pleasantly in the preparation of costumes, Greek, Oriental, and Composite, in which Gwendolen attitudinized and speechified before a domestic audience, including even the housekeeper, who was once pressed into it that she might swell the notes of applause; but having shown herself unworthy by observing that Miss Harleth looked far more like a queen in her own dress than in that baggy thing with her arms all bare, she was not invited a second time.
“Do I look as well as Rachel, mamma?” said Gwendolen, one day when she had been showing herself in her Greek dress to Anna, and going through scraps of scenes with much tragic intention.
“You have better arms than Rachel,” said Mrs. Davilow, “your arms would do for anything, Gwen. But your voice is not so tragic as hers; it is not so deep.”
“I can make it deeper, if I like,” said Gwendolen, provisionally; then she added, with decision, “I think a higher voice is more tragic: it is more feminine; and the more feminine a woman is, the more tragic it seems when she does desperate actions.”
“There may be something in that,” said Mrs. Davilow, languidly. “But I don’t know what good there is in making one’s blood creep. And if there is anything horrible to be done, I should like it to be left to the men.”
“Oh, mamma, you are so dreadfully prosaic! As if all the great poetic criminals were not women! I think the men are poor cautious creatures.”
“Well, dear, and you—who are afraid to be alone in the night—I don’t think you would be very bold in crime, thank God.”
“I am not talking about reality, mamma,” said Gwendolen, impatiently. Then her mamma being called out of the room, she turned quickly to her cousin, as if taking an opportunity, and said, “Anna, do ask my uncle to let us get up some charades at the rectory. Mr. Middleton and Warham could act with us—just for practice. Mamma says it will not do to have Mr. Middleton consulting and rehearsing here. He is a stick, but we could give him suitable parts. Do ask, or else I will.”
“Oh, not till Rex comes. He is so clever, and such a dear old thing, and he will act Napoleon looking over the sea. He looks just like Napoleon. Rex can do anything.”
“I don’t in the least believe in your Rex, Anna,” said Gwendolen, laughing at her. “He will turn out to be like those wretched blue and yellow water-colors of his which you hang up in your bedroom and worship.”
“Very well, you will see,” said Anna. “It is not that I know what is clever, but he has got a scholarship already, and papa says he will get a fellowship, and nobody is better at games. He is cleverer than Mr. Middleton, and everybody but you call Mr. Middleton clever.”
“So he may be in a dark-lantern sort of way. But he is a stick. If he had to say, ‘Perdition catch my soul, but I do love her,’ he would say it in just the same tone as, ‘Here endeth the second lesson.’”
“Oh, Gwendolen!” said Anna, shocked at these promiscuous allusions. “And it is very unkind of you to speak so of him, for he admires you very much. I heard Warham say one day to mamma, ’Middleton is regularly spooney upon Gwendolen.’ She was very angry with him; but I know what it means. It is what they say at college for being in love.”
“How can I help it?” said Gwendolen, rather contemptuously. “Perdition catch my soul if I love him.”
“No, of course; papa, I think, would not wish it. And he is to go away soon. But it makes me sorry when you ridicule him.”
“What shall you do to me when I ridicule Rex?” said Gwendolen, wickedly.
“Now, Gwendolen, dear, you will not?” said Anna, her eyes filling with tears. “I could not bear it. But there really is nothing in him to ridicule. Only you may find out things. For no one ever thought of laughing at Mr. Middleton before you. Every one said he was nice-looking, and his manners perfect. I am sure I have always been frightened at him because of his learning and his square-cut coat, and his being a nephew of the bishop’s, and all that. But you will not ridicule Rex—promise me.” Anna ended with a beseeching look which touched Gwendolen.
“You are a dear little coz,” she said, just touching the tip of Anna’s chin with her thumb and forefinger. “I don’t ever want to do anything that will vex you. Especially if Rex is to make everything come off—charades and everything.”
And when at last Rex was there, the animation he brought into the life of Offendene and the rectory, and his ready partnership in Gwendolen’s plans, left her no inclination for any ridicule that was not of an open and flattering kind, such as he himself enjoyed. He was a fine open-hearted youth, with a handsome face strongly resembling his father’s and Anna’s, but softer in expression than the one, and larger in scale than the other: a bright, healthy, loving nature, enjoying ordinary innocent things so much that vice had no temptation for him, and what he knew of it lay too entirely in the outer courts and little-visited chambers of his mind for him to think of it with great repulsion. Vicious habits were with him “what some fellows did”—“stupid stuff” which he liked to keep aloof from. He returned Anna’s affection as fully as could be expected of a brother whose pleasures apart from her were more than the sum total of hers; and he had never known a stronger love.
The cousins were continually together at the one house or the other—chiefly at Offendene, where there was more freedom, or rather where there was a more complete sway for Gwendolen; and whatever she wished became a ruling purpose for Rex. The charades came off according to her plans; and also some other little scenes not contemplated by her in which her acting was more impromptu. It was at Offendene that the charades and tableaux were rehearsed and presented, Mrs. Davilow seeing no objection even to Mr. Middleton’s being invited to share in them, now that Rex too was there—especially as his services were indispensable: Warham, who was studying for India with a Wanchester “coach,” having no time to spare, and being generally dismal under a cram of everything except the answers needed at the forthcoming examination, which might disclose the welfare of our Indian Empire to be somehow connected with a quotable knowledge of Browne’s Pastorals.
Mr. Middleton was persuaded to play various grave parts, Gwendolen having flattered him on his enviable immobility of countenance; and at first a little pained and jealous at her comradeship with Rex, he presently drew encouragement from the thought that this sort of cousinly familiarity excluded any serious passion. Indeed, he occasionally felt that her more formal treatment of himself was such a sign of favor as to warrant his making advances before he left Pennicote, though he had intended to keep his feelings in reserve until his position should be more assured. Miss Gwendolen, quite aware that she was adored by this unexceptionable young clergyman with pale whiskers and square-cut collar, felt nothing more on the subject than that she had no objection to being adored: she turned her eyes on him with calm mercilessness and caused him many mildly agitating hopes by seeming always to avoid dramatic contact with him—for all meanings, we know, depend on the key of interpretation.
Some persons might have thought beforehand that a young man of Anglican leanings, having a sense of sacredness much exercised on small things as well as great, rarely laughing save from politeness, and in general regarding the mention of spades by their naked names as rather coarse, would not have seen a fitting bride for himself in a girl who was daring in ridicule, and showed none of the special grace required in the clergyman’s wife; or, that a young man informed by theological reading would have reflected that he was not likely to meet the taste of a lively, restless young lady like Miss Harleth. But are we always obliged to explain why the facts are not what some persons thought beforehand? The apology lies on their side, who had that erroneous way of thinking.
As for Rex, who would possibly have been sorry for poor
