of Kent his
pretty, kind-eyed, neat-figured quarry; and in the course of their friendship
since then, Lydia had seen Emma Paige grow each year more worn — or, rather,
more smudged and indeterminate, like one of Lydia’s own drawings when she could
not leave it alone. Besides being wife to an exhaustingly dutiful clergyman and
bearing his over-frequent children Emma had also taken on the burden of Mr
Paige’s elderly mother, bedridden and, it was reliably reported, mad as Ajax.
If questioned on the matter, of course, Emma would have said with painted
sincerity that her life was supremely happy. Lydia would have rejoined,
silently, that her friend’s contentment was that of the prisoner who has
forgotten what the world beyond his cell is like.
‘Well, now tell me of
your sister,’ Lydia said, as Mr Paige’s unstoppable figure passed the parlour
window. ‘Is it the London air — or is it the old trouble?’
Her husband being gone,
Emma permitted herself a sigh. ‘The latter. Good Lord, I have never said “the
latter” before — you only read it in books and even then I always have to look
back to see which was the former and the latter — and now I can’t remember what
came first—’
‘Never mind: I can tell
it is the old story. And suspecting that it is proving somewhat tedious, my
father hopes that a dinner at the Priory will help, at least for one evening. I
think we can only muster eight: but eight may take the edge off Mrs
Vawser, I hope.’
‘I confess she has been
a little trying this time. But that, you know, is her grief: poor
Penelope has been sorely misused again!’
‘Let me see, wasn’t it
an actress last time?’
‘Of a sort. A
tightrope-dancer, from Sadler’s Wells. Though apparently it seems she was very
handsome.’
‘Especially in tights.’
‘After that, you know,
Mr Vawser made the solemnest of promises to my sister — she would not have
returned to him otherwise — and that is why she is so very desolated now it has
happened again. This time —’ Emma lowered her voice ‘— it is a Frenchwoman who
makes papier mache.’
‘Good Lord, does he
consult a directory of curious trades whenever he feels his appetite grow
jaded? I hardly know which is the greater marvel — his tastes, or his wife’s
forbearance.’
‘This is the fourth
time, to my certain knowledge,’ said Emma, sadly, ‘and still she will go back
to him. Of course, my dear Lydia, you understand that I speak in confidence —
even excluding parties very near at home, if you understand me.’
‘Mr Paige still does not
know why your sister periodically descends on you?’
‘I maintain the fiction
of her health requiring a cure in the country — which Mr Paige, as you saw, is
very ready to believe. Normally I would never countenance falsehood —’ Emma
winced in apology ‘— but Mr Paige is strict in some of his views.’
‘Ah.’ Meaning that in
such a case Mr Paige would always blame the wife, who must have brought her
troubles on herself by lack of that proper submission, domestic competence, and
diligent exercise of feminine charm, which must always prevent a man straying.
‘I think,’ Emma resumed,
‘she is a little improved in spirits. She will eat, sometimes, and she does not
give that alarming laugh quite so much. The first fortnight,’ she added, with
an inward look and a reminiscent shudder, ‘was the worst.’
Lydia could only press
her hand in reply. The trouble was that no amount of female solidarity could
get over the fact Penelope Vawser was an intolerable woman.
‘And now that’s about
enough of me, I think,’ Emma said, with a timid, tender look. ‘My dear Lydia,
Mr Paige expressed himself rather baldly, perhaps — but I must confess you seem
just a little pale. I do hope you are in health.’
‘Oh, I slept poorly,
that is all — missing the nocturnal sounds of London, no doubt. There is no
lullaby like the rattle of the night-soil cart, and three drunken men
pretty, kind-eyed, neat-figured quarry; and in the course of their friendship
since then, Lydia had seen Emma Paige grow each year more worn — or, rather,
more smudged and indeterminate, like one of Lydia’s own drawings when she could
not leave it alone. Besides being wife to an exhaustingly dutiful clergyman and
bearing his over-frequent children Emma had also taken on the burden of Mr
Paige’s elderly mother, bedridden and, it was reliably reported, mad as Ajax.
If questioned on the matter, of course, Emma would have said with painted
sincerity that her life was supremely happy. Lydia would have rejoined,
silently, that her friend’s contentment was that of the prisoner who has
forgotten what the world beyond his cell is like.
‘Well, now tell me of
your sister,’ Lydia said, as Mr Paige’s unstoppable figure passed the parlour
window. ‘Is it the London air — or is it the old trouble?’
Her husband being gone,
Emma permitted herself a sigh. ‘The latter. Good Lord, I have never said “the
latter” before — you only read it in books and even then I always have to look
back to see which was the former and the latter — and now I can’t remember what
came first—’
‘Never mind: I can tell
it is the old story. And suspecting that it is proving somewhat tedious, my
father hopes that a dinner at the Priory will help, at least for one evening. I
think we can only muster eight: but eight may take the edge off Mrs
Vawser, I hope.’
‘I confess she has been
a little trying this time. But that, you know, is her grief: poor
Penelope has been sorely misused again!’
‘Let me see, wasn’t it
an actress last time?’
‘Of a sort. A
tightrope-dancer, from Sadler’s Wells. Though apparently it seems she was very
handsome.’
‘Especially in tights.’
‘After that, you know,
Mr Vawser made the solemnest of promises to my sister — she would not have
returned to him otherwise — and that is why she is so very desolated now it has
happened again. This time —’ Emma lowered her voice ‘— it is a Frenchwoman who
makes papier mache.’
‘Good Lord, does he
consult a directory of curious trades whenever he feels his appetite grow
jaded? I hardly know which is the greater marvel — his tastes, or his wife’s
forbearance.’
‘This is the fourth
time, to my certain knowledge,’ said Emma, sadly, ‘and still she will go back
to him. Of course, my dear Lydia, you understand that I speak in confidence —
even excluding parties very near at home, if you understand me.’
‘Mr Paige still does not
know why your sister periodically descends on you?’
‘I maintain the fiction
of her health requiring a cure in the country — which Mr Paige, as you saw, is
very ready to believe. Normally I would never countenance falsehood —’ Emma
winced in apology ‘— but Mr Paige is strict in some of his views.’
‘Ah.’ Meaning that in
such a case Mr Paige would always blame the wife, who must have brought her
troubles on herself by lack of that proper submission, domestic competence, and
diligent exercise of feminine charm, which must always prevent a man straying.
‘I think,’ Emma resumed,
‘she is a little improved in spirits. She will eat, sometimes, and she does not
give that alarming laugh quite so much. The first fortnight,’ she added, with
an inward look and a reminiscent shudder, ‘was the worst.’
Lydia could only press
her hand in reply. The trouble was that no amount of female solidarity could
get over the fact Penelope Vawser was an intolerable woman.
‘And now that’s about
enough of me, I think,’ Emma said, with a timid, tender look. ‘My dear Lydia,
Mr Paige expressed himself rather baldly, perhaps — but I must confess you seem
just a little pale. I do hope you are in health.’
‘Oh, I slept poorly,
that is all — missing the nocturnal sounds of London, no doubt. There is no
lullaby like the rattle of the night-soil cart, and three drunken men
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