The circle which the ladies of Brookfield were designing to establish
just now, was of this receipt:--Celebrities, London residents, and
County notables, all in their severally due proportions, were to meet,
mix, and revolve: the Celebrities to shine; the Metropolitans to act as
satellites; the County ignoramuses to feel flattered in knowing that
all stood forth for their amusement: they being the butts of the
quick-witted Metropolitans, whom they despised, while the sons of renown
were encouraged to be conscious of their magnanimous superiority over
both sets, for whose entertainment they were ticketed.
This is a pudding indeed! And the contemplation of the skill and
energy required to get together and compound such a Brookfield Pudding,
well-nigh leads one to think the work that is done out of doors a very
inferior business, and, as it were, mere gathering of fuel for the fire
inside. It was known in the neighbourhood that the ladies were preparing
one; and moreover that they had a new kind of plum; in other words, that
they intended to exhibit a prodigy of genius, who would flow upon the
world from Brookfield. To announce her with the invitations, rejecting
the idea of a surprise in the assembly, had been necessary, because
there was no other way of securing Lady Gosstre, who led the society of
the district. The great lady gave her promise to attend: “though,” as
she said to Arabella, “you must know I abominate musical parties, and
think them the most absurd of entertainments possible; but if you have
anything to show, that's another matter.”
Two or three chosen friends were invited down beforehand to inspect
the strange girl, and say what they thought of her; for the ladies
themselves were perplexed. They had found her to be commonplace: a
creature without ideas and with a decided appetite. So when Tracy
Runningbrook, who had also been a plum in his day, and was still a
poet, said that she was exquisitely comic, they were induced to take the
humorous view of the inexplicable side in the character of Miss Belloni,
and tried to laugh at her eccentricities. Seeing that Mr. Pericles
approved of her voice as a singer, and Tracy Runningbrook let pass her
behaviour as a girl, they conceived that on the whole they were safe in
sounding a trumpet loudly. These gentlemen were connoisseurs, each in
his walk.
Concerning her position and parentage, nothing was known. She had met
Adela's delicately-searching touches in that direction with a marked
reserve. It was impossible to ask her point-blank, after probing her
with a dozen suggestions, for the ingenuousness of an indifferent
inquiry could not then be assumed, so that Adela was constantly baked
and felt that she must some day be excessively 'fond with her,' which
was annoying. The girl lit up at any sign of affection. A kind look
gave Summer depths to her dark eyes. Otherwise she maintained a simple
discretion and walked in her own path, content to look quietly pleased
on everybody, as one who had plenty to think of and a voice in her ear.
Apparently she was not to be taught to understand 'limits': which must
be explained as a sort of magnetic submissiveness to the variations of
Polar caprice; so that she should move about with ease, be cheerful,
friendly, and, at a signal, affectionate; still not failing to recognize
the particular nooks where the family chalk had traced a line. As the
day of exhibition approached, Adela thought she would give her a lesson
in limits. She ventured to bestow a small caress on the girl, after
a compliment; thinking that the compliment would be a check: but the
compliment was passed, and the caress instantly replied to with two arms
and a tender mouth. At which, Adela took fright and was glad to slip
away.
At last the pudding flowed into the bag.
Emilia was posted by the ladies in a corner of the room. Receiving her
assurance that she was not hungry, they felt satisfied that she wanted
nothing. Wilfrid came up to her to console her for her loneliness, until
Mr. Pericles had stationed himself at the back of her chair, and then
Wilfrid nodded languidly and attended to his graver duties. Who would
have imagined that she had hurt him? But she certainly looked with
greater animation on Mr. Pericles; and when Tracy Runningbrook sat down
by her, a perfect little carol of chatter sprang up between them. These
two presented such a noticeable contrast, side by side, that the ladies
had to send a message to separate them. She was perhaps a little the
taller of the two; with smoothed hair that had the gloss of black briony
leaves, and eyes like burning brands in a cave; while Tracy's hair was
red as blown flame, with eyes of a grey-green hue, that may be seen
glistening over wet sunset. People, who knew him, asked: “Who is she?”
and it was not in the design of the ladies to have her noted just yet.
Lady Gosstre's exclamation on entering the room was presently heard.
“Well! and where's our extraordinary genius? Pray, let me see her
immediately.”
Thereat Laura Tinley, with gross ill-breeding, rushed up to Arabella,
who was receiving her ladyship, and touching her arm, as if privileges
were permitted her, cried: “I'm dying to see her. Has she come?”
Arabella embraced the offensive girl in a hostess's smile, and talked
flowingly to the great lady.
Laura Tinley was punished by being requested to lead off with a
favourite song in a buzz. She acceded, quite aware of the honour
intended, and sat at the piano, taming as much as possible her pantomime
of one that would be audible. Lady Gosstre scanned the room, while
Adela, following her ladyship's eyeglass, named the guests.
“You get together a quaint set of men,” said Lady Gosstre.
“Women!” was on Adela's tongue's tip. She had really thought well of her
men. Her heart sank.
“In the country!” she began.
“Yes, yes!” went my lady.
These were the lessons that made the ladies of Brookfield put a check
upon youth's tendency to feel delightful satisfaction with its immediate
work, and speedily conceive a discontented suspicion of anything
whatsoever that served them.
Two other sacrifices were offered at the piano after Laura Tinley. Poor
victims of ambition, they arranged their dresses, smiled at the
leaves, and deliberately gave utterance to the dreadful nonsense of
the laureates of our drawing-rooms. Mr. Pericles and Emilia exchanged
scientific glances during the performance. She was merciless to
indifferent music. Wilfrid saw the glances pass. So, now, when Emilia
was beckoned to the piano, she passed by Wilfrid, and had a cold look in
return for beaming eyes.
According to directions, Emilia sang a simple Neapolitan air. The singer
was unknown, and was generally taken for another sacrifice.
“Come; that's rather pretty,” Lady Gosstre hailed the close.
“It is of ze people--such as zat,” assented Mr. Pericles.
Adela heard my lady ask for the singer's name. She made her way to her
sisters. Adela was ordinarily the promoter, Cornelia the sifter, and
Arabella the director, of schemes in this management. The ladies had a
moment for counsel over a music-book, for Arabella was about to do duty
at the piano. During a pause, Mr. Pole lifting his white waistcoat with
the effort, sent a word abroad, loudly and heartily, regardless of its
guardian aspirate, like a bold-faced hoyden flying from her chaperon.
They had dreaded it. They loved their father, but declined to think his
grammar parental. Hushing together, they agreed that it had been a false
move to invite Lady Gosstre, who did not care a bit for music, until the
success of their Genius was assured by persons who did. To suppose
that she would recognize a Genius, failing a special introduction, was
absurd. The ladies could turn upon aristocracy too, when it suited them.
Arabella had now to go through a quartett. The fever of ill-luck had
seized the violin. He would not tune. Then his string broke; and while
he was arranging it the footman came up to Arabella. Misfortunes, we
know, are the most united family on earth. The news brought to her was
that a lady of the name of Mrs. Chump was below. Holding her features
rigidly bound, not to betray perturbation, Arabella confided the fact
to Cornelia, who, with a similar mental and muscular compression, said
instantly, “Manoeuvre her.” Adela remarked, “If you tell her the company
is grand, she will come, and her Irish once heard here will destroy us.
The very name of Chump!”
Mrs. Chump was the wealthy Irish widow of an alderman, whose
unaccountable bad taste in going to Ireland for a wife, yet filled the
ladies with astonishment. She pretended to be in difficulties with her
lawyers; for which reason she strove to be perpetually in consultation
with her old flame and present trustee Mr. Pole. The ladies had fought
against her in London, and since their installation at Brookfield they
had announced to their father that she was not to be endured there. Mr.
Pole had plaintively attempted to dilate on the virtues of Martha Chump.
“In her place,” said the ladies, and illustrated to him that amid a
nosegay of flowers there was no fit room for an exuberant vegetable. The
old man had sighed and seemed to surrender. One thing was certain: Mrs.
Chump had never been seen at Brookfield. “She never shall be, save by
the servants,” said the ladies.
Emilia, not unmarked of Mr. Pericles, had gone over to Wilfrid once or
twice, to ask him if haply he disapproved of anything she had done.
Mr. Pericles shrugged, and went “Ah!” as who should say, “This must be
stopped.” Adela now came to her and caught her hand, showering sweet
whispers on her, and bidding her go to her harp and do her best. “We
love you; we all love you!” was her parting instigation.
The quartett was abandoned. Arabella had departed with a firm
countenance to combat Mrs. Chump.
Emilia sat by her harp. The saloon was critically still; so still that
Adela fancied she heard a faint Irish protest from the parlour. Wilfrid
was perhaps the most critical auditor present: for he doubted whether
she could renew that singular charm of her singing in the pale lighted
woods. The first smooth contralto notes took him captive. He scarcely
believed that this could be the raw girl whom his sisters delicately
pitied.
A murmur of plaudits, the low thunder of gathering acclamation, went
round. Lady Gosstre looked a satisfied, “This will do.” Wilfrid
saw Emilia's eyes appeal hopefully to Mr. Pericles. The connoisseur
shrugged. A pain lodged visibly on her black eyebrows. She gripped her
harp, and her eyelids appeared to quiver as she took the notes. Again,
and still singing, she turned her head to him. The eyes of Mr. Pericles
were white, as if upraised to intercede for her with the Powers of
Harmony. Her voice grew unnerved. On a sudden she excited herself to
pitch and give volume to that note which had been the enchantment of the
night in the woods. It quavered. One might have thought her caught by
the throat.
Emilia gazed at no one now. She rose, without a word or an apology,
keeping her eyes down.
“Fiasco!” cruelly cried Mr. Pericles.
That was better to her than the silly kindness of the people who deemed
it well to encourage her with applause. Emilia could not bear the
clapping of hands, and fled.