We had seen her go into Salemina's bedroom, and knew perfectly well that she had consulted the Peabody notebook, lying open on the desk; but the professor looked as surprised as if he had heard a pretty paroquet quote Gibbon. I don't like to see grave and reverend scholars stare at pretty paroquets, but I won't belittle Salemina's exquisite and peculiar charm by worrying over the matter.
'Wirra, wirra! Ologone!
Can't ye lave a lad alone, Till he's proved there's no tradition left of any other girl---Not even Trojan Helen, In beauty all excellin'---Who's been up to half the divilment of Fan Fitzgerl?'
Of course Francesca's heart is fixed upon Ronald Macdonald, but that fact has not altered the glance of her eyes. They no longer say, 'Wouldn't you like to fall in love with me, if you dared?' but they still have a gleam that means, 'Don't fall in love with me; it is no use!' And of the two, one is about as dangerous as the other, and each has something of 'Fan Fitzgerl's divilment.
'Wid her brows of silky black Arched above for the attack, Her eyes they dart such azure death on poor admiring man;
Masther Cupid, point your arrows, From this out, agin the sparrows, For you're bested at Love's archery by young Miss Fan.'
Of course Himself never fell a prey to Francesca's fascinations, but then he is not susceptible; you could send him off for a ten-mile drive in the moonlight with Venus herself, and not be in the least anxious.
Dr. La Touche is grey for his years, tall and spare in frame, and there are many lines of anxiety or thought in his forehead; but a wonderful smile occasionally smooths them all out, and gives his face a rare though transient radiance. He looks to me as if he had loved too many books and too few people; as if he had tried vainly to fill his heart and life with antiquities, which of all things, perhaps, are the most bloodless, the least warming and nourishing when taken in excess or as a steady diet. Himself (God bless him!) shall never have that patient look, if I can help it; but how it will appeal to Salemina! There are women who are born to be petted and served, and there are those who seem born to serve others.
Salemina's first idea is always to make tangled things smooth (like little Broona's curly hair); to bring sweet and discreet order out of chaos; to prune and graft and water and weed and tend things, until they blossom for very shame under her healing touch. Her mind is catholic, well ordered, and broad,--for ever full of other people's interests, never of her own: and her heart always seems to me like some dim, sweet-scented guest-chamber in an old New England mansion, cool and clean and quiet, and fragrant of lavender. It has been a lovely, generous life, lived for the most part in the shadow of other people's wishes and plans and desires. I am an impatient person, I confess, and heaven seems so far away when certain things are in question: the righting of a child's wrong, or the demolition of a barrier between two hearts; above all, for certain surgical operations, more or less spiritual, such as removing scales from eyes that refuse to see, and stops from ears too dull to hear.
Nobody shall have our Salemina unless he is worthy, but how I should like to see her life enriched and crowned! How I should enjoy having her dear little overworn second fiddle taken from her by main force, and a beautiful first violin, or even the baton for leading an orchestra, put into her unselfish hands!
And so good-bye and 'good luck to ye, Cork, and your pepper-box steeple,' for we leave you to-morrow!
