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."