Mr. Pole was one of those men whose characters are read off at a glance.
He was neat, insignificant, and nervously cheerful; with the eyes of a
bird, that let you into no interior. His friends knew him thoroughly.
His daughters were never in doubt about him. At the period of the
purchase of Brookfield he had been excitable and feverish, but that was
ascribed to the projected change in his habits, and the stern necessity
for an occasional family intercommunication on the subject of money.
He had a remarkable shyness of this theme, and reversed its general
treatment; for he would pay, but would not talk of it. If it had to be
discussed with the ladies, he puffed, and blinked, and looked so much
like a culprit that, though they rather admired him for what seemed to
them the germ of a sense delicate above his condition, they would have
said of any man they had not known so perfectly, that he had painful
reasons for wishing to avoid it. Now that they spoke to him of Besworth,
assuring him that they were serious in their desire to change their
residence, the fit of shyness was manifested, first in outrageous praise
of Brookfield, which was speedily and inexplicably followed by a sort
of implied assent to the proposition to depart from it. For Besworth
displayed numerous advantages over Brookfield, and to contest one was
to plunge headlong into the money question. He ventured to ask his
daughters what good they expected from the change. They replied that it
was simply this: that one might live fifty years at Brookfield and not
get such a circle as in two might be established at Besworth. They were
restricted. They had gathering friends, and no means of bringing them
together. And the beauty of the site of Besworth made them enthusiastic.
“Well, but,” said Mr. Pole: “what does it lead to? Is there nothing to
come after?”
He explained: “You're girls, you know. You won't always stop with me.
You may do just as well at Brookfield for yourselves, as over there.”
The ladies blushed demurely.
“You forecast very kindly for us, papa,” said Cornelia. “Our object is
entirely different.”
“I wish I could see it,” he returned.
“But, you do see, papa, you do see,” interposed Adela, “that a select
life is preferable to that higgledy-piggledy city-square existence so
many poor creatures are condemned to!”
“Select!” said Mr. Pole, thinking that he had hit upon a weakness in
their argument; “how can it be select when you want to go to a place
where you may have a crowd about you?”
“Selection can only be made from a crowd,” remarked Arabella, with
terrible placidity. “It is where we see few that we are at the mercy of
kind fortune for our acquaintances.”
“Don't you see, papa, that the difference between the aristocracy and
the bourgeoisie is, that the former choose their sets, and the latter
are obliged to take what comes to them?” said Adela.
This was the first domestic discussion upon Besworth. The visit to
Richford had produced the usual effect on the ladies, who were now
looking to other heights from that level. The ladies said: “We have only
to press it with papa, and we shall quit this place.” But at the second
discussion they found that they had not advanced. The only change was
in the emphasis that their father added to the interrogations already
uttered. “What does it lead to? What's to come after? I see your object.
But, am I to go into a new house for the sake of getting you out of it,
and then be left there alone? It's against your interests, too. Never
mind how. Leave that to a business man. If your brother had proposed
it...but he's too reasonable.”
The ladies, upon this hint, wrote to Wilfrid to obtain his concurrence
and assistance. He laughed when he read the simple sentence: “We hope
you will not fancy that we have any peculiar personal interest in view;”
and replied to them that he was sure they had none: that he looked upon
Besworth with favour, “and I may inform you,” he pursued, “that your
taste is heartily applauded by Lady Charlotte Chillingworth, she bids
me tell you.” The letter was dated from Stornley, the estate of the
marquis, Lady Charlotte's father. Her ladyship's brother was a member
of Wilfrid's Club. “He calls Besworth the most habitable place in the
county, and promises to be there as many months out of the twelve as you
like to have him. I agree with him that Stornley can't hold a candle to
it. There are three residences in England that might be preferred to it,
and, of those, two are ducal.”
The letter was a piece of that easy diplomacy which comes from habit.
The “of those, two are ducal,” was masterly. It affected the imagination
of Brookfield. “Which two?” And could Besworth be brought to rival them?
Ultimately, it might be! The neighbourhood to London, too, gave it noble
advantages. Rapid relays of guests, and a metropolitan reputation for
country attractions, would distinguish Besworth above most English
houses. A house where all the chief celebrities might be encountered: a
house under suave feminine rule; a house, a home, to a chosen set, and a
refreshing fountain to a widening circle!
“We have a dispute,” they wrote playfully to Wilfrid “a dispute we wish
you or Lady Charlotte to settle. I, Arabella, know nothing of trout.
I, Cornelia, know nothing of river-beds. I, Adela, know nothing of
engineering. But, we are persuaded, the latter, that the river running
for a mile through Besworth grounds may be deepened: we are persuaded,
the intermediate, that the attempt will damage the channel: we are
persuaded, the first, that all the fish will go.”
In reply, Wilfrid appeared to have taken them in earnest. “I rode over
yesterday with Lady Charlotte,” he said. “We think something might be
done, without at all endangering the fish or spoiling the channel. At
all events, the idea of making the mile of broad water serviceable for
boats is too good to give up in a hurry. How about the dining-hall?
I told Lady Charlotte you were sure to insist upon a balcony for
musicians. She laughed. You will like her when you know her.”
Thus the ladies of Brookfield were led on to be more serious concerning
Besworth than they had thought of being, and began to feel that their
honour was pledged to purchase this surpassing family seat. In a
household where every want is supplied, and money as a topic utterly
banished, it is not surprising that they should have had imperial views.
Adela was Wilfrid's favoured correspondent. She described to him gaily
the struggle with their papa. “But, if you care for Besworth, you
may calculate on it.--Or is it only for our sakes, as I sometimes
think?--Besworth is won. Nothing but the cost of the place (to be
considered you know!) could withhold it from us; and of that papa has
not uttered a syllable, though he conjures up every possible objection
to a change of abode, and will not (perhaps, poor dear, cannot) see what
we intend doing in the world. Now, you know that rich men invariably
make the question of the cost their first and loudest outcry. I know
that to be the case. They call it their blood. Papa seems indifferent to
this part of the affair. He does not even allude to it. Still, we do not
progress. It is just possible that the Tinleys have an eye on beautiful
Besworth. Their own place is bad enough, but good enough for them. Give
them Besworth, and they will sit upon the neighbourhood. We shall be
invaded by everything that is mean and low, and a great chance will be
gone for us. I think I may say, for the county. The country? Our advice
is, that you write to papa one of your cleverest letters. We know,
darling, what you can do with the pen as well as the sword. Write word
that you have written.”
Wilfrid's reply stated that he considered it unadviseable that he should
add his voice to the request, for the present.
The ladies submitted to this quietly until they heard from their father
one evening at dinner that he had seen Wilfrid in the city.
“He doesn't waste his time like some young people I know,” said Mr.
Pole, with a wink.
“Papa; is it possible?” cried Adela.
“Everything's possible, my dear.”
“Lady Charlotte?”
“There is a Lady Charlotte.”
“Who would be Lady Charlotte still, whatever occurred!”
Mr. Pole laughed. “No, no. You get nothing out of me. All I say is, be
practical. The sun isn't always shining.”
He appeared to be elated with some secret good news.
“Have you been over to Besworth, the last two or three days?” he asked.
The ladies smiled radiantly, acknowledging Wilfrid's wonderful
persuasive powers, in their hearts.
“No, papa; we have not been,” said Adela. “We are always anxious to go,
as I think you know.”
The merchant chirped over his glass. “Well, well! There's a way.”
“Straight?”
“Over a gate; ha, ha!”
His gaiety would have been perplexing, but for the allusion to Lady
Charlotte.
The sisters, in their unfailing midnight consultation, persuaded
one another that Wilfrid had become engaged to that lady. They wrote
forthwith Fine Shades to him on the subject. His answer was Boeotian,
and all about Besworth. “Press it now,” he said, “if you really want
it. The iron is hot. And above all things, let me beg you not to be
inconsiderate to the squire, when he and I are doing all we can for
you. I mean, we are bound to consider him, if there should happen to be
anything he wishes us to do.”
What could the word 'inconsiderate' imply? The ladies were unable to
summon an idea to solve it. They were sure that no daughters could be
more perfectly considerate and ready to sacrifice everything to their
father. In the end, they deputed the volunteering Adela to sit with him
in the library, and put the question of Besworth decisively, in the name
of all. They, meantime, who had a contempt for sleep, waited aloft to
hold debate over the result of the interview.
An hour after midnight, Adela came to them, looking pale and uncertain:
her curls seeming to drip, and her blue eyes wandering about the room,
as if she had seen a thing that kept her in a quiver between belief and
doubt.
The two ladies drew near to her, expressing no verbal impatience, from
which the habit of government and great views naturally saved them, but
singularly curious.
Adela's first exclamation: “I wish I had not gone,” alarmed them.
“Has any change come to papa?” breathed Arabella.
Cornelia smiled. “Do you not know him too well?”
An acute glance from Adela made her ask whether Besworth was to be
surrendered.
“Oh, no! my dear. We may have Besworth.”
“Then, surely!”
“But, there are conditions?” said Arabella.
“Yes. Wilfrid's enigma is explained. Bella, that woman has seen papa.”
“What woman?”
“Mrs. Chump.”
“She has our permission to see him in town, if that is any consolation
to her.”
“She has told him,” continued Adela, “that no explanation, or whatever
it may be, was received by her.”
“Certainly not, if it was not sent.”
“Papa,” and Adela's voice trembled, “papa will not think of
Besworth,--not a word of it!-until--until we consent to welcome that
woman here as our guest.”
Cornelia was the first to break the silence that followed this
astounding intelligence. “Then,” she said, “Besworth is not to be
thought of. You told him so?”
Adela's head drooped. “Oh!” she cried, “what shall we do? We shall be
a laughing-stock to the neighbourhood. The house will have to be locked
up. We shall live like hermits worried by a demon. Her brogue! Do you
remember it? It is not simply Irish. It's Irish steeped in brine. It's
pickled Irish!”
She feigned the bursting into tears of real vexation.
“You speak,” said Cornelia contemptuously, “as if we had very humbly
bowed our heads to the infection.”
“Papa making terms with us!” murmured Arabella.
“Pray, repeat his words.”
Adela tossed her curls. “I will, as well as I can. I began by speaking
of Besworth cheerfully; saying, that if he really had no strong
affection for Brookfield, that would make him regret quitting it, we
saw innumerable advantages in the change of residence proposed.
Predilection,--not affection--that was what I said. He replied that
Besworth was a large place, and I pointed out that therein lay one of
its principal merits. I expected what would come. He alluded to the
possibility of our changing our condition. You know that idea haunts
him. I told him our opinion of the folly of the thing. I noticed that
he grew red in the face, and I said that of course marriage was a thing
ordained, but that we objected to being submerged in matrimony until we
knew who and what we were. I confess he did not make a bad reply, of
its kind. 'You're like a youngster playing truant that he may gain
knowledge.' What do you think of it?”
“A smart piece of City-speech,” was Arabella's remark: Cornelia placidly
observing, “Vulgarity never contains more than a minimum of the truth.”
“I said,” Adela went on, “Think as you will, papa, we know we are right.
He looked really angry. He said, that we have the absurdest ideas--you
tell me to repeat his words--of any girls that ever existed; and then he
put a question: listen: I give it without comment: 'I dare say, you all
object to widows marrying again.' I kept myself quiet. 'Marrying again,
papa! If they marry once they might as well marry a dozen times.' It
was the best way to irritate him. I did not intend it; that is all I can
say. He jumped from his chair, rubbed his hair, and almost ran up and
down the library floor, telling me that I prevaricated. 'You object to a
widow marrying at all--that's my question!' he cried out loud. Of
course I contained my voice all the more. 'Distinctly, papa.' When I
had spoken, I could scarcely help laughing. He went like a pony that is
being broken in, crying, I don't know how many times, 'Why? What's
your reason?' You may suppose, darlings, that I decline to enter upon
explanation. If a person is dense upon a matter of pure sentiment, there
is no ground between us: he has simply a sense wanting. 'What has all
this to do with Besworth?' I asked. 'A great deal more than you fancy,'
was his answer. He seemed to speak every word at me in capital letters.
Then, as if a little ashamed, he sat down, and reached out his hand to
mine, and I saw his eyes were moist. I drew my chair nearer to him. Now,
whether I did right or wrong in this, I do not know I leave it entirely
to your judgement. If you consider how I was placed, you will at all
events excuse me. What I did was--you know, the very farthest suspicion
one has of an extreme possibility one does not mind mentioning: I said
'Papa, if it should so happen that money is the objection to Besworth,
we will not trouble you.' At this, I can only say that he behaved like
an insane person. He denounced me as wilfully insulting him that I might
avoid one subject.”
“And what on earth can that be?” interposed Arabella.
“You may well ask. Could a genie have guessed that Mrs. Chump was at
the bottom of it all? The conclusion of the dreadful discussion is
this, that papa offers to take the purchase of Besworth into his
consideration, if we, as I said before, will receive Mrs. Chump as our
honoured guest. I am bound to say, poor dear old man, he spoke kindly,
as he always does, and kissed me, and offered to give me anything I
might want. I came from him stupefied. I have hardly got my senses about
me yet.”
The ladies caressed her, with grave looks; but neither of them showed a
perturbation of spirit like that which distressed Adela.
“Wilfrid's meaning is now explained,” said Cornelia. “He is in league
with papa; or has given in his adhesion to papa's demands, at least. He
is another example of the constant tendency in men to be what they call
'practical' at the expense of honour and sincerity.”
“I hope not,” said Arabella. “In any case, that need not depress you so
seriously, darling.”
She addressed Adela.
“Do you not see?” Adela cried, in response. “What! are you both blind to
the real significance of papa's words? I could not have believed it! Or
am I this time too acute? I pray to heaven it may be so!”
Both ladies desired her to be explicit; Arabella, eagerly; Cornelia with
distrust.
“The question of a widow marrying! What is this woman, whom papa wishes
to force on us as our guest? Why should he do that? Why should he
evince anxiety with regard to our opinion of the decency of widows
contemplating re-union? Remember previous words and hints when we lived
in the city!”
“This at least you may spare us,” said Cornelia, ruffling offended.
Adela smiled in tenderness for her beauty.
“But, it is important, if we are following a track, dear. Think over
it.”
“No!” cried Arabella. “It cannot be true. We might easily have guessed
this, if we ever dreamed of impossibilities.”
“In such cases, when appearances lean in one direction, set principles
in the opposite balance,” added Cornelia. “What Adela apprehends may
seem to impend, but we know that papa is incapable of doing it. To
know that, shuts the gates of suspicion. She has allowed herself to be
troubled by a ghastly nightmare.”
Adela believed in her own judgement too completely not to be sure
that her sisters were, perhaps unknowingly, disguising a slowness of
perception they were ashamed of, by thus partially accusing her of
giddiness. She bit her lip.
“Very well; if you have no fears whatever, you need not abandon the idea
of Besworth.”
“I abandon nothing,” said Arabella. “If I have to make a choice, I take
that which is least objectionable. I am chagrined, most, at the idea
that Wilfrid has been treacherous.”
“Practical,” Cornelia suggested. “You are not speaking of one of our
sex.”
Questions were then put to Adela, whether Mr. Pole had spoken in the
manner of one who was prompted: whether he hesitated as he spoke:
whether, in short, Wilfrid was seen behind his tongue. Adela resolved
that Wilfrid should have one protectress.
“You are entirely mistaken in ascribing treachery to him,” she said. “It
is papa that is changed. You may suppose it to be without any reason,
if you please. I would tell you to study him for yourselves, only I am
convinced that these special private interviews are anything but good
policy, and are strictly to be avoided, unless of course, as in the
present instance, we have something directly to do.”
Toward dawn the ladies had decreed that it was policy to be quite
passive, and provoke no word of Mrs. Chump by making any allusion to
Besworth, and by fencing with the mention of the place.
As they rarely failed to carry out any plan deliberately conceived
by them, Mr. Pole was astonished to find that Besworth was altogether
dropped. After certain scattered attempts to bring them upon Besworth,
he shrugged, and resigned himself, but without looking happy.
Indeed he looked so dismal that the ladies began to think he had a great
longing for Besworth. And yet he did not go there, or even praise it to
the discredit of Brookfield! They were perplexed.
“Let me ask you how it is,” said Cornelia to Mr. Barrett, “that a person
whom we know--whose actions and motives are as plain to us as though
discerned through a glass, should at times produce a completer
mystification than any other creature? Or have you not observed it?”
“I have had better opportunities of observing it than most people,” Mr.
Barren replied, with one of his saddest amused smiles. “I have come to
the conclusion that the person we know best is the one whom we never
understand.”
“You answer me with a paradox.”
“Is it not the natural attendant on an assumption?”
“What assumption?”
“That you know a person thoroughly.”
“May we not?”
“Do you, when you acknowledge this 'complete mystification'?”
“Yes.” Cornelia smiled when she had said it. “And no.”
Mr. Barrett, with his eyes on her, laughed softly. “Which is paradox at
the fountain-head! But, when we say we know any one, we mean commonly
that we are accustomed to his ways and habits of mind; or, that we can
reckon on the predominant influence of his appetites. Sometimes we can
tell which impulse is likely to be the most active, and which principle
the least restraining. The only knowledge to be trusted is a grounded
or scientific study of the springs that move him, side by side with
his method of moving the springs. If you fail to do this, you have two
classes under your eyes: you have sane and madman: and it will seem
to you that the ranks of the latter are constantly being swollen in an
extraordinary manner. The customary impression, as we get older, is that
our friends are the maddest people in the world. You see, we have grown
accustomed to them; and now, if they bewilder us, our judgement, in
self-defence, is compelled to set them down lunatic.”
Cornelia bowed her stately head with gentle approving laughter.
“They must go, or they despatch us thither,” she said, while her fair
face dimpled into serenity. The remark was of a lower nature than an
intellectual discussion ordinarily drew from her: but could Mr. Barrett
have read in her heart, he might have seen that his words were beginning
to rob that organ of its native sobriety. So that when he spoke a cogent
phrase, she was silenced, and became aware of a strange exultation in
her blood that obscured grave thought. Cornelia attributed this display
of mental weakness altogether to Mr. Barrett's mental force. The
interposition of a fresh agency was undreamt of by the lady.
Meanwhile, it was evident that Mr. Pole was a victim to one of his
fevers of shyness. He would thrum on the table, frowning; and then, as
he met the look of one of the ladies, try to disguise the thought in his
head with a forced laugh. Occasionally, he would turn toward them, as if
he had just caught a lost idea that was peculiarly precious. The ladies
drawing up to attend to the communication, had a most trivial matter
imparted to them, and away he went. Several times he said to them “You
don't make friends, as you ought;” and their repudiation of the charge
made him repeat: “You don't make friends--home friends.”
“The house can be as full as we care to have it, papa.”
“Yes, acquaintances! All very well, but I mean friends--rich friends.”
“We will think of it, papa,” said Adela, “when we want money.”
“It isn't that,” he murmured.
Adela had written to Wilfrid a full account of her interview with her
father. Wilfrid's reply was laconic. “If you cannot stand a week of the
brogue, give up Besworth, by all means.” He made no further allusion
to the place. They engaged an opera-box, for the purpose of holding a
consultation with him in town. He wrote evasively, but did not appear,
and the ladies, with Emilia between them, listened to every foot-fall
by the box-door, and were too much preoccupied to marvel that Emilia was
just as inattentive to the music as they were. When the curtain dropped
they noticed her dejection.
“What ails you?” they asked.
“Let us go out of London to-night,” she whispered, and it was difficult
to persuade her that she would see Brookfield again.
“Remember,” said Adela, “it is you that run away from us, not we from
you.”
Soft chidings of this description were the only reproaches for her
naughty conduct. She seemed contrite very still and timid, since that
night of adventure. The ladies were glad to observe it, seeing that it
lent her an air of refinement, and proved her sensible to correction.
At last Mr. Pole broke the silence. He had returned from business,
humming and rubbing his hands, like one newly primed with a suggestion
that was the key of a knotty problem. Observant Adela said: “Have you
seen Wilfrid, papa?”
“Saw him in the morning,” Mr. Pole replied carelessly.
Mr. Barrett was at the table.
“By the way, what do you think of our law of primogeniture?” Mr. Pole
addressed him.
He replied with the usual allusion to a basis of aristocracy.
“Well, it's the English system,” said Mr. Pole. “That's always in its
favour at starting. I'm Englishman enough to think that. There ought to
be an entail of every decent bit of property, eh?”
It was observed that Mr. Barrett reddened as he said, “I certainly think
that a young man should not be subject to his father's caprice.”
“Father's caprice! That isn't common. But, if you're founding a family,
you must entail.”
“We agree, sir, from my point of view, and from yours.”
“Knits the family bond, don't you think? I mean, makes the trunk of the
tree firm. It makes the girls poor, though!”
Mr. Barrett saw that he had some confused legal ideas in his head, and
that possibly there were personal considerations in the background; so
he let the subject pass.
When the guest had departed, Mr. Pole grew demonstrative in his paternal
caresses. He folded Adela in one arm, and framed her chin in his
fingers: marks of affection dear to her before she had outgrown them.
“So!” he said, “you've given up Besworth, have you?”
At the name, Arabella and Cornelia drew nearer to his chair.
“Given up Besworth, papa? It is not we who have given it up,” said
Adela.
“Yes, you have; and quite right too. You say, 'What's the use of it, for
that's a sort of thing that always goes to the son.'”
“You suppose, papa, that we indulge in ulterior calculations?” came from
Cornelia.
“Well, you see, my love!--no, I don't suppose it at all. But to buy a
place and split it up after two or three years--I dare say they wouldn't
insure me for more, that's nonsense. And it seems unfair to you, as you
must think--”
“Darling papa! we are not selfish!” it rejoiced Adela to exclaim.
His face expressed a transparent simple-mindedness that won the
confidence of the ladies and awakened their ideal of generosity.
“I know what you mean, papa,” said Arabella. “But, we love Besworth; and
if we may enjoy the place for the time that we are all together, I shall
think it sufficient. I do not look beyond.”
Her sisters echoed the sentiment, and sincerely. They were as little
sordid as creatures could be. If deeply questioned, it would have been
found that their notion of the position Providence had placed them in
(in other words, their father's unmentioned wealth), permitted them
to be as lavish as they pleased. Mr. Pole had endowed them with a
temperament similar to his own; and he had educated it. In feminine
earth it flourished wonderfully. Shy as himself, their shyness took
other forms, and developed with warm youth. Not only did it shut them
up from others (which is the first effect of this disease), but it
tyrannized over them internally: so that there were subjects they had
no power to bring their minds to consider. Money was in the list.
The Besworth question, as at present considered, involved the money
question. All of them felt that; father and children. It is not
surprising, therefore, that they hurried over it as speedily as they
could, and by a most comical exhibition of implied comprehension of
meanings and motives.
“Of course, we're only in the opening stage of the business,” said
Mr. Pole. “There's nothing decided, you know. Lots of things got to be
considered. You mean what you say, do you? Very well. And you want me to
think of it? So I will. And look, my dears, you know that--” (here his
voice grew husky, as was the case with it when touching a shy topic even
beneath the veil; but they were above suspicion) “you know that--a--that
we must all give way a little to the other, now and then. Nothing like
being kind.”
“Pray, have no fear, papa dear!” rang the clear voice of Arabella.
“Well, then, you're all for Besworth, even though it isn't exactly for
your own interest? All right.”
The ladies kissed him.
“We'll each stretch a point,” he continued. “We shall get on better if
we do. Much! You're a little hard on people who're not up to the mark.
There's an end to that. Even your old father will like you better.”
These last remarks were unintelligible to the withdrawing ladies.
On the morning that followed, Mr. Pole expressed a hope that his
daughters intended to give him a good dinner that day; and he winked
humorously and kindly by which they understood him to be addressing a
sort of propitiation to them for the respect he paid to his appetite.
“Papa,” said Adela, “I myself will speak to Cook.”
She added, with a smile thrown to her sisters, without looking at them,
“I dare say, she will know who I am.”
Mr. Pole went down to his wine-cellar, and was there busy with bottles
till the carriage came for him. A bason was fetched that he might wash
off the dust and cobwebs in the passage. Having rubbed his hands briskly
with soap, he dipped his head likewise, in an oblivious fit, and then
turning round to the ladies, said, “What have I forgotten?” looking
woebegone with his dripping vacant face. “Oh, ah! I remember now;” and
he chuckled gladly.
He had just for one moment forgotten that he was acting, and a pang
of apprehension had caught him when the water covered his face, to the
effect that he must forfeit the natural artistic sequence of speech and
conduct which disguised him so perfectly. Away he drove, nodding and
waving his hand.
“Dear, simple, innocent old man!” was the pitiful thought in the bosoms
of the ladies; and if it was accompanied by the mute exclamation, “How
singular that we should descend from him!” it would not have been for
the first time.
They passed one of their delightful quiet days, in which they paved the
future with gold, and, if I may use so bold a figure, lifted parasols
against the great sun that was to shine on them. Now they listened to
Emilia, and now strolled in the garden; conversed on the social skill
of Lady Gosstre, who was nevertheless narrow in her range; and on the
capacities of mansions, on the secret of mixing people in society, and
what to do with the women! A terrible problem, this latter one. Not
terrible (to hostesses) at a mere rout or drum, or at a dance pure and
simple, but terrible when you want good talk to circulate for then they
are not, as a body, amused; and when they are not amused, you know, they
are not inclined to be harmless; and in this state they are vipers; and
where is society then? And yet you cannot do without them!--which is the
revolting mystery. I need not say that I am not responsible for these
critical remarks. Such tenderness to the sex comes only from its
sisters.
So went a day rich in fair dreams to the ladies; and at the hour of
their father's return they walked across the parvenu park, in a state of
enthusiasm for Besworth, that threw some portion of its decorative light
on the donor of Besworth. When his carriage was heard on the road,
they stood fast, and greeted his appearance with a display of
pocket-handkerchiefs in the breeze, a proceeding that should have
astonished him, being novel; but seemed not to do so, for it
was immediately responded to by the vigorous waving of a pair of
pocket-handkerchiefs from the carriage-window! The ladies smiled at this
piece of simplicity which prompted him to use both his hands, as if one
would not have been enough. Complacently they continued waving. Then
Adela looked at her sisters; Cornelia's hand dropped and Arabella, the
last to wave, was the first to exclaim: “That must be a woman's arm!”
The carriage stopped at the gate, and it was one in the dress of a woman
at least, and of the compass of a big woman, who descended by the aid of
Mr. Pole. Safely alighted, she waved her pocket-handkerchief afresh.
The ladies of Brookfield did not speak to one another; nor did they
move their eyes from the object approaching. A simultaneous furtive
extinction of three pocket-handkerchiefs might have been noticed. There
was no further sign given.