CHAPTER II

SHE

Papa never will cease to meet with accidents and adventures. If he only

walks out to sit for half an hour with one of his old dames, as he calls

them, something is sure to happen to him, and it is almost as sure that

Mr. Pollingray will be passing at the time and mixed up in it.

Since Mr. Pollingray’s return from his last residence on the Continent,

I have learnt to know him and like him. Charles is unjust to his

uncle. He is not at all the grave kind of man I expected from Charles’s

description. He is extremely entertaining, and then he understands the

world, and I like to hear him talk, he is so unpretentious and uses just

the right words. No one would imagine his age, from his appearance, and

he has more fun than any young man I have listened to.

But, I am convinced I have discovered his weakness. It is my fatal.

peculiarity that I cannot be with people ten minutes without seeing some

point about them where they are tenderest. Mr. Pollingray wants to be

thought quite youthful. He can bear any amount of fatigue; he is always

fresh and a delightful companion; but you cannot get him to show even

a shadow of exhaustion or to admit that he ever knew what it was to lie

down beaten. This is really to pretend that he is superhuman. I like

him so much that I could wish him superior to such--it is nothing other

than--vanity. Which is worse? A young man giving himself the air of

a sage, or--but no one can call Mr. Pollingray an old man. He is a

confirmed bachelor. That puts the case. Charles, when he says of him

that he is a ‘gentleman in a good state of preservation,’ means to be

ironical. I doubt whether Charles at fifty would object to have the same

said of Mr. Charles Everett. Mr. Pollingray has always looked to his

health. He has not been disappointed. I am sure he was always very good.

But, whatever he was, he is now very pleasant, and he does not talk to

women as if he thought them singular, and feel timid, I mean, confused,

as some men show that they feel--the good ones. Perhaps he felt so once,

and that is why he is still free. Charles’s dread that his uncle will

marry is most unworthy. He never will, but why should he not? Mama

declares that he is waiting for a woman of intellect, I can hear her:

‘Depend upon it, a woman of intellect will marry Dayton Manor.’ Should

that mighty event not come to pass, poor Charles will have to sink the

name of Everett in that of Pollingray. Mr. Pollingray’s name is the

worst thing about him. When I think of his name I see him ten times

older than he is. My feelings are in harmony with his pedigree

concerning the age of the name. One would have to be a woman of profound

intellect to see the advantage of sharing it.

‘Mrs. Pollingray!’ She must be a lady with a wig.

It was when we were rowing up by Hatchard’s mill that I first perceived

his weakness, he was looking at me so kindly, and speaking of his

friendship for papa, and how glad he was to be fixed at last, near to us

at Dayton. I wished to use some term of endearment in reply, and said, I

remember, ‘Yes, and we are also glad, Godpapa.’ I was astonished that he

should look so disconcerted, and went on: ‘Have you forgotten that you

are my godpapa?’

He answered: ‘Am I? Oh! yes--the name of Alice.’

Still he looked uncertain, uncomfortable, and I said, ‘Do you want to

cancel the past, and cast me off?’

‘No, certainly not’; he, I suppose, thought he was assuring me.

I saw his lips move at the words I cancel the past,’ though he did not

speak them out. He positively blushed. I know the sort of young man

he must have been. Exactly the sort of young man mama would like for

a son-in-law, and her daughters would accept in pure obedience when

reduced to be capable of the virtue by rigorous diet, or consumption.

He let the boat go round instantly. This was enough for me. It struck

me then that when papa had said to mama (as he did in that absurd

situation) ‘He is fifty,’ Mr. Pollingray must have heard it across the

river, for he walked away hurriedly. He came back, it is true, with the

boat, but I have my own ideas. He is always ready to do a service, but

on this occasion I think it was an afterthought. I shall not venture to

call him ‘Godpapa’ again.

Indeed, if I have a desire, it is that I may be blind to people’s

weakness. My insight is inveterate. Papa says he has heard Mr.

Pollingray boast of his age. If so, there has come a change over him.

I cannot be deceived. I see it constantly. After my unfortunate speech,

Mr. Pollingray shunned our house for two whole weeks, and scarcely bowed

to us when coming out of church. Miss Pollingray idolises him--spoils

him. She says that he is worth twenty of Charles. Nous savons ce que

nous savons, nous autres. Charles is wild, but Charles would be above

these littlenesses. How could Miss Pollingray comprehend the romance of

Charles’s nature?

My sister Evelina is now Mr. Pollingray’s favourite. She could not say

Godpapa to him, if she would. Persons who are very much petted at home,

are always establishing favourites abroad. For my part, let them praise

me or not, I know that I can do any thing I set my mind upon. At present

I choose to be frivolous. I know I am frivolous. What then? If there is

fun in the world am I not to laugh at it? I shall astonish them by and

by. But, I will laugh while I can. I am sure, there is so much misery in

the world, it is a mercy to be able to laugh. Mr. Pollingray may think

what he likes of me. When Charles tells me that I must do my utmost to

propitiate his uncle, he cannot mean that I am to refrain from laughing,

because that is being a hypocrite, which I may become when I have gone

through all the potential moods and not before.

It is preposterous to suppose that I am to be tied down to the views of

life of elderly people.

I dare say I did laugh a little too much the other night, but could

I help it? We had a dinner party. Present were Mr. Pollingray, Mrs.

Kershaw, the Wilbury people (three), Charles, my brother Duncan,

Evelina, mama, papa, myself, and Mr. and Mrs. (put them last for

emphasis) Romer Pattlecombe, Mrs. Pattlecombe (the same number of

syllables as Pollingray, and a ‘P’ to begin with) is thirty-one years

her husband’s junior, and she is twenty-six; full of fun, and always

making fun of him, the mildest, kindest, goody old thing, who has never

distressed himself for anything and never will. Mrs. Romer not only

makes fun, but is fun. When you have done laughing with her, you can

laugh at her. She is the salt of society in these parts. Some one, as we

were sitting on the lawn after dinner, alluded to the mishap to papa and

mama, and mama, who has never forgiven Mr. Pollingray for having seen

her in her ridiculous plight, said that men were in her opinion greater

gossips than women. ‘That is indisputable, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pollingray,

he loves to bewilder her; ‘only, we never mention it.’

‘There is an excuse for us,’ said Mrs. Romer; ‘our trials are so great,

we require a diversion, and so we talk of others.’

‘Now really,’ said Charles, ‘I don’t think your trials are equal to

ours.’

For which remark papa bantered him, and his uncle was sharp on him; and

Charles, I know, spoke half seriously, though he was seeking to draw

Mrs. Romer out: he has troubles.

From this, we fell upon a comparison of sufferings, and Mrs. Romer took

up the word. She is a fair, smallish, nervous woman, with delicate hands

and outlines, exceedingly sympathetic; so much so that while you are

telling her anything, she makes half a face in anticipation, and is

ready to shriek with laughter or shake her head with uttermost grief;

and sometimes, if you let her go too far in one direction, she does

both. All her narrations are with ups and downs of her hands, her eyes,

her chin, and her voice. Taking poor, good old Mr. Romer by the roll

of his coat, she made as if posing him, and said: ‘There! Now, it’s

all very well for you to say that there is anything equal to a woman’s

sufferings in this world. I do declare you know nothing of what we

unhappy women have to endure. It’s dreadful! No male creature can

possibly know what tortures I have to undergo.’

Mama neatly contrived, after interrupting her, to divert the subject.

I think that all the ladies imagined they were in jeopardy, but I knew

Mrs. Romer was perfectly to be trusted. She has wit which pleases,

jusqu’aux ongles, and her sense of humour never overrides her discretion

with more than a glance--never with preparation.

‘Now,’ she pursued, ‘let me tell you what excruciating trials I have to

go through. This man,’ she rocked the patient old gentleman to and fro,

‘this man will be the death of me. He is utterly devoid of a sense of

propriety. Again and again I say to him--cannot the tailor cut down

these trowsers of yours? Yes, Mr. Amble, you preach patience to women,

but this is too much for any woman’s endurance. Now, do attempt to

picture to yourself what an agony it must be to me:--he will shave, and

he will wear those enormously high trowsers that, when they are braced,

reach up behind to the nape of his neck! Only yesterday morning, as I

was lying in bed, I could see him in his dressing-room. I tell you: he

will shave, and he will choose the time for shaving early after he has

braced these immensely high trowsers that make such a placard of him.

Oh, my goodness! My dear Romer, I have said to him fifty times if I have

said it once, my goodness me! why can you not get decent trowsers such

as other men wear? He has but one answer--he has been accustomed to wear

those trowsers, and he would not feel at home in another pair. And what

does he say if I continue to complain? and I cannot but continue to

complain, for it is not only moral, it is physical torment to see

the sight he makes of himself; he says: “My dear, you should not have

married an old man.” What! I say to him, must an old man wear antiquated

trowsers? No! nothing will turn him; those are his habits. But, you

have not heard the worst. The sight of those hideous trowsers totally

destroying all shape in the man, is horrible enough; but it is

absolutely more than a woman can bear to see him--for he will

shave--first cover his face with white soap with that ridiculous

centre-piece to his trowsers reaching quite up to his poll, and then,

you can fancy a woman’s rage and anguish! the figure lifts its nose by

the extremist tip. Oh! it’s degradation! What respect can a woman have

for her husband after that sight? Imagine it! And I have implored him

to spare me. It’s useless. You sneer at our hbops and say that you

are inconvenienced by them but you gentlemen are not degraded,--Oh!

unutterably!--as I am every morning of my life by that cruel spectacle

of a husband.’

I have but faintly sketched Mrs. Romer’s style. Evelina, who is prudish

and thinks her vulgar, refused to laugh, but it came upon me, as the

picture of ‘your own old husband,’ with so irresistibly comic an effect

that I was overcome by convulsions of laughter. I do not defend myself.

It was as much a fit as any other attack. I did all I could to arrest

it. At last, I ran indoors and upstairs to my bedroom and tried hard to

become dispossessed. I am sure I was an example of the sufferings of my

sex. It could hardly have been worse for Mrs. Romer than it was for me.

I was drowned in internal laughter long after I had got a grave face.

Early in the evening Mr. Pollingray left us.