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."