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
glad she was not going to marry John Mortimer."
Justina was in many respects a pleasant woman. She was a good daughter,
she had a very good temper, serene, never peevish; she did not forget
what was due to others, she was reasonable, and, on the whole, just. She
felt what a pity it was that Mr. Mortimer was so unwise. She regretted
this with a sincerity not disturbed by any misgiving. Taking the deepest
interest in herself, as every way worthy and desirable, she did for
herself what she could, and really felt as if this was both a privilege
and a duty. Something like the glow of a satisfied conscience filled her
mind when she reflected that to this end she had worked, and left
nothing undone, just as such a feeling rises in some minds on so
reflecting about efforts made for another person. But with all her
foibles, old people liked her, and her own sex liked her, for she was a
comfortable person to be with; one whose good points attracted regard,
and whose faults were remarkably well concealed.
With that last speech she bowled herself out of the imaginary game of
ninepins, and the next stroke was made by Dorothea.
She went down to the long drawing-room, and found all her guests
departed, excepting John Mortimer, who came up to take leave of her. He
smiled. "I wanted to apologize," he said, taking her hand, "(it was a
great liberty), for the change I made in your table."
"The change, did you say," she answered, oh so softly! "or the changes?"
And then she became suddenly shy, and withdrew her hand, which he was
still holding; and he, drawing himself up to his full height, stood
stock still for a moment as if lost in thought and in surprise.
It was such a very slight hint to him that two ladies had been
concerned, but he took it,--remembered that one of them was the sister
of his host, and also that he had not been allowed to carry out his
_changes_ just as he had devised them. "I asked Emily's leave," he said,
"to take her in."
"Oh, did you?" answered Dorothea, with what seemed involuntary interest,
and then he took his leave.
"Why did I never think of this before? I don't believe there ever was
such a fool in this world," he said to himself, as he mounted his horse
and rode off. "Of course, if I were driven to it, Emily would be fifty
times more suitable for me than that calm blond spinster. Liberty is
sweet, however, and I will not do it if I can help it. The worst of it
is, that Emily, of all the women of my acquaintance, is the only one who
does not care one straw about me. There's no hurry--I fancy myself
making her an offer, and getting laughed at for my pains." Then John
Mortimer amused himself with recollections of poor Fred Walker's wooing,
how ridiculous he had made himself, and how she had laughed at him, and
yet, out of mere sweetness of nature, taken him. "It's not in her to be
in love with any man," he reflected; "and I suppose it's not in me to be
in love with any woman. So far at least we might meet on equal ground."
In the meantime, Dorothea was cosily resting on the sofa in her
dressing-room, her husband was with her, and St. George Mortimer
Brandon,--the latter as quiet as possible in his cot, now nobody cared
whether his behaviour did him credit or not.
"Love," she said, "do you know I shouldn't be at all surprised if John
Mortimer has made Justina an offer, and she has refused him."
"_I_ should be very much surprised, indeed," said Brandon, laughing; "I
think highly of his good sense--and of hers, for both which reasons I
feel sure, my darling, that he has not made her an offer, and she has
not refused him."
"But I am almost sure he has," proceeded Dorothea, "otherwise I should
be obliged to think that the kind of things she said to-day were not
quite fair."
"What did she say?"
Dorothea told him.
"I do not think that amounts to much," said Brandon.
"Oh then you think he never did ask her? I hope and trust you are
right."
"Why do you hope and trust, Mrs. Brandon? What can it signify to you?"
Then, when she made no answer, he went on. "To be sure that would make
it highly natural that he should be glad at the prospect of her
absenting herself."
"I was just thinking so. Did not he speak well, St. George."
"He did; you were wishing all the time that I could speak as well!"
"Just as if you did not speak twice as well! Besides, you have a much
finer voice. I like so much to hear you when you get excited."
"Ah! that is the thing. I have taken great pains to learn the art of
speaking, and when to art excitement is added, I get on well enough. But
John, without being excited, says, and cares nothing about them, the
very things I should like to have said, but that will not perfectly
reveal themselves to me till my speech is over."
"But he is not eloquent."
"No; he does not on particular occasions rise above the ordinary level
of his thoughts. His everyday self suffices for what he has to do and
say. But sometimes, if we two have spoken at the same meeting, and I see
the speeches reported--though mine may have been most cheered--I find
little in it, while he has often said perfectly things of real use to
our party."