Fated to Be Free Part 49

"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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 repet.i.tion 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 G.o.dson, 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.