Part 26 (2/2)
_Entrees_ are good; but what is even ice-- Cream ice--to him that's made to dress for dinner?
Oh my dress boots, my studs, and my white tie Termed choker (emblem of this heart's pure aim), Why are good things to eat your meed? Oh why Must swallow-tails be donned for tasting game?
The deep heart questions vainly,--not for ease Or joy were such invented;--but this know, I'd rather dine off hunks of bread and cheese Than feast in state rigged out in my dress clo'.
G.C.
Emily, after duly admiring these verses, gave her invitation, and it was accepted with delight. Nothing, they said, could be more convenient.
Father had told them how Mr. Brandon was having the long wing of the house pulled down, the part where cousin Val's room used to be; so he had been obliged to turn out his nests, and his magic lantern, and many other things that he had when he was a little boy.
”And he says we shall inherit them.”
”And when father saw him sitting on a heap of bricks among his things, he says it put him in mind of Marius on the ruins of Carthage.”
”So now we can fetch them all away.”
Emily then departed, after stipulating that the two little ones, her favourites, should come also. ”Darlings!” she exclaimed, when she saw their stout little legs so actively running to ask Miss Christie's leave. ”Will my boy ever look at me with such clear earnest eyes? Shall I ever see such a lovely flush on his face, or hear such joyous laughter from him?”
Time was to answer this question for her, and a very momentous month for the whole family began its course. Laura, writing from Paris to Liz, made it evident to those who knew anything of the matter, that Mrs.
Melcombe, as she thought, had carried her out of harm's way; and it is a good thing Laura did not know with what perfect composure and ambitious hope Joseph made his preparations for the voyage. The sudden change of circ.u.mstances and occupation, and the new language he had to learn, woke him thoroughly from his dream, and though it had been for some long time both deep and strong, yet it was to him now as other dreams ”when one awaketh;” and Laura herself, now that she had been brought face to face, not with her lover, but with facts, was much more reasonable than before. Brandon had said to her pointedly, in the presence of her sister-in-law, ”If you and this young man had decided to marry, no law, human or divine, could have forbidden it.” But at the same time Amelia had said, ”Laura, you know very well that though you love to make romances about him, you would not give up one of the comforts of life for his sake.”
Laura, in fact, had scarcely believed in the young man's love till she had been informed that it was over. She longed to be sought more than she cared to be won; it soothed and comforted what had been a painful sense of disadvantage to know that one man at least had sighed for her in vain. He would not have been a desirable husband, but as a former lover she could feign him what she pleased, and while, under new and advantageous circ.u.mstances, he became more and more like what she feigned, it was not surprising that in the end she forgot her feigning, and found her feet entangled for good and all in the toils she herself had spread for them.
In the meantime Johnnie and Crayshaw, together with the younger Mortimers, did much as they liked, till Harrow school reopened, when the two boys returned, departing a few hours earlier than was necessary that they might avoid Miss Crampton, a functionary whom Johnny held in great abhorrence.
At the same period Grand suddenly rallied, and, becoming as well as ever, his son, who had made many journeys backwards and forwards to see him, brought him home, buying at the railway station, as he stepped into his father's carriage, the _Times_ and the _Wigfield Advertiser_, and _True Blue_, in each of which he saw a piece of news that concerned himself, though it was told with a difference.
In the _Times_ was the marriage of Giles Brandon, Esq., &c., to Dorothea, elder daughter of Edward Graham, Esq.; and in the local paper, with an introduction in the true fustian style of mock concealment, came the same announcement, followed by a sufficiently droll and malicious account of the terrible inconvenience another member of this family had suffered a short time since by being snowed up, in which state he still continued, as snow in that part of the world had forgotten how to melt.
A good deal that was likely to mortify Valentine followed this, but it was no more than he deserved.
John laughed. ”Well, Giles is a dear fellow,” he said, throwing down the paper. ”I am pleased at his marriage, and they must submit to be laughed at like other people.”
CHAPTER XVI.
WEARING THE WILLOW.
”My Lord Sebastian, The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness And time to speak it in; you rub the sore When you should bring the plaster.”
_The Tempest._
When John Mortimer reached the banking-house next morning, he found Valentine waiting for him in his private sitting-room.
”I thought my uncle would hardly be coming so early, John,” he said, ”and that perhaps you would spare me a few minutes to talk things over.”
”To be sure,” said John, and looking more directly at Valentine, he noticed an air of depression and gloom which seemed rather too deep to be laid to the account of the _True Blue_.
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