He went to take leave of the De Montaignes. Teresa was trying to teach her first-born to read; and seated by the open window of the villa, in her neat, not precise, dishabille—with the little boy’s delicate, yet bold and healthy countenance looking up fearlessly at hers, while she was endeavouring to initiate him—half gravely, half laughingly—into the mysteries of monosyllables, the pretty boy and the fair young mother made a delightful picture. De Montaigne was reading the Essays of his celebrated namesake, in whom he boasted, I know not with what justice, to claim an ancestor. From time to time he looked from the page to take a glance at the progress of his heir, and keep up with the march of intellect. But he did not interfere with the maternal lecture; he was wise enough to know that there is a kind of sympathy between a child and a mother, which is worth all the grave superiority of a father in making learning palatable to young years. He was far too clever a man not to despise all the systems of forcing infants under knowledge-frames, which are the present fashion. He knew that philosophers never made a greater mistake than in insisting so much upon beginning abstract education from the cradle. It is quite enough to attend to an infant’s temper, and correct that cursed predilection for telling fibs which falsifies all Dr. Reid’s absurd theory about innate propensities to truth, and makes the prevailing epidemic of the nursery. Above all, what advantage ever compensates for hurting a child’s health or breaking his spirit? Never let him learn, more than you can help it, the crushing bitterness of fear. A bold child who looks you in the face, speaks the truth, and shames the devil; that is the stuff of which to make good and brave—ay, and wise men!
Maltravers entered, unannounced, into this charming family party, and stood unobserved for a few moments, by the open door. The little pupil was the first to perceive him, and, forgetful of monosyllables, ran to greet him; for Maltravers, though gentle rather than gay, was a favourite with children, and his fair, calm, gracious countenance did more for him with them than if, like Goldsmith’s Burchell, his pockets had been filled with gingerbread and apples. “Ah, fie on you, Mr. Maltravers!” cried Teresa, rising; “you have blown away all the characters I have been endeavouring this last hour to imprint upon sand.”
“Not so, Signora,” said Maltravers, seating himself, and placing the child on his knee; “my young friend will set to work again with a greater gusto after this little break in upon his labours.”
“You will stay with us all day, I hope?” said De Montaigne.
“Indeed,” said Maltravers, “I am come to ask permission to do so, for to-morrow I depart for England.”
“Is it possible?” cried Teresa. “How sudden! How we shall miss you! Oh! don’t go. But perhaps you have bad news from England?”
“I have news that summon me hence,” replied Maltravers; “my guardian and second father has been dangerously ill. I am uneasy about him, and reproach myself for having forgotten him so long in your seductive society.”
“I am really sorry to lose you,” said De Montaigne, with greater warmth in his tone than in his words. “I hope heartily we shall meet again soon: you will come, perhaps, to Paris?”
“Probably,” said Maltravers; “and you, perhaps, to England?”
“Ah, how I should like it!” exclaimed Teresa.