EMILY.
"Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour,
Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly,
An equal mixture of good humour,
And sensible, soft melancholy.
"'Has she no faults then,' Envy says, 'Sir?'
'Yes, she has one, I must aver;
When all the world conspires to praise her
The woman's deaf, and does not hear.'"
John Mortimer was sitting at breakfast the very morning after this
conversation had taken place at Melcombe. No less than four of his
children were waiting on him; Gladys was drying his limp newspaper at a
bright fire, Barbara spreading butter on his toast, little Hugh kneeling
on a chair, with his elbows on the table, was reading him a choice
anecdote from a child's book of natural history, and Anastasia, while he
poured out his coffee with one hand, had got hold of the other, which
she was folding up industriously in her pinafore and frock, because she
said it was cold. It was a windy, chilly, and exasperatingly bright
spring morning; the sunshine appeared to prick the traveller all over
rather than to warm him. Not at all the morning for an early walk, but
John, lifting up his eyes, saw a lady in the garden, and in another
instant Mrs. Frederic Walker was shown in.
"What, Emily!" exclaimed John, starting up.
"Yes, John; but my soldier and my valuable infant are both quite well.
Now, if you don't go on with your breakfast, I shall depart. Let me sit
by the fire and warm my feet."
"You have breakfasted?"
"Of course. How patriarchal you look, John, sitting in state to be
adored!"
Thereupon, turning away from the fire, she began to smile upon the
little Anastasia, and without any more direct invitation, the small
coquette allowed herself to be decoyed from her father to sit on the
visitor's knee. Emily had already thrown off her fur wraps, and the
child, making herself very much at home in her arms, began presently to
look at her brooch and other ornaments, the touch of her small fingers
appearing to give pleasure to Emily, who took up one of the fat little
pink hands, and kissed it fondly.
"What is that lady's name, Nancy?" said John.
"Mrs. Nemily," answered the child.
"You have still a little nursery English left about you, John," said
Emily. "How sweet it is! My boy has that yet to come; he can hardly say
half-a-dozen words."
Then Gladys entering the room with a cup and saucer, she rose and came
to the table.
"That milk looks so nice--give me some of it. How pleasant it is to feel
cold and hungry, as one does in England! No, John, not ham; I will have
some bread and marmalade. Do the children always wait on you, John, at
breakfast?"
There was something peculiarly sweet and penetrative in the voices of
Brandon and his sister; but this second quality sometimes appeared to
give more significance to their words than they had intended.
"Always. Does it appear an odd arrangement in your eyes?"
"Father," said Barbara, "here is your paper. I have cut the leaves."
"Thank you, my dear; put it down. You should, consider, Emily, my great
age and exaltation in the eyes of these youngsters. Don't you perceive
that I am a middle-aged man, madam?"
"Middle-aged, indeed! You are not thirty-six till the end of September,
you know--the 28th of September. And oh, John, you cannot think how
young you look! just as if you had stolen all these children, and they
were not really yours. You have so many of them, too, while I have only
one, and he such a little one--he is only two years old."
While she spoke a bell began to ring, and the two elder children,
wishing her good-bye, left the room.
"Do you think those girls are growing like their mother?" asked John.
"I think they are a little. Perhaps that pretty way they have of taking
up their eye-glasses when they come forward to look at anything, makes
them seem more like than they are."
John scarcely ever mentioned his wife, but before Emily most people
spoke without much reserve.
"Only one of the whole tribe is like her in mind and disposition," he
continued.
"And that's a good thing," thought Emily, but she did not betray her
thought.
While this talk went on the two younger children had got possession, of
Mrs. Nemily's watch (which hung from her neck by a long Trichinopoly
chain), and were listening to a chime that it played. Emily took the boy
on her knee, and it did not appear that he considered himself too big to
be nursed, but began to examine the watch, putting it to his ear, while
he composedly rested his head on her shoulder.
"Poor little folk," thought John, "how naturally they take to the
caresses of a young mother!"
Another bell then rang.
"What order is kept in your house!" said Emily, as both the children
departed, one with a kiss on her dimpled cheek and the other on his
little scratched fist, which already told of much climbing.
"That is the school-room bell," John answered; and then Mrs. Frederic
Walker laughed, and said, with a look half whimsical, half wistful----
"Oh, John, you're going to be so cross?"
"Are you going to make me cross? You had better tell me at once, then,
what you are come for. Has Giles returned?"
"He came in late last night. I know what he went for, John. He thought
it best to tell me. He is now gone on to the station about some affairs
of his own. It seems that you both took Joey Swan's part, and were
displeased with that Laura."
"Of course. She made the poor fellow very miserable for a long time.
Besides, I am ashamed of the whole derogatory affair. Did Giles see that
she burnt those letters--foolish, cold-hearted creature?"
"'Foolish,' I dare say; but 'cold-hearted,' I don't know. St. George
declared to me that he thought she was as much in love now as that goose
Joseph ever was."
"Amazing!" exclaimed John, very much discomfited.
"And she tried hard to make him promise that he would keep the whole
thing a profound secret, especially from you; and so of course he
declined, for he felt that you must be the proper person to tell it to,
though we do not know why. He reasoned with her, but he could make
nothing of her."
"Perhaps she wants to bring it on again," said John. "What a pity he
returned the letters before Joe had sailed!"
"No, it was the right thing to do. And, John, if love is really the
sacred, strong, immortal passion made out by all the poets and
novelists, I cannot see, somehow, that putty ought to stand in its
light. It ought to have a soul above putty."
"With all my heart," said John; "but you see in this case it hadn't."
"It would be an _astonishingly_ disadvantageous thing for our family if
she ran away and married him just now, when Valentine has been making
himself so ridiculous. But there is no doubt we could bring it on again,
and have it done if we chose," said Emily.
John looked at her with surprise.
"But then," she continued, "I should say that the man ought to be
thought of as well as herself, and she might prove a thoroughly
unsuitable, foolish wife, who would soon tire of him. SHE might be very
miserable also. She would not have half the chance of happiness that an
ordinary marriage gives. And, again, Santo Domingo is notoriously
unhealthy. She might die, and if we had caused the marriage, we should
feel that."
"Are you addressing this remarkable speech to yourself or to _the
chair_?" said John, laughing.
"To the chair. But, if I am the meeting, don't propose as a resolution
that this meeting is _tête montée_. John, you used to say of me before I
married that I was troubled with intuitions."
"I remember that I did."
"You meant that I sometimes saw consequences very clearly, and felt that
the only way to be at peace was to do the right thing, having taken some
real trouble to find out what it was."
"I was not aware that I meant that. But proceed."
"When Laura was here in the autumn she often talked to Liz about little
Peter Melcombe's health, and said she believed that his illness at
Venice had very much shaken his constitution. His mother, she said,
never would allow that there had been much the matter with him, though
she had felt frightened at the time. It was the heat, Laura thought,
that had been too much for him. Now, you know if that poor little fellow
were to die, Valentine, who has nothing to live on, and nothing to do,
is his heir. What a fine thing it would be for him!"
"I don't see yet what you mean."
"Mrs. Melcombe found out before Giles left Melcombe all about these
letters. She came into the room, and Laura, who seems to have been
filled with a ridiculous sort of elation to think that somebody had
really loved her, betrayed it in her manner, and between her and Giles
it was confessed. Mrs. Melcombe was very wroth."
"Laura has a right to do as she pleases," said John; "no one can prevent
it."
"She has the right, but not the power. WE can do as we please, or we can
let Mrs. Melcombe do as SHE pleases."
"You mean that we can tell my gardener's son that my cousin (whom he no
longer cares for) is in love with him, and, by our assistance and
persuasion, we can, if we choose, bring on as foolish a marriage as ever
was contemplated, and one as disadvantageous to ourselves. Now for the
alternative. What can it be?"
"Mrs. Melcombe can take Laura on the Continent again, and she proposed
to do it forthwith."
"And leave her boy at school? A very good thing for him."
"No, she means to take him also, and not come back till Joseph is at the
other end of the world."
"Two months will see him there."
"Well, John, now you have stated the case, it does seem a strange fancy
of mine to wish to interfere, and if to interfere could possibly be to
our advantage----"
"You would not have thought of it! No, I am sure of that. Now my advice
is, that we let them alone all round. I don't believe, in the first
place, that Joe Swan, now he has change, freedom, and a rise in life
before him, would willingly marry Laura if he might. I am not at all
sure that, if it came to the point, she would willingly marry him at
such short notice, and leave every friend she has in the world. I think
she would shrink back, for she can know nothing worth mentioning of him.
As to the boy, how do you know that a tour may not be a very fine thing
for him? It must be better than moping at Melcombe under petticoat
government; and even if Joe married Laura to-morrow, we could not
prevent Mrs. Melcombe from taking him on the Continent whenever she
chose."
Emily was silent.
"And what made you talk of a runaway match?" continued John.
"Because she told Giles that the last time she saw Joseph he proposed to
her to sneak away, get married before a magistrate, and go off without
saying a word to anybody."
"Fools," exclaimed John, "both of them! No, we cannot afford to have any
runaway matches--and of such a sort too! I should certainly interfere if
I thought there was any danger of that."
"I hope you would. He wanted her to propose some scheme. I think scorn
of all scheming. If she had really meant to marry him, his part should
have been to see that she did it in a way that would not make it worse
for her afterwards. He should have told Mrs. Melcombe fairly that she
could not prevent it, and he should have taken her to church and married
her like a man before plenty of witnesses in the place where she is
known. If he had not shown such a craven spirit, I almost think I would
have taken his part. Now, John, I know what you think; but I should have
felt just the same if Valentine had not made himself ridiculous, and if
I was quite sure that this would not end in a runaway match after all,
and the _True Blue_ be full of it."
"I believe you," said John; "and I always had a great respect for you,
'Mrs. Nemily.'"
"What are you laughing at, then?"
"Perhaps at the matronly dignity with which you have been laying down
the law."
"Is that all? Oh, I always do that now I am married, John."
"You don't say so! Well, Joe Swan has worked hard at improving himself;
but though good has come out of it in the end for him, it is certainly a
very queer affair. Why, in the name of common sense, couldn't Laura be
contented with somebody in her own sphere?"
"I should like to know why Laura was so anxious the matter should be
concealed from you," said Emily.
"Most likely she remembers that Swan is in my employment, or she may
also be 'troubled with intuitions,' and know by intuition what I think
of her."
"And how is Aunt Christie?" asked Emily, after little more talk
concerning Joseph's affairs.
"Well and happy; I do not believe it falls to the lot of any old woman
to be happier in this _oblate spheroid_. The manner in which she acts
dragon over Miss C. is a joy to me, the only observer. She always
manages that we shall never meet excepting in her presence; when I go
into the schoolroom to read prayers, I invariably find her there before
me. She insists, also, on presiding at all the schoolroom meals. How she
found out the state of things here I cannot tell, but I thankfully let
her alone. I never go out to smoke a cigar in the evening, and notice a
stately female form stepping forth also, but Aunt Christie is sure to
come briskly stumping in her wake, ready to join either her or me."
"You don't mean to imply anything?"
"Of course not! but you yourself, before you married, were often known
to take my arm at flower-shows, &c., in order to escape from certain
poor fellows who sighed in vain."
"Yes, you were good about that; and you remind me of it, no doubt, in
order to claim the like friendliness from me now the tables are turned.
John, the next time I take your arm in public it will be to extend my
matronly countenance to those modest efforts of yours at escaping
attention, for you know yourself to be quite unworthy of notice!"
"Just so; you express my precise feeling."
"It is a pity you and Grand are so rich!"
"Why? You do not insinuate, I hope, that I and my seven are merely
eligible on that account. Now, what are you looking at me for, with that
little twist in your lips that always means mischief?"
"Because I like you, and I am afraid you are being spoilt, John. I do so
wish you had a nice wife. I should? at least, if you wished it
yourself."
"A saving clause! Have you and Fred discussed me, madam?"
"No, I declare that we have not."
"I hope you have nobody to recommend, because I won't have her! I always
particularly disliked red hair."
"Now what makes you suppose I was thinking of any one who has red hair?"
"You best know yourself whether you were _not_."
"Well," said Emily, after a pause for reflection, "now you mention it (I
never did), I do not see that you could do better."
"I often think so myself, and that is partly why I am so set against it!
No, Emily, it would be a shame to joke about an excellent and pleasant
woman. The fact is, I have not the remotest intention of ever marrying
again at all."
"Very well," said Emily, "it is not my affair; it was your own notion
entirely that I wanted to help you to a wife."
And she sat a moment cogitating, and thinking that the lady of the
golden head had probably lost her chance by showing too openly that she
was ready.
"What are you looking at?" said John. "At the paths worn in my carpets?
That's because all the rooms are thoroughfares. Only fancy any woman
marrying a poor fellow whose carpets get into that state every three or
four years."
"Oh," said Emily, "if that was likely to stand in your light, I could
soon show you how to provide a remedy."
"But my father hates the thoughts of bricks and mortar," said John,
amused at her seriousness, "and I inherit that feeling."
"John, the north front of your house is very ugly. You have five French
windows on a line--one in each of these rooms, one in the hall; you
would only have to run a narrow passage-like conservatory in front of
them, enter it by the hall window, and each room by its own window, put
a few plants in the conservatory, and the thing is done in a fortnight.
Every room has its back window; you would get into the back garden as
you do now; you need not touch the back of the house, that is all
smothered in vines and creepers, as you are smothered in children!"
"The matter shall have my gravest consideration," said John, "provided
you never mention matrimony to me again as long as you live."
"Very well," said Emily, "I promise; but there is St. George coming. I
must not forget to tell you that I saw Joseph this morning at a
distance; he was standing in the lea of the pigstye, and cogitating in
the real moony style."
"It was about his outfit," exclaimed John; "depend upon it it was not
about Laura."
And so the colloquy ended, and John walked down his own garden, opened
the wicket that led to his gardener's cottage, and saw Joseph idly
picking out a weed here and there, while he watched the bees, some of
whom, deluded by the sunshine, had come forth, and were feebly hanging
about the opening of the hive.
"Joe," said John, with perfect decision and directness, "I have a
favour to ask of you."
Joseph was startled at first; but as no more was said, he presently
answered, "Well, sir, you and yours have done me so many, that I didn't
ought to hesitate about saying I'll grant it, whatever it is."
"If you should think of marrying before you go----"
"Which I don't, sir," interrupted the young man rather hastily.
"Very good; then if you change your mind, I want your promise that you
will immediately let me know."
"Yes, sir," said Joseph, as if the promise cost him nothing, and
suggested nothing to his mind, "I will."
"There," thought John, as he turned away, "he does not know what he is
about; but if she brings the thing on again, I believe he will keep
faith with me, and a clandestine marriage I am determined shall not be."
He then went into the town and found, to his surprise, that Brandon had
already seen his father, and had told him that Dorothea Graham had
engaged herself to him. John was very much pleased, but his father
treated the matter with a degree of apathy which rather startled and
disturbed him.
Old Augustus was in general deeply interested in a marriage; he had
helped several people to marry, and whether he approved or disapproved
of any one in particular, he was almost sure, when he had been lately
told of it, to make some remarks on the sacredness of the institution,
and on the advantages of an early marriage for young men.
He, however, said nothing, though Brandon was one of his chief
favourites; but having just related the fact, took up the _Times_, and
John opened his letters, one of them being from his son Johnny, written
in a fully-formed and beautiful hand, which made its abrupt style and
boyish vehemence the more observable.
"My Dearest Father,--It's all right. Mr. ---- took me to Harrow, and Dr.
B. examined me, and he said--oh, he said a good deal about my Latin
verses, and the books I'm _in_, but I can't tell you it, because it
seems so muffish. And, papa, I wish I might bring Crayshaw home for the
Easter holidays; you very nearly promised I should; but I wanted to tell
you what fun I and the other fellows had at the boat-race. You can
hardly think how jolly it was. I suppose when I get into the great
school I shall never see it. We ran down shouting and yelling after the
boats. I thought I should never be happy again if Cambridge didn't win.
It was such a disgustingly sleety, blowy, snowy, windy, raspy, muddy
day, as you never saw. And such crowds of fellows cheering and
screeching out to the crews. Such a rout!
"'The Lord Mayor lent the City P'lice,
The cads ran down by scores and scores
With shouting roughs, and scented muffs,
While blue were flounces, frills, and gores.
On swampy meads, in sleeted hush,
The swarms of London made a rush,
And all the world was in the slush.'
"Etcetera. That's part of Crayshaw's last; it's a parody of one of those
American fogies. Dear father, you will let me come home, won't you;
because I do assure you I shall get in with the greatest ease, even if
I'm not coached for a day more. A great many fellows here haven't a
tutor at all.--I remain, your affectionate son,
"A.J. Mortimer.
"P.S.--Will you tell Gladys that my three puppies, which she says are
growing nicely, are not, on any account, to be given away; and will you
say that Swan is not to drown them, or do anything with them, till I've
chosen one, and then he may sell the others. And I hope my nails and
screws and my tools have not been meddled with. The children are not to
take my things. It often makes me miserable to think that they get my
nails and my paddle when I'm gone."
John Mortimer smiled, and felt rather inclined to let the boy come home,
when, looking up, he observed that his father was dozing over the
newspaper, and that he shivered.
Master Augustus John did not get an answer so soon as he had hoped for
it, and when it came it was dated from a little, quiet place at the
seaside, and let him know that his grandfather was very poorly, very
much out of sorts, and that his father had felt uneasy about him. Johnny
was informed that he must try to be happy, spending the Easter holidays
at his tutor's. His grandfather sent him a very handsome "tip," and a
letter written in such a shaky hand, that the boy was a good deal
impressed, and locked it up in his desk, lest he should never have
another.