CHAPTER IV

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.