It was almost spiteful on the part of Miss Petrie
the manner in which, on this evening, she remained
close to her friend Caroline Spalding. It is
hardly possible to believe that it came altogether
from high principle, from a determination to save
her friend from an impending danger. One’s
friend has no right to decide for one what is, and
what is not dangerous. Mr Glascock after awhile
found himself seated on a fixed couch, that ran along
the wall, between Carry Spalding and Miss Petrie;
but Miss Petrie was almost as bad to him as had been
the minister himself. ‘I am afraid,’
she said, looking up into his face with some severity,
and rushing upon her subject with audacity, ’that
the works of your Browning have not been received in
your country with that veneration to which they are
entitled.’
‘Do you mean Mr or Mrs Browning?’ asked
Mr Glascock perhaps with some mistaken idea that the
lady was out of her depth, and did not know the difference.
’Either, both; for they are one, the same, and
indivisible. The spirit and germ of each is so
reflected in the outcome of the other, that one sees
only the result of so perfect a combination, and one
is tempted to acknowledge that here and there a marriage
may have been arranged in Heaven. I don’t
think that in your country you have perceived this,
Mr Glascock.’
‘I am not quite sure that we have,’ said
Mr Glascock. ’Yours is not altogether an
inglorious mission,’ continued Miss Petrie.
‘I’ve got no mission,’ said Mr Glascock
’either from the Foreign Office, or from my
own inner convictions.’
Miss Petrie laughed with a scornful laugh. ’I
spoke, sir, of the mission of that small speck on
the earth’s broad surface, of which you think
so much, and which we call Great Britain.’
‘I do think a good deal of it,’ said Mr
Glascock.
‘It has been more thought of than any other
speck of the same size,’ said Carry Spalding.
‘True,’ said Miss Petrie, sharply ’because
of its iron and coal. But the mission I spoke
of was this.’ And she put forth her hand
with an artistic motion as she spoke. ’It
utters prophecies, though it cannot read them.
It sends forth truth, though it cannot understand it.
Though its own ears are deaf as adder’s, it
is the nursery of poets, who sing not for their own
countrymen, but for the higher sensibilities and newer
intelligences of lands in which philanthropy has made
education as common as the air that is breathed.’
‘Wally,’ said Olivia, coming up to the
poetess, in anger that was almost apparent, ’I
want to take you, and introduce you to the Marchesa
Pulti.’
But Miss Petrie no doubt knew that the eldest son
of an English lord was at least as good as an Italian
marchesa. ‘Let her come here,’ said
the poetess, with her grandest smile.
WITHERED GRASS
