found. She was becoming tired and quite flushed when the opportune entrance of the baby–that morsel of humanity with a large name–diverted every one’s attention from her, and relieved her from further effort.

There is nothing so difficult as to make a good speech at a wedding or a christening without affecting somebody’s feelings. Some people stand so much in fear of this, that they can hardly say anything. Others enjoy doing it, and are dreaded accordingly; for, beside the pain of having one’s feelings touched, and being obliged to weep, there is the red nose that follows.

John, when he stood up to propose the health of his godson, St. George Mortimer Brandon (who luckily was sound asleep), had the unusual good-fortune to please and interest everybody (even the parents) without making any one cry.

It is the commonplaces of tenderness, and the every-day things about time and change, that are affecting; but if a speaker can add to all he touches concerning man’s life, and love, and destiny, something reached down from the dominion of thought, beautiful and fresh enough to make his hearers wonder at him, and experience that elation of heart which is the universal tribute paid to all beautiful things, then they will feel deeply perhaps; but the joy of beauty will elevate them, and the mind will save the eyes from annoying tears.

Before her guests retired, Emily having lingered up-stairs with the baby, Dorothea found herself for a few minutes alone with Justina, who was very tired, but felt that her task was not quite finished. So, as she took up her bonnet and advanced to the looking-glass to put it on, she said, carelessly, “I wonder whether this colour will stand Italian sunshine.”

Dorothea’s fair young face was at once full of interest. Justina saw curiosity, too, but none was expressed; she only said, with the least little touch of pique, “And you never told _me_ that you were wishing so much to go away.”

Justina turned, and from her superior height stooped to kiss Dorothea, as if by way of apology, whereupon she added, “I had hoped, indeed, I felt sure, that you liked this place and this neighbourhood.”

“What are you alluding to, dear,” said Justina, though Dorothea had alluded to nothing.

But Dorothea remaining silent, Justina had to go on.

“I think (if _that_ is what you mean) that no one who cares for me could wish me to undertake a very difficult task–such a very difficult task as that, and one which perhaps I am not at all fit for.”

On this Dorothea betrayed a certain embarrassment, rather a painful blush tinged her soft cheek. “I would not have taken the liberty to hint at such a thing,” she answered.

“She would not have liked it,” thought Justina, with not unnatural surprise; for Dorothea had shown a fondness for her.

“But of course I know there has been an idea in the neighbourhood that you—-“

“That I what?” asked Justina.

“Why that you might–you might undertake it.”

“Oh, nonsense, dear! nonsense, all talk,” said Justina; “don’t believe a word of it.” Her tone seemed to mean just the contrary, and Dorothea looked doubtful.

“There have been some attentions, certainly,” continued Justina, turning before the glass as if to observe whether her scarf was folded to her mind. “Of course every one must have observed that! But really, dear, such a thing”–she put up her large steady hand, and fastened her veil with due care–“such a thing as that would never do. Who _could_ have put it into your head to think of it?”

“She does not care for him in the least, then,” thought Dorothea; “and it seems that he has cared for her. I don’t think he does now, for he seemed rather pleased to sketch out that tour which will take her away from him. I like her, but even if it was base to her, I should still be