“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.”