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قراءة كتاب The Daughters of a Genius
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again a spasm of alarm gripped her heart as she noted the languid speech and movement, the fragile form, and pallid complexion which distinguished the girl from her companions. Everything within the power of love and money had been done to make her strong and happy, yet she continued listless and ailing, seeming to regard the very amusements provided for her as so many penalties to be endured with resignation. Something must be wrong—and very wrong—to make a girl of twenty-one assume so unnatural an attitude. The mother checked a sigh half-way, and said caressingly:
“There is no reason for you to be dull, dearest. I am always ready to invite any one you may fancy. Surely, with all your friends, you need not be alone. What about Truda Bennett! If you like liveliness you could hardly improve upon her; and The Knoll is a nice house for you to visit in return. Shall I write and ask her to come next week!”
“No, thank you, dear, I’d rather not Truda is very nice, but she tires me out. She dislikes being quiet, and cares only for rushing about all day long. She doesn’t amuse me; I have to amuse her. The nice thing about relations would be that one would not have to be on ceremony with them all the time. Couldn’t I go down with you to Leabourne next week, mother, and see what the girls were like, and if I should care to invite one of them here.”
“You could, of course; but I strongly advise you to do nothing of the sort. Your uncle Edgar has been dead only a fortnight, remember, and though I don’t think he was an especially devoted father, the children will naturally be upset and distressed. It would be very dull for you with the girls weeping, and your father and Stephen discussing money matters, and ten to one a dreary, uncomfortable inn. Better stay at home, and let me bring back a report. In any case you won’t care to invite one of them here until the first few months are over and she is able to go about and make herself agreeable. It would be depressing to have her about in her first deep black.”
“Oh dear, yes! I couldn’t stand that. I’d rather be alone than have any one in low spirits,” agreed Avice fervently, the idea that she herself might possibly help to cheer and console never dawning on her self-engrossed brain. “You say that the girls must be savages, mother, but I should think they can hardly help being interesting. Aunt Elma was a beauty, and Uncle Edgar was a genius—and some of them, at least, must have inherited his gifts. Why do you say he was not a devoted father? From my vague recollection he seemed very proud of the children.”
“Oh yes, he was proud enough; but they worried him when they were young, and as they grew older I think he felt that they criticised him and realised how he had wasted his opportunities. He was devoted to Elma, for she worshipped him meekly all her life, and was convinced that no such genius had ever existed. Your father is right. I never knew a more brilliant young man than Edgar was at twenty-one; but what is there to show for it now? A few songs, two or three novels and volumes of poetry, and a number of pictures and sketches which he was ashamed even to sign! He was always growing discouraged, turning from one thing to another, and lowering his standard to meet the taste of the market. His songs became more and more clap-trap and commonplace, his stories more sensational, his pictures of the cheaply-pretty order which sell at provincial exhibitions. I believe at the bottom of his heart he realised his downfall, and when Elma died, and he had not her adoring admiration to keep up his faith in himself, he fretted himself ill. The last time I saw him he was a wreck—mentally and physically—and I fancy those girls must have had a trying time of it before the end.”
Chapter Two.
Stephen’s confession.
Stephen Charrington had expressed a wish to consult with his aunt and uncle less from any preconceived intention than from a feeling of helplessness which took possession of him as he penned the news of his father’s death. It had seemed to him at the moment that the advice of any one older and wiser than himself would be of value in deciding plans for the future, but no sooner was the letter irretrievably on its way than he began to tremble at the prospect of telling Philippa of what he had done. Philippa had been left co-trustee with himself, and she was not a young woman who would meekly be put on one side. What she thought, she said; what she willed, she accomplished; and anything like interference was to her as the brandishing of a red rag in the face of a bull. Stephen resolved to wait for a favourable opportunity before breaking the news of the intended visit, and to introduce it casually in the midst of a general conversation, when there would be less chance of a “scene.” On Tuesday he decided to speak on Wednesday; on Wednesday there seemed abundant reason why he should postpone the disclosure until Thursday; on Thursday his uncle’s note arrived announcing his arrival on the following day, and there could be no longer delay. Stephen betook himself to the morning-room, where his sisters sat in conclave, and hid himself behind a newspaper, awaiting his opportunity.
Despite the gloominess of the autumn day and the mournful nature of the work on hand, the scene was far from being doleful. To begin with, the background was pretty—a long, low apartment, half studio, half workroom, its walls washed a rich crimson hue, and covered with unmounted sketches, plaster casts on brackets, and a hundred quaint, artistic odds and ends. Against this background the four sisters made an interesting group as they busied themselves with the sewing on hand. There was no money forthcoming to pay dressmaking bills, and little enough to buy material, so it was necessary to use up what was in the house—to turn and twist and remake, and cover over, and patch together—an occupation which involved no little ingenuity in addition to the mere manual labour.
Philippa stood by the table, the big cutting-out scissors in her hands; a handsome girl with clearly cut aquiline features, and dark hair which rippled back in a soft, smoke-like mass, and was coiled gracefully together on the nape of her neck. Her shoulders were broad and square, and had a trick of broadening still further in dignified, self-assertive fashion when their owner was annoyed or wished to exercise her authority. Madge always declared that she looked at Philippa’s shoulders when she wished to see how the wind blew; but then Madge was so daring and inconsequent in her remarks that no one paid much attention to what she said! Behold her now, running seams on the old-fashioned treadle machine, with bent back and long, pointed chin poked forward over the needle. As often as not a jerk of the hands or an erratic movement of the feet would be followed by a jar, a knot, a breaking of the thread; and when this occurred Madge would clench both fists together and mouth dumb anathemas, the while she rolled tragic eyes to the ceiling. If there was one thing on earth which she detested more than another, it was plain sewing; but this morning she had gallantly volunteered to do the machining, and machine she would, no matter what tortures it might cost her! She was a little scrap of a thin, starved-looking creature, with a long, narrow face, plain features, and just the prettiest, happiest, most lovable pair of hazel eyes you can possibly imagine. Even to-day they looked happy, for there was a certain transparency and twinkling light in the iris which seemed independent of varying moods. Madge was eighteen, and was going to be an artist and have pictures hung on the line in the Academy or know the reason why, and in her opinion her time would have been much more profitably employed daubing in the attic than doing dull, useful work downstairs; but, as has been said, there are occasions when personal inclinations have to be laid in the