CAUSES AND CONSEQUENCES.
"Now I am at a loss to know whether it be my hare's foot that is my
preservation; for I never had a fit of the collique since I wore it;
or whether it be my taking of a pill of turpentine every morning."
_Diary of Mr. Samuel Pepys._
"John, the Melcombes have stayed on the Continent so much longer than I
expected that I hardly remember whether I told you I had invited them to
come round this way, and remain here a few days on their return." Old
Augustus Mortimer said this to his son, who was dining with him a few
days after the conversation concerning the wedding present. "I
supposed," he added, "that you would not invite that child or his mother
again?"
John Mortimer replied, in clear and vigorous English, that he never
should--never!
The manner in which he was looked after by the ladies had become quite a
joke in the family, though one of his chief tormentors had lately been
moved out of his way, Louisa Grant was married. Captain Walker had at
first, after Mr. Mortimer's death, agreed to wait for her till Brandon's
return; but his regiment being ordered abroad, he had induced her to
hasten the wedding, which took place about three months before Brandon
reached England. And as Louisa did not, out of respect to her
step-father, like to be married from his house so soon after his death,
old Grand had received and entertained all the wedding guests, and John
Mortimer had given away the bride.
On that occasion it was confidently asserted by the remaining Miss Grant
and Valentine, that there were four ladies present who would at any time
with pleasure undertake to act the loving mother to dear John's seven
children.
John was becoming rather sensitive; he remembered how sweetly Mrs.
Melcombe Had smiled on him, and he remembered the ghost story too.
"I rather want to see how that boy is getting on," continued Augustus.
"By-the-bye," said the son, "I heard to my surprise the other day from
Swan, whose son, it seems, was doing some work at Melcombe this spring
(making a greenhouse, I think), that Mrs. Melcombe wintered at Mentone,
partly on her boy's account, for he had a feverish or aguish illness at
Venice, and she was advised not to bring him to England."
"I never heard of it," said Grand, with anxiety.
"Nor I, my dear father; but I meant to have told you before; for I see
you take an interest in the child."
"What imprudence!" continued Grand; "those people really have no sense.
I begged them particularly not to go to Venice in the autumn."
"Yes," said John, "it was foolish; but Swan went on to say that he heard
the boy was all right again."
"I hope so," replied Grand, almost fervently; "and his mother wants to
consult us now about his going to school."
John could not forbear to smile when his father said "us."
"So you have written to say you shall be glad to see them?" he inquired.
"Yes; it is very little I ever see of my relations."
John thought that perhaps his father's mind was turning with affection
towards his family, from whom he did not now doubt that he had been
estranged owing to some cause which had terminated with the old
mother's death. So he said cordially--
"Would you like, when Mrs. Melcombe goes home, to invite Laura to remain
with you for a few weeks? I have no doubt, if you would, that Lizzy
Grant would be charmed to come at the same time, and taste the sweetness
of freedom. The two girls could have the carriage, you know, and the
canoes, and the riding-horses. They might enjoy themselves very much,
and give croquet parties and picnics to their hearts' content. I would
get old Christie to come to you whenever a chaperone was wanted. She is
a most valuable possession, my dear father, but I would lend her."
"You are very kind, my dear," answered the father, who often addressed
his son in this fashion when they were alone. "I think it would be a
pleasure to me to have the girls. You can't think, John, how cheerful
the house used to be before your sisters were married; you can hardly
remember it, you were so young."
"Why did I never think of proposing such a visit to him before?" thought
John, almost with compunction.
"I seem to know them pretty well," he answered, "from their letters and
from hearing you talk of them; but what I really remember, I believe, is
four grand young ladies who used to carry me a pick-a-back, and give me
sugared almonds."
Of the four Miss Mortimers, the eldest had married a clergyman, and died
soon after; the second and third had married "shepherd kings," and were
living with the said kings in Australia; and the fourth was in India
with her husband and a grown-up family. Their father had given to each
of them an ample fortune, and parted with her before his only son was
five years old, for John Mortimer was fifteen years younger than his
youngest sister, and had been, though the daughters were much beloved, a
greater joy and comfort to his father than all four of them put
together.
He was glad that his father showed this willingness to have Lizzy Grant
to stay in his house, for he was fond of all the Grants; there was a
kind of plain-spoken intimacy between him and them that he enjoyed. The
two elder had always been his very good friends, and during his wife's
lifetime had generally called him "John dear," and looked to him and his
wife to take them about whenever their brother was away. Liz, who was
rather a plain girl, he regarded more in the light of a niece than of a
step-cousin.
A day or two after this, therefore, while sitting alone writing his
letters (Grand being gone out for his constitutional), when he was told
that Miss Grant wanted to speak to him, he desired that she might be
shown in.
She was sitting at the back door in a little pony carriage, and giving
the reins to her boy, she passed through it, to the wonder of all
beholders.
Very few young ladies were shown in there.
"What is it?" exclaimed John, for Liz looked almost sulky.
"Oh John," she answered, with a sort of whimsical pathos, "isn't it sad,
so few delightful things as there are, that two of them should come
together, so that I can't have both!"
"What are the delightful things--offers?"
"Don't be so tiresome. No, of course not. You know very well that
nothing of that kind ever happens to me."
"Indeed, if that is the case, it can only be because your frocks are
almost always crumpled, and--what's that long bit of blue ribbon that I
see?"
"It's all right--that's how it's meant to go. I can't think why you
fancy that I'm not tidy. St. George is always saying so too."
"That's very hard. Well, child?"
"I thought perhaps you knew that Grand had invited me to stay six weeks
at his house--Laura Melcombe to be there also, and we two to do just as
we liked. The whole of August, John, and part of September, and that's
the very time when I can't come, because we are going to be at the
seaside. Dorothea is to join us, you know, and if I do not see her then
I never shall, for they are to sail at Christmas."
"There is a world of misery to be got out of conflicting pleasures,"
said John philosophically. "You can't come, that's evident; and I had
just given orders that the new canoe should be painted and the old one
caulked. Two quiet ponies for you to drive (you are a very tolerable
whip, I know). As to the grapes, a house is being kept back on purpose
to be ripe just at that time; and the croquet balls are all sent to be
painted. Melancholy facts! but such is life."
"No but, John----"
"I'm extremely busy to-day."
"Not so busy that you have not time to laugh at me. This would have been
almost the greatest pleasure I ever had."
"And I've been reminding my father," proceeded John, "that when Emily
came to stay with him she always sat at the head of the table. She asked
him if she might, and so should you have done, because, though Laura is
a relation, he has known you all your life."
"No but, John," repeated Lizzie, "can't you do something for me? Tell me
whether Laura Melcombe has been already invited?"
"She has not, Miss Grant."
"I have no doubt, if you asked Grand to let the visit be put off till
the middle of September, he would."
"I shouldn't wonder."
"Then you'll do it, won't you? because you know you and I have always
been such friends."
"Now you mention it, I think we have; at any rate, I don't dislike you
half so much as I do some of my other friends. Yes, child, your
confidence is not misplaced."
"Then I may leave the matter in your hands?" exclaimed Liz joyfully.
"You really may," replied John Mortimer, and he took her back to the
pony carriage in a high state of bliss and gratitude.
This change, however, which was easily effected, made a difference to
several people whom Miss Grant had no wish to disoblige. First, Mrs.
Melcombe, finding that Laura was invited to pay a long visit, and that
the invitation was not extended to her, resolved not to come home by
Wigfield at all; but when Laura wrote an acceptation, excused herself
from coming also, on the ground of her desire to get home.
Grand, therefore, did not see Peter, and this troubled him more than he
liked to avow. Brandon was also disappointed, for he particularly wanted
to see the boy and his mother again. The strangeness of his
step-father's letter grew upon him, and it rather fretted him to think
that he could not find any plausible reason for going over to Melcombe
to look about him. He was therefore secretly vexed with his sister when
he found that, in consequence of her request to John, the plans of all
the Melcombes had been changed. So Liz with a cheerful heart went to the
sea-side with Mrs. Henfrey and Valentine, and very soon wrote home to
Miss Christie Grant that Dorothea had joined them, that the
long-talked-of offer had been made and (of course) accepted, and that
Giles was come. She did not add that Giles had utterly lost his heart
again to his brother's bride elect, but that she would not have done if
she had known it.
Miss Christie was wroth on the occasion.
"It's just shameful," she remarked. "Everybody knew Miss Graham would
accept him, but why can't she say how it was and when it was? She's
worse than her mother. 'Dear Aunt,' her mother wrote to me, 'I'm going
to marry Mr. Mortimer on Saturday week, and I hope you'll come to the
wedding, but you're not to wear your blue gown. Your affectionate niece,
EMILY GRANT.' That was every word she said, and I'd never heard there
was anything between her and Mr. Mortimer before."
"And why were you not to wear your blue gown?" inquired John Mortimer.
"Well," replied Miss Christie, "I don't deny that if she hadn't been
beforehand with me I might just slyly have said that my blue gown would
do, for I'd _only_ had it five years. I was aye thrifty; she knew it was
as good as ever--a very excellent lutestring, and made for her wedding
when she married Mr. Grant--so she was determined to take my joke
against her out of my mouth."
If Miss Christie had not found plenty to do during the next six weeks,
she would have grumbled yet more than she did over her wrongs. As it
was, Master Augustus John Mortimer came home from school for his long
holidays, and he and his friends excited more noise, bustle, and
commotion in the house than all the other children put together.
John Mortimer's eldest son, always called Johnnie, to distinguish him
from his father, was ridiculously big for his age, portentously clever
and keen-witted, awkward, blunt, rude, full of fun, extremely fond of
his father, and exceedingly unlike him in person. His hair was nearly
black, his forehead was square and high, his hands and feet almost
rivalled those of his parent in size, and his height was five feet
three.
In any other eyes than those of a fond parent he must have appeared as
an awkward, noisy, plain, and intolerably active boy; but his father
(who almost from his infancy had pleased himself with a mental picture
of the manner of man he would probably grow into) saw nothing of all
this, but merely added in his mind two inches to the height of the
future companion he was to find in him, and wished that the boy could
get over a lisp which still disfigured some of his words.
He brought such a surprising account of his merits with him--how he
could learn anything he pleased, how he never forgot anything, how, in
fact, his master, as regarded his lessons, had not a fault to find with
him, that when his twin sisters had seen it, there seemed to them
something strange in his being as fond of tarts and lollipops as ever.
As for John, nothing surprised him. Miss Christie saw great diversities
in his children, but in regard to them all he showed an aggravating
degree of contentment with what Providence had sent him. Miss Christie
wore through Johnnie's sojourn at home as well as she could, and was
very happy when she saw him off to school again; happier still when
walking towards home across the fields with John Mortimer and the four
younger children, they saw Brandon and Valentine at a distance coming to
meet them.
"So they are at home again," she exclaimed; "and now we'll hear all
about the wedding that is to be. I've been just wearying for the
_parteeculars_, and there never were such bad letter-writers as those
girls. Anyhow there'll be a handsome bridegroom."
"Ah!" said John Mortimer, "all the ladies admire Val. He's quite a
woman's man."
"Well, and St. George is a man's man, then," retorted Miss Christie; "ye
all admire him, I am sure."
"And what are you, papa, dearest?" asked Janie, who had hold of his
hand.
"I'm my own man, my little queen-regnant," answered her father with a
somewhat exultant laugh.
"Ay, Mr. Mortimer, I'm just surprised at ye," quoth Miss Christie,
shaking her head over these vainglorious words.
"I think father's the most beautifullest man of all," said little Janie,
with a sort of jealous feeling as if somehow he had been disparaged,
though she did not exactly know how. "And the goodest, too," she
presently added, as if not satisfied with her first tribute to him.
Valentine, who was seldom out of countenance on any occasion, received
the congratulations of all the party with a certain rather becoming
pride and complacency. He seemed, however, to be taking things very
easily? but he presently became rather silent, and John, who felt keenly
that Brandon was not so indifferent to the bride-elect as he wished to
be, turned the conversation as soon as he could to other matters. There
was some talk about Valentine's land which had been bought for him in
New Zealand, after which Brandon said suddenly,--
"John, when this fellow is gone, or perhaps before, I mean to have
something to do--some regular work--and I think of taking to literature
in good earnest."
"All right," answered John, "and as you evidently intend me to question
you, I will ask first whether you, Giles Brandon, mean to write on some
subject that you understand, or on one that you know nothing about?"
Brandon laughed. "There is more to be said in favour of that last than
you think," he answered.
"It may be that there is everything to be said; but if you practise it,
don't put your name to your work, that's all."
"I shall not do so in any case. How do I know whether the only use
people may make of it (and that a metaphorical one) may not be to throw
it at me ever after."
"I don't like that," said Miss Christie. "I could wish that every man
should own his own."
"No," remarked John Mortimer; "if a man in youth writes a foolish book
and gives his name to it, he has, so far as his name is concerned, used
his one chance; and if, in maturer life, he writes something high and
good, then if he wants his wise child to live, he must consent to die
himself with the foolish one. It is much the same with one who has
become notorious through the doing of some base or foolish action. If he
repent, rise to better things, and write a noble book, he must not claim
it as if it could elevate him. It must go forth on its own merits, or it
will not be recognised for what it is, only for what he is or was. No,
if a man wants to bring in new thoughts or work elevating changes, he
must not clog them with a name that has been despised."
"I think Dorothea and I may as well write a book together," said
Valentine. "She did begin one, but somehow it stuck fast."
"You had better write it about yourselves, then," said John, "that being
nearly all you study just now, I should think. Many a novel contains the
author and little else. He explains himself in trying to describe human
nature."
"Human nature!" exclaimed Valentine; "we must have something grander
than that to write of, I can tell you. We have read so many books that
turn it 'the seamy side outward,' and point out the joins as if it was a
glove, that we cannot condescend to it."
"No," said John, setting off on the subject again as if he was most
seriously considering it, Valentine meanwhile smiling significantly on
the others. "It is a mistake to describe too much from within. The
external life as we see it should rather be given, and about as much of
the motives and springs of action as an intelligent man with good
opportunity could discover. We don't want to be told all. We do not know
all about those we live with, and always have lived with. If ever I took
to writing fiction I should not pretend to know all about my characters.
The author's world appears small if he makes it manifest that he reigns
there. I don't understand myself thoroughly. How can I understand so
many other people? I cannot fathom them. My own children often surprise
me. If I believed thoroughly in the children of my pen, they would
write themselves down sometimes in a fashion that I had not intended."
"John talks like a book," observed Valentine. "You propose a subject,
and he lays forth his views as if he had considered it for a week.
'Drive on, Samivel.'"
"But I don't agree with him," said Miss Christie. "When I read a book I
aye dislike to be left in any doubt what the man means or what the story
means."
"I always think it a great proof of power in a writer," said Brandon,
"when he consciously or unconsciously makes his reader feel that he
knows a vast deal more about his characters than he has chosen to tell.
And what a keen sense some have of the reality of their invented men and
women! So much so that you may occasionally see evident tokens that they
are jealous of them. They cannot bear to put all the witty and clever
speeches into the mouths of these 'fetches' of their own imagination.
Some must be saved up to edge in as a sly aside, a sage reflection of
the author's own. There never should be any author's asides."
"I don't know about that," John answered, "but I often feel offended
with authors who lack imagination to see that a group of their own
creations would not look in one another's eyes just what they look in
his own. The author's pretty woman is too often pretty to all; his wit
is acknowledged as a wit by all. The difference of opinion comes from
the readers. They differ certainly."
"Even I," observed Valentine, "if I were an author's wit, might be voted
a bore, and how sad that would be, for in real life it is only right to
testify that I find little or no difference of opinion."
He spoke in a melancholy tone, and heaved up a sigh.
"Is cousin Val a wit?" asked little Hugh.
"I am afraid I am," said Valentine; "they're always saying so, and it's
very unkind of them to talk about it, because I couldn't help it, could
I?"
Here the little Anastasia, touched with pity by the heartfelt pathos of
his tone, put her dimpled hand in his and said tenderly, "Never mind,
dear, it'll be better soon, p'raps, and you didn't do it on purpose."
"Does it hurt?" asked Hugh, also full of ruth.
"Be ashamed of yourself," whispered Miss Christie, "to work on the dear
children's feelings so. No, my sweet mannie, it doesn't hurt a bit."
"I'm very much to be pitied," proceeded Valentine. "That isn't all"--he
sighed again--"I was born with a bad French accent, and without a single
tooth in my head, or, out of it, while such was my weakness, that it
took two strong men, both masters of arts, to drag me through the
rudiments of the Latin grammar."
Anastasia's eyes filled with tears. It seemed so sad; and the tender
little heart had not gone yet into the question of _seeming_.
"They _teached_ you the Latin grammar did they?" said Bertram, who had
also been listening, and was relieved to hear of something in this list
of miseries that he could understand; "that's what Miss Crampton teaches
me. I don't like it, and you didn't either, then. I'm six and three
quarters; how old were you?"
Before Valentine had answered, John and Brandon, finding themselves
before the party, had stopped and turned. Brandon was surprised to see
how earnestly the two elder children, while he talked, had been looking
at him, and then at their father and Valentine. At last, when this pause
occurred, and the two groups met, Janie said--
"I am sure papa is a great deal prettier than Mr. Brandon, and Cousin
Val looks quite ugly beside him."
"Yes, Janie," said Bertram, with an air of high satisfaction, "papa's
much more beautiful than either of the others. I shall ask Miss
Crampton when I go in if she doesn't think so. You would like to know
what she thinks, wouldn't you, father?"
John had opened his mouth to say no, when his better sense coming to his
aid, he forbore to speak. For this lady taught his children to
perfection, but his friends always would insist that she wanted to teach
him too--something that he wouldn't learn.
Aunt Christie, his constant friend and champion, presently spoke for
him.
"No, children," she said, as soon as she had composed her voice to a due
gravity, "it's natural ye should admire your father, good children
generally do, but, now, if I were you, I would never tell anybody at
all, not even Miss Crampton--do ye hear me, all of you? I would never
tell anybody your opinion of him. If ye do, they will certainly think ye
highly conceited, for ye know quite well that people say you four little
ones are just as exactly like him as ye can be."
The children were evidently impressed.
"In fact," said Valentine, "now I take a good look at him, I should say
that you are even more like him than he is himself--but--I may be
mistaken."
"I won't say it then," said Bertram, now quite convinced.
"And I won't, and I won't," added others, as they ran forward to open a
grate.
"Cheer up, John," said St. George, "let us not see so much beauty and
virtue cast down. There's Miss Crampton looking out of the school-room
window."
But though he laughed he did not deceive John Mortimer, who knew as well
as possible that the loss of Dorothea Graham pressed heavily on his
heart.
"You two are going to dine with me, of course," he said, when all the
party had passed into the wilderness beyond his garden.
"On the contrary, with your leave," answered Valentine, "we are going
to take a lesson of Swan in the art of budding roses. We cannot manage
it to our minds. We dined early."
"And I suppose you will agree with Val," observed Brandon, "that a
rose-garden is one of the necessaries of life."
"Dorothea must have one, must she, out in New Zealand? Well, Swan will
be proud to teach you anything he knows or doesn't know, and he will
give you an opinion if you ask it on any subject whatever."
Accordingly John went into the house to dine, and perhaps it was in
consequence of this assertion that the two young men asked their old
friend's opinion on various points not at all in his line. Valentine
even told him that his brother intended to write a book, and asked him
what he thought it had better be about; whereupon Swan, while deftly
shaping his _bud_, shook his head gravely, and said that wanted a deal
of thinking over.
"But if I was you, sir," he continued, speaking to Brandon, "I should
get Mr. Mortimer--Mr. John--to help you, specially if there's going to
be any foreign talk in it. My word, I don't believe there's any language
going that Mr. Mortimer can't lay his tongue to!"