Fated to Be Free Part 50

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-gla.s.s 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 embarra.s.sment, 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 gla.s.s 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 s.e.x 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 n.o.body 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."

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

"Pleasures of memory! O supremely blest And justly proud beyond a poet's praise, If the pure confines of thy tranquil breast Contain indeed the subject of thy lays."

(Said to be by Rogers.)

A few days after this Emily was coming down the lane leading to John Mortimer's house, having taken leave of Justina at the railway station.

She was reading a letter just received from Valentine, signed for the first time in full, Valentine Melcombe. The young gentleman, it appeared, was quite as full of fun as ever; had been to Visp and Rifflesdorf, and other of those places--found them dull on the whole--had taken a bath. "And you may judge of the smell of the water,"

he went on to his sister, "when I tell you that I fell asleep after it, and dreamt I was a bad egg. I hoped I shouldn't hatch into a bad fellow.

I've been here three days and seen n.o.body; the population (chiefly Catholic) consists of three goats, a c.o.c.k and hen, and a small lake!"

Here lifting up her head as she pa.s.sed by John's gate, Emily observed extraordinary signs of festivity about the place. Flags protruded from various bedroom windows, wreaths and flowers dangling at the end of long poles from others, rows of dolls dressed in their best sat in state on the lower boughs of larches, together with tinsel b.u.t.terflies, frail balloons, and other gear not often seen excepting on Christmas-trees.

It was Sat.u.r.day afternoon, a half-holiday; the two little boys, who were weekly pupils of a clergyman in the immediate neighbourhood, always came home at that auspicious time, and there remained till Monday morning.

From one of them Emily learned that some epidemic having broken out at Harrow, in the "house" where Johnnie was, the boys had been dispersed, and Johnnie, having been already in quarantine a fortnight, had now come home, and the place had been turned out of windows to welcome him.

"And Cray is at Mr. Brandon's," said Bertie, "but on Monday they are both to go to Mr. Tikey's with us."

Something aloft very large and black at this moment startled Emily.