LITMIR.BIZ

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the ensign of happy release from the ladies (or of indemnification for their absence, if you please), strolled about the grounds.

      “Did you see that little passage between Laura Tinley and Bella Pole?” said one, and forthwith mimicked them: “Laura commencing:-’We must have her over to us.’ ‘I fear we have pre-engaged her.’—‘Oh, but you, dear, will do us the favour to come, too?’ ‘I fear, dear, our immediate engagements will preclude the possibility.’—‘Surely, dear Miss Pole, we may hope that you have not abandoned us?’—‘That, my dear Miss Tinley, is out of the question.’—‘May we not name a day?’—‘If it depends upon us, frankly, we cannot bid you do so.’”

      The other joined him in laughter, adding: “‘Frankly’ ‘s capital! What absurd creatures women are! How the deuce did you manage to remember it all?”

      “My sister was at my elbow. She repeated it, word for word.”

      “Pon my honour, women are wonderful creatures!”

      The two young men continued their remarks, with a sense of perfect consistency.

      Lady Gosstre, as she was being conducted to her carriage, had pronounced aloud that Emilia was decidedly worth hearing.

      “She’s better worth knowing,” said Tracy Runningbrook. “I see you are all bent on spoiling her. If you were to sit and talk with her, you would perceive that she’s meant for more than to make a machine of her throat. What a throat it is! She has the most comical notion of things. I fancy I’m looking at the budding of my own brain. She’s a born artist, but I’m afraid everybody’s conspiring to ruin her.”

      “Surely,” said Adela, “we shall not do that, if we encourage her in her Art.”

      “He means another kind of art,” said Lady Gosstre. “The term ‘artist,’ applied to our sex, signifies ‘Frenchwoman’ with him. He does not allow us to be anything but women. As artists then we are largely privileged, I assure you.”

      “Are we placed under a professor to learn the art?” Adela inquired, pleased with the subject under such high patronage.

      “Each new experience is your accomplished professor,” said Tracy. “One I’ll call Cleopatra a professor: she’s but an illustrious example.”

      “Imp! you are corrupt.” With which my lady tapped farewell on his shoulder. Leaning from the carriage window, she said: “I suppose I shall see you at Richford? Merthyr Powys is coming this week. And that reminds me: he would be the man to appreciate your ‘born artist.’ Bring her to me. We will have a dinner. I will despatch a formal invitation to-morrow. The season’s bad out of town for getting decent people to meet you. I will do my best.”

      She bowed to Adela and Tracy. Mr. Pole, who had hovered around the unfamiliar dialogue to attend the great lady to the door, here came in for a recognition, and bowed obsequiously to the back of the carriage.

      Arabella did not tell her sisters what weapons she had employed to effect the rout of Mrs. Chump. She gravely remarked that the woman had consented to go, and her sisters thanked her. They were mystified by Laura’s non-recognition of Emilia, and only suspected Wilfrid so faintly that they were able to think they did not suspect him at all. On the whole, the evening had been a success. It justified the ladies in repeating a well-known Brookfield phrase: “We may be wrong in many things, but never in our judgement of the merits of any given person.” In the case of Tracy Runningbrook, they had furnished a signal instance of their discernment. Him they had met at the house of a friend of the Tinleys (a Colonel’s wife distantly connected with great houses). The Tinleys laughed at his flaming head and him, but the ladies of Brookfield had ears and eyes for a certain tone and style about him, before they learnt that he was of the blood of dukes, and would be a famous poet. When this was mentioned, after his departure, they had made him theirs, and the Tinleys had no chance. Through Tracy, they achieved their introduction to Lady Gosstre. And now they were to dine with her. They did not say that this was through Emilia. In fact, they felt a little that they had this evening been a sort of background to their prodigy: which was not in the design. Having observed, “She sang deliciously,” they dismissed her, and referred to dresses, gaucheries of members of the company, pretensions here and there, Lady Gosstre’s walk, the way to shuffle men and women, how to start themes for them to converse upon, and so forth. Not Juno and her Court surveying our mortal requirements in divine independence of fatigue, could have been more considerate for the shortcomings of humanity. And while they were legislating this and that for others, they still accepted hints for their own improvement, as those who have Perfection in view may do. Lady Gosstre’s carriage of her shoulders, and general manner, were admitted to be worthy of study. “And did you notice when Laura Tinley interrupted her conversation with Tracy Runningbrook, how quietly she replied to the fact and nothing else, so that Laura had not another word?”—“And did you observe her deference to papa, as host?”—“And did you not see, on more than one occasion, with what consummate ease she would turn a current of dialogue when it had gone far enough?” They had all noticed, seen, and observed. They agreed that there was a quality beyond art, beyond genius, beyond any special cleverness; and that was, the great social quality of taking, as by nature, without assumption, a queenly position in a circle, and making harmony of all the instruments to be found in it. High praise of Lady Gosstre ensued. The ladies of Brookfield allowed themselves to bow to her with the greater humility, owing to the secret sense they nursed of overtopping her still in that ineffable Something which they alone possessed: a casket little people will be wise in not hurrying our Father Time to open for them, if they would continue to enjoy the jewel they suppose it to contain. Finally, these energetic young ladies said their prayers by the morning twitter of the birds, and went to their beds, less from a desire for rest than because custom demanded it.

      Three days later Emilia was a resident in the house, receiving lessons in demeanour from Cornelia, and in horsemanship from Wilfrid. She expressed no gratitude for kindnesses or wonder at the change in her fortune, save that pleasure sat like an inextinguishable light on her face. A splendid new harp arrived one day, ticketed, “For Miss Emilia Belloni.”

      “He does not know I have a second Christian name,” was her first remark, after an examination of the instrument.

      “‘He?’” quoth Adela. “May it not have been a lady’s gift?”

      Emilia clearly thought not.

      “And to whom do you ascribe it?”

      “Who sent it to me? Mr. Pericles, of course.”

      She touched the strings immediately, and sighed.

      “Are you discontented with the tone, child?” asked Adela.

      “No. I—I’ll guess what it cost!”

      Surely the ladies had reason to think her commonplace!

      She explained herself better to Wilfrid, when he returned to Brookfield after a short absence. Showing the harp, “See what Mr. Pericles thinks me worth!” she said.

      “Not more than that?” was his gallant rejoinder. “Does it suit you?”

      “Yes; in every way.”

      This was all she said about it.

      In the morning after breakfast, she sat at harp or piano, and then ran out to gather wild flowers and learn the names of trees and birds. On almost all occasions Wilfrid was her companion. He laughed at the little sisterly revelations the ladies confided concerning her too heartily for them to have any fear that she was other than a toy to him. Few women are aware with how much ease sentimental men can laugh outwardly at what is internal torment. They had apprised him of their wish to know what her origin was, and of her peculiar reserve on that topic: whereat he assured them that she would have no secrets from him. His conduct of affairs was so open that none could have supposed the gallant cornet entangled in a maze of sentiment. For, veritably, this girl was the last sort of girl to please his fancy; and he saw not a little of fair ladies: by virtue of his heroic antecedents, he was himself well seen of them. The gallant cornet adored delicacy and a gilded refinement. The female flower could not be too exquisitely cultivated to satisfy him. And here he was, running after a little unformed girl, who

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