Part 50 (1/2)

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 suns.h.i.+ne.”

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 wis.h.i.+ng 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.”