Part 6 (1/2)

”Those girls have done nothing but eat raw meat, take sea baths, and practise calisthenics and dancing ever since I first took charge of them,” Mrs. Preston was accustomed to remark to intimate friends; ”yet look at them now! Of course I could not send them to school--they would only grow lanker. So I take them about with me patiently, governess and all.”

But Mrs. Preston was not very patient.

The three girls having disappeared, Isabella thought the occasion favorable for a few words upon another subject. ”Do you like to have Paulie riding so often with Mr. Ash, Cousin Octavia? I can't help being distressed about it.”

”Don't be Mistering John Ash, I beg; no one in the world but you, Isabella, would dream of doing it--a great swooping creature like that--the horseman in 'Heliodorus.'”

”You mean Raphael's fresco? Oh, Cousin Octavia, how can you think so?

Raphael--such a religious painter, and John Ash, who looks so dissipated!”

”Did I say he didn't look dissipated? I said he could ride. John Ash is one of the most dissipated-looking youths I have ever met,” pursued Mrs.

Preston, comfortably. ”The clever sort, not the brutal.”

”And you don't mind Paulie's being with him?”

”Pauline Euphemia Graham has been married, Pauline Euphemia Graham is a widow; it ill becomes those who have not had a t.i.the of her experience (though they may be _much_ older) to set themselves up as judges of her conduct.”

Mrs. Preston had a deep rich voice, and slow enunciation; her simplest sentences, therefore, often took on the tone of declamation, and when she held forth at any length, it was like a Gregorian chant.

”Oh, I didn't mean to judge, I'm sure,” said Isabella; ”I only meant that it would be such a pity--such a bad match for dear Paulie in case she should be thinking of marrying again. Even if one were sure of John Ash--and certainly the reverse is the case--look at his mother! I am interested, naturally, as Paulie is my first cousin, you know.”

”Do you mean that your first cousin's becoming Mrs. John Ash might endanger your own matrimonial prospects?”

”Oh dear no,” said poor little Isabella, shrinking back to her embroidery. She was fifty, small, plain, extremely good. In her heart she wished that people would take the tone that Isabella had ”never cared to marry.”

”Here is Pauline now, I think,” said Mrs. Preston, as a figure appeared at the end of the hall.

Isabella was afraid to add, ”And going out to ride again!” But it was evident that Mrs. Graham intended to ride: she wore her habit.

”I wish you were going, too,” she said to Mrs. Preston, pausing in the doorway with her skirt uplifted. Her graceful figure in the closely fitting habit was a pleasant sight to see.

”Thanks, my dear; I should enjoy going very much if I were a little more slender.”

”You are magnificent as you are,” responded Pauline, admiringly.

And in truth the old lady was very handsome, with her thick silver hair, fine eyes with heavy black eyebrows, and well-cut aquiline profile. Her straight back, n.o.ble shoulders, and beautiful hands took from her ma.s.sive form the idea of unwieldiness.

”Isabella--you who are always posing for enthusiasm--when will you learn to say anything so genuine as that?” chanted Cousin Octavia's deep voice. ”I mention it merely on your account, as a question of styles conversational. Here is Isabella, who thinks John Ash so dissipated, Pauline; she fears that it may injure the family connection if you marry him. I have told her that no one here was thinking of marrying or of giving in marriage; if she has such ideas, she must have brought them with her from Florence. There are a great many old maids in Florence.”

”I can only answer for myself: I certainly am not thinking of marriage,”

said Pauline, laughing, as she went down the stairs.

”Oh, Cousin Octavia, you have set Pauline against me!” exclaimed Isabella, in distress.

”Don't be an idiot; Pauline isn't against any one: she doesn't care enough about it. She is a good deal for herself, I acknowledge; but she's not against any one. Pauline bears no malice; she is delightfully uncertain; she hasn't a theory in the world to live up to; in addition, to have her in the house is like going to the play all the time--she _is_ such a stupendous liar!”

Isabella, who was punching round holes in a linen band with an implement of ivory, stopped punching. ”I am sure poor Paulie--”

”Am I to sit through a defence of Pauline Euphemia Graham, born Preston, at your hands, Isabella? Pray spare me that. I am much more Pauline's friend than you ever can be. Did I say that she lied? Nature has given her a face that speaks one language and a mind that speaks another; she, of course, follows the language of her mind; but others follow that of her face, and this makes the play. Eh!--what noise is that?”