Kitabı oku: «Hugh Crichton's Romance», sayfa 5
Part 2, Chapter XI
Oxley Manor
“Oh, so many, many, many maidens!”
Under the great walnut-tree on the lawn the three Miss Vennings were assembled in consultation. The Manor House possessed one of the most enchanting gardens that the past has ever handed down to the present. High walls shutting it in safe, on winch grew jessamine and wisteria and sweet old-fashioned roses; a narrow path running round the lawn, and leading away into vistas of shrubbery; while on the soft turf grew beautiful trees, and, in especial, an immense walnut. Miss Venning sat on a garden-bench communicating to her sisters the important event that had just electrified her maidenly precincts.
“It was very inconsiderate of Arthur to select our garden-roller for the purpose,” said Miss Clarissa, the second of the trio.
“Why, Clarissa? You don’t suppose people settle the exact spot beforehand!” said Miss Florence, the third.
Miss Florence, as she now aspired to be called, had been little Flossy not many years back; and the thick bright hair of fairest flaxen – “Flossy’s tow,” as her sisters called it – now twisted round her head, had not so very long ago hung down her back in all its native lustre. She was a tall girl of twenty, with a fine open face, handsome in form, and coloured with a pink – “as pink as pink ribbon,” Clarissa said – bright enough to allow for a little fading as the years went by; and her blue eyes were full of thought and energy. Young as she was, everyone knew that she was a much greater power in the house than Miss Clarissa, and was hardly second to Miss Venning herself. All the girls obeyed her; she was full of life and force to the very tips of her strong, slender fingers; could learn better than the girls, teach better than the governesses, thought school-keeping a vocation and not a drudgery, and spent her half-holidays in the parish; was never ill, never tired, and never unhappy; and possessed such a store of spirits and energy that – to quote again from Clarissa – if Flossy was not marked out for misfortune Nature had wasted a great deal of good stuff in the making of her.
Flossy was Miss Venning’s darling, and need never have corrected an exercise nor set a sum if she had not been so minded; but she had replied to the offer of freedom with scorn and contempt: “Did sister think she should be happier for being idle?” and set to work with all her might and main to “enlarge the minds and improve the tone” of her sister’s pupils, introducing new studies, new authors, and new ideas; talking over Miss Venning – or sometimes, perhaps, talking her down – with an equal amount of self-confidence and self-devotion.
In Miss Clarissa’s girlish days no such possibility of freedom had been offered to her. Nine or ten years ago, during the long illness of their mother, and while the brothers who filled up the wide gaps between the three sisters had been yet unsettled in life, the circumstances of the school had required more personal exertion; and when Clarissa was at the end of her teens she had been too busy – teaching all the English, that the resident governess might be French – to consider if it was desirable for the pupils to read Thackeray or to learn Latin and Euclid. Clarissa was a good girl and did her duty; but now, at eight and twenty, she felt as if life might have offered her something more than school-keeping. She told Flossy that she should like to marry a Duke and drink chocolate out of Sèvres china – and the scandalised Flossy perceived neither the twinkle of the sleepy blue eyes nor the wistful fall of the well-curved mouth, the delicate prettiness of which gave to the small curly-haired Clarissa a look of youth which neither the absence of Sèvres china nor the presence of young ladies had hitherto impaired. Flossy’s eyes were always wide open and rarely twinkled, though they often laughed.
They brightened into a laugh now, as she repeated her remark —
“You don’t suppose, Clarissa, that people settle the exact spot beforehand!”
“Really, Flossy, my experience is limited; but, as Mary says, as Arthur lives in the house with Mysie, I think he might have managed matters at home.”
“Oh, but,” said Flossy, “now he has sister on his side, you see.”
“Yes, Mary; you’re in the scrape,” said Clarissa.
“Really, my dear, I don’t see that at all. I am not responsible for Miss Crofton now, beyond her German and music lessons.”
“I suppose she might do much better,” said Clarissa.
“She couldn’t do better,” said Florence, decidedly, in her full rich voice. Will it quite detract from Flossy’s character for feminine softness if it be owned that she spoke rather loud? “Arthur has very good prospects, and is the very nicest young man I know.”
“Dear me! Flossy,” said Clarissa. “I thought you considered matrimony a mistake.”
“By no means,” emphatically returned Flossy; “when everything is suitable and people are fond of each other. I don’t think I shall ever wish to marry anyone myself; and how anyone can say life is wanting in interest I can’t conceive; but I should never be so absurd as to lay down general principles. That is where people fall into error. And besides,” she concluded heartily, “anyone could see dear little Mysie was fond of Arthur, and I am so glad she will be happy!”
“Well, there are more words than hers and Arthur’s to that,” said Clarissa.
“Mrs Crichton never objects to anything,” said Flossy; “and as for Mr Crichton, surely he won’t be so horrid.”
“Well, I could not help it,” said Miss Venning.
“No,” returned Flossy; “and as Mysie is not exactly a girl it doesn’t signify.”
Mysie was eighteen and a week; but Flossy used the term “girl” in a strictly technical sense.
“Dear me!” she continued, “my class will be waiting for me.” And as she ran into the house Miss Venning looked after her.
“I think young men have very strange tastes,” she said.
“Because Flossy has no lovers?” said Clarissa, with a slight emphasis.
“Well, I am sure I do not want her to have any,” returned Miss Venning, with a smile at her sisterly partiality.
“Dear me, no, Mary! Flossy won’t be fit for a lover for five years at least. She has all the world to reform first!”
Miss Venning laughed as she went to tend her beautiful roses, and Clarissa, left alone, wandered on till she sat down under an acacia tree. She threw herself back on the soft turf, and gazed up at the sky through its veil of delicate dancing foliage, while she caught the fast-falling white blossoms in her hand. It was a childish attitude and a childish action; but it may have been absently done, for she was still smiling at the joke of the surprised lovers. At last the smile trembled and ceased, and she hid her face on the mossy turf. Lying there on the grass, with her little slim figure and curly head, she looked like a girl escaped from school, fretting over her tasks or dreaming of fairy princes. But Miss Clarissa was twenty-eight, and a schoolmistress; and had tasks to set instead of to learn, and no lovers to dream of, past, present, or future. So she soon sat upright, brushed off the acacia blossoms, and went into the house to get ready for tea.
Meanwhile, Flossy had taken her way to the long sunny school-room, where sat some twelve or fifteen girls reading Wilhelm Tell with the German governess – all, save one or two, evincing in tone, look, or manner a conviction that German and hot afternoons were incompatible elements. There was a little brightening as Miss Florence paused on her way to the dining-room, where her own class of younger ones were preparing their lessons. Mysie sat with her clear eyes fixed on her book, her soft round face pinker than usual, her little figure very still, her pencil in her hand. Was she taking notes of the lesson?
“Have you written out your translation, Mysie?” said Flossy, mischievously.
“No, Miss Florence,” said Mysie, in formal school-girl fashion; but she could hardly restrain her little quivering smile.
“These young ladies are idle, Miss Florence,” said their teacher.
“That is very wrong of them,” returned Flossy. “There is only one excuse for being idle – ” then, as Mysie looked up with a start, she added, “the hot weather.”
Neither romance not hot weather interfered with Miss Florence’s energy over her German lesson, and the sleepy little schoolgirls had small chance with their brisk young teacher. A bell rang, Flossy fired a concluding question at the sleepiest and stupidest, extracted an entirely wrong answer, and, but slightly disconcerted – for was not she used to it? – ran off to her room, arranged her dress, stuck a great red rose in her hair, and came down to tea.
Miss Florence was much admired by her pupils, and had a sort of half-sympathetic, half-genial pleasure in their admiration. Besides, her rose was as a flag to celebrate the festal occurrence of the afternoon. “I always like to wear pretty things when I feel jolly,” she would say; “and if ever you see me going about in a drab dress and a brown veil you may be quite sure I’ve had a disappointment!”
“Then,” said Clarissa, “if you buy that very pink silk I shall think you have had an offer.”
“Oh, no; think I don’t want one.”
Flossy crushed her rose under a big straw hat, when she was set free after tea, and took her way merrily along the fields to Redhurst. The way was very pretty, and the evening lights very charming; but Flossy scurried along, much too full of human nature to care for any other. She had been half playfellow and half teacher to Mysie for years, and had grown up in familiar intercourse with all the household, and was on terms with Arthur of mutual lecturing and teasing.
Redhurst was a square, red house, with white facings; and stood in the midst of pretty, park-like meadows, through which ran the shallow, sedge-grown river, which, nearer Oxley, merged in the sleepy canal. The garden came down to the river’s brim, and great white fierce swans and little furry black ducks swam up and down under the willows. The field-path led to an old white stone bridge, looking like a small model of one of those over the Thames, and across it Flossy came into the garden which led up to a terrace and steps in front of the house. So far the garden was rather stiff and old-fashioned, but croquet hoops profaned the soft turf, garden chairs and a tea-table enlivened the terrace; a girl of fifteen, with a mane of dark rusty hair, stood on the step, and a lady was sitting in the most comfortable of the chairs above her.
Mrs Spencer Crichton was as like her son Hugh as a stout, cheerful-looking lady of eight-and-forty can be to a grave young man of eight-and-twenty. She was pale and handsome and fair, and hardly looked her age, so smooth was her brow, so contented her mouth, so ready the smiles that came with equal kindliness for all the young ones who had grown up under her easy sway. It was said that the young people at Redhurst were sadly spoiled – spoiled, that is to say, not by being the objects of devoted affection or too partial admiration, but by being allowed their own way to an extent incredible to more idealistic mothers. Whether from the absence of any very marked individual affections, or from something of the same cast of mind that produced in her eldest son such even-handed justice, she not only treated all her young kinsfolk with the same kindness, but, so far as they knew, felt for them much the same amount of interest. She did not think it incredible that Arthur should surpass James; or that, in the few contentions that crossed their sunshiny life, Hugh should sometimes be mistaken. All were sure of a kind judgment, and often of a sense of the rights of their story: none of them made a demand for an exclusive or individual tenderness; for their bringing-up had made them independent. Mrs Crichton did not trouble herself much as to whether their idiosyncrasies were suitable or desirable or likely to lead to any one result. It was all right that Hugh should keep to his business; she did not wish that James was as fond of books as Arthur, since he preferred Art and a great deal of conversation. George preferred rats and rabbits to either. “Well, poor George did not like his lessons.” Mysie liked needlework, and flowers, and Sunday schools – “so good of little Mysie.” Frederica thought happiness consisted in a day’s hunting. “She was growing up quite a different sort of girl.” But Mrs Crichton was not at all surprised when George got flogged at school for not knowing the lessons, observing “that George was so stupid he was always in scrapes;” and when Frederica pouted, sobbed, and scowled when some special friend called her a Tom-boy she only heard: “But you are a Tom-boy, my dear,” as consolation. And when in young enthusiasm, anyone brought his or her special hobby into notice, he or she well knew that, though that hobby might prance unrebuked through the family circle, it was regarded as nothing but “so-and-so’s hobby,” whether it concerned the destinies of the human race or the best way of laying-out flower-beds. There are two sides to everything. It is very pleasant never to be scolded; but when Hugh had laid down some law in a way that bore heavily on his juniors, it was not always quite pleasant to hear his mother placidly say: “My dear, don’t resist, it’s Hugh’s way to be particular” – as if Hugh’s way, and not the thing itself, were all that mattered. Still, light hearts and good tempers had resulted from the kindly, peaceable rule, and the young Spencers lived their own lives and took each other for granted. Hugh might hope that his little Italian song-bird might be accepted as “Hugh’s way,” and Arthur and Mysie need fear no opposition, either tyrannical or conscientious, little as the necessity of each to the other’s life might be realised.
“Ah, Flossy,” said Mrs Crichton, “I thought we should see you to-night. I suppose Miss Venning told you of what she saw?”
“Yes,” returned Flossy, rather shyly; “so I came to see Mysie.”
“Mysie is somewhere. I have told them they must wait in secrecy and silence till Hugh comes home, or he will never forgive us.”
“Then you don’t object, Mrs Crichton?” said Flossy, eagerly.
“No. Mysie might do better, perhaps, but there is no use in making her miserable if she does not think so herself. Surely people must choose for themselves in these matters,” said Mrs Crichton, uttering this sentiment – so often practically ignored – as if it were such a truism that Flossy felt as if life was really so easy as to be quite flat.
“I am sure Arthur will get on,” she said.
“Oh, yes; and I don’t know a nicer fellow anywhere. Dear children, how surprised Hugh will be! I wish he would follow their example. But, dear me! I cannot expect him to see with my eyes. There is Arthur!”
Arthur came up and exchanged a hearty squeeze of the hand and delighted smile with Flossy.
“Mysie is in the garden,” he said; “do come and find her.”
“Oh, Arthur, I am so glad,” cried Flossy, impulsively, as she walked away with him. “I am so glad that Mrs Crichton – ”
“Aunt Lily? I prepared several irresistible arguments, and felt as if – well, as if I might have kept them for Hugh. How kind she is! But, now, Flossy, you are unprejudiced; don’t you think I shall make Mysie as happy as that swell in the air who is supposed to loom in the future?”
“Now, how angry you would be if I did not say yes! How can you expect me to sacrifice your friendship to a disinterested regard for truth?”
“I want somebody to convince! I feel as if I had been reading hard and the examiners had asked me to decline ‘Dominus.’”
“Oh, Arthur, anyone may see where you have been lately. How ungrateful you are!”
“No, I am not, Flossy,” said Arthur; “but I really feel as if I ought to object to myself as a duty to the family.”
“Do wait for your cousin,” said Flossy; “he will do that duty for you, no doubt. No, I am very glad.”
“Thank you – thank you,” said Arthur, pleased at the hearty sympathy in her voice. “Ah, there’s Mysie, picking roses.”
“Now, Arthur, do stay away for five minutes. How can we talk with you there to listen?”
“Well – make haste.”
Flossy ran away from him and seized Mysie in a warm, and – considering their respective sizes – somewhat overwhelming embrace.
“My little darling, it’s delightful. I always meant you to have a fairy prince, and to think it should be Arthur!”
“I am very glad he is not a fairy prince,” said Mysie, smiling.
“What is he, then?” cried Flossy.
“Why, Flossy,” said Mysie, “I think he’s only what old Miss Rogers used to call ‘Mr Right.’”
Part 2, Chapter XII
Pros and Cons
“Go back, my lord, across the moor!”
Signor Mattei was coming out from a rehearsal. He often told Violante that her work was nothing to his; and, indeed, his violin was always in its place in the orchestra. His work was his life, he would have been miserable without it; and yet, with a not uncommon inconsistency, he liked to pity himself for having got it to do. He was a man with an ideal, with a dream that was very difficult of fulfilment; and, perhaps, did not need sympathy less than the girl who suffered so much and disappointed him so sorely. Whatever may have been Signor Mattei’s youthful hopes, in the days when he had thrown away the chance of a more eligible profession to follow the art he so loved, he had long been forced to limit them to making a fair livelihood by it. Aspirations are not always capabilities; and, spite of self-devotion and enthusiasm and much technical skill, he was not destined to rise to the top of the tree. He was not, indeed, great enough to do as he liked; and his temper and touchiness often brought good engagements to a premature end; and, though he had never hitherto failed in obtaining fresh ones, there was an element of uncertainty in his fortunes. However different things might be with him from what he had once desired, Signor Mattei had not been a discontented man. Small successes which he would once have despised were much pleasanter than small failures; and he had grown to limit his desires to such as were possible of fulfilment; when ambition, desire of gain, and burning enthusiasm were all reawakened by the discovery of Violante’s wonderful voice. Here was his chance again. His daughter’s name should be heard in every capital in Europe: the fortunes of the whole family should be assured. What sacrifices were too great, what toil too arduous by which the possessor of this glorious gift could turn it to account! If such a voice had belonged to Violante’s father how he would have gloried and rejoiced, how he would have worked early and late, how intoxicating would have been the success that crowned his efforts! People bear much harder on each other by the inevitable workings of their alien natures than by wilful selfishness or cruelty. Violante and her father made each other miserable; yet he was anxious to give her what would have been to himself the greatest good, and she wore herself out in trying to obey and to please him. It is not easy for a bystander to judge between distaste and incapacity; it is difficult to say which is the most provoking. No amount of idleness on Violante’s part would have so provoked her father as did her unenthusiastic performance of the amount of study required of her, her tears and terror when she achieved a success. Such folly must be curable by a sufficient amount of scolding and argument. A person must enjoy what is enjoyable when the advantage is pointed out to them with sufficient strength. And Violante had been just successful enough to make her father believe that it entirely depended on herself to succeed better still. Violante thought this belief cruel; and Rosa, standing between both, while she prevented either from feeling the very sharpest edge of the other’s opinion, if she pitied her little sister the most, to a certain extent sympathised with Signor Mattei.
So much for sentiment. Violante was unworthy of her gift, but she possessed it, and it brought substantial gains, much needed; for in a life with so many ups and downs Signor Mattei had not held himself free from debt. Besides, no engagement had ever suited him so well as his present one, and was not that confirmed to him by Signor Vasari’s interest in his young prima donna? If Violante married the manager her success was certain, and the fortunes of the whole family were assured; but if Vasari were offended there was an end of everything.
Her gains for her present engagement would belong to her father; and he felt, though he would not own, that there was enough uncertainty about her future to make the solid good of her marriage most desirable. And Signor Vasari had just made the flattering suggestion that Mdlle. Mattei’s timidity and reluctance might be in part owing to a maidenly coyness and consciousness towards himself. Once acknowledged as his promessa sposa she would gain courage and self-confidence. Signor Mattei joyously pledged himself to do everything in his power to favour the manager’s views. Art, fame, and fortune all smiled upon him; and no experience could make Signor Mattei believe that Violante was so unlike other girls as not to view such a proposal with rapture. Full of this pleasing prospect he was walking hastily home from the theatre to his own dwelling, when he was accosted by Hugh Crichton, who begged the favour of a few words with him.
Hugh was courteous and deferential, but he had no expectation that his proposal would not be received with pleasure; and was desirous, since he must speak to Signor Mattei, to have so far committed himself before he again encountered his brother, whose co-operation when he reached home he felt that he could not altogether afford to despise. Spite, however, of his not unnatural confidence in the result, he felt very hot and shy; blundered through a few unintelligible sentences; tried Italian, with a view of being polite; forgot the Italian for “daughter,” “proposal,” for every thing; and finally, with startling abruptness, hoped in plain English that Signor Mattei would consent to his engagement to his daughter. Signor Mattei stopped short in the street, struck an attitude of astonishment, and loudly exclaimed:
“Signor Hugo! Do my ears deceive me?”
“No, sir, assuredly not,” said Hugh, much discomposed at the sudden standstill. “I have long admired la signorina Violante, and to-day I have ventured to tell her so.”
“Tell her so! tell her so!” ejaculated Signor Mattei. “Tell her so, in her father’s absence! Signor, is this the conduct I could expect?”
“If I have acted in ignorance of Italian customs,” said Hugh, “your long residence in England must have informed you that in coming to you at once I have done all that is required by our own. If you will walk on, sir,” for Signor Mattei was still figuring about on the pavement in a way that worried all the sense out of Hugh’s head, “I will explain myself further.”
Signor Mattei, who had really been taken utterly by surprise by Hugh’s application, and was not undesirous to gain a little time for consideration, bowed profoundly and walked on by Hugh’s side; while the latter, who, with all his desire to make a good impression, felt irritated by his companion’s way, began stiffly:
“I should tell you, Signor Mattei, that I am in all respects my own master, and quite independent of everyone. I am not afraid that my mother will not give Mdlle. Mattei a welcome; and of my own feelings, I assure you, sir, they are most – most strong. I love her, and I hope I shall make her happy – happier than she can be in a profession to which she is so unsuited.”
Hugh was a good speaker, and generally said what he had to say on all public and private occasions with perfect fluency and distinctness; but his eloquence foiled him now, and he coloured up and looked entreatingly at Signor Mattei as he made this false step.
“Unsuited to her profession, signor! unsuited to her profession! Do you mean to insult my daughter?”
“I mean that the profession is unsuited to her,” said Hugh, not mending matters.
“Signor, she has been dedicated to my beloved art from her earliest years. Music is her vocation, as in a lesser – I am proud to say in a lesser – degree it is mine.”
Hugh was not naturally conciliatory; and to listen patiently to what he considered such nonsense, uttered with a flash of the eyes that proved its sincerity, jarred upon him so much that there was as much annoyance as entreaty in his voice as he answered:
“I venture to set myself up as a rival to your art, and I ask you for – Violante. Indeed, I don’t think she will regret the fame she gives up.”
Hugh was so sure that it was better for Violante to marry him, an English gentleman, than to sing at all the operas in Europe, he felt that he was making so good an offer, and yet he wanted her so much, that the humility born of passionate desire conquered his sense of his own merits, and he finished pleadingly:
“If I can help it she never shall.”
“Signor, my daughter is already promised, and the arrangements for her marriage will shortly be begun.”
“That is impossible,” exclaimed Hugh; “she has given her promise to me.”
“Her promise?” cried Signor Mattei; “the promise of a little, foolish, most foolish, girl! No, sir, she knows what my views are, and she is Signor Vasari’s promised wife.”
“She knows!” She – the loving, trustful child whom he had seen kiss his white flowers, who had given herself to him without one word of misgiving. Impossible, indeed.
“She shall not be sacrificed,” cried Hugh, in his turn stopping short. “She has told me that she loves me. Whatever you may have intended her to do is without her will or knowledge.”
Now, in thus asserting Violante’s individuality Hugh made a great mistake. The Italian father did not think that it made much difference if Violante had told Hugh that she loved him twenty times. It was his part to arrange a marriage for her; and her little wishes, her foolish tongue, went for nothing.
“I do not believe Mademoiselle Mattei is aware of your wishes,” said Hugh again, hotly.
Now this was an assertion which Signor Mattei could fairly face. Violante was well aware of her father’s wishes. That she was involved in any positive promise she could not know, insomuch as the promise had been made for her at the very time when she had been making a far different one for herself. Nor had she fully known her danger, since Rosa, for the sake of peace and composure, had carefully kept the subject out of sight.
“Nevertheless, she is aware of them,” said Signor Mattei; and while Hugh paused, silenced for the moment, he went on, not without dignity:
“Signor, I thank you. Your proposal honours my little girl, and honours you, since you mean to sacrifice much to win her. But I know your country and your manners, and I will not give up my daughter. Your noble ladies will not receive her well.”
“There is nothing of the sort – we have no rank at all,” interposed Hugh, “and I will answer for my mother.”
“My daughter, sir, has a great future before her; she shall not sacrifice it. She shall not marry out of her class and away from her country and give up what Fortune has laid at her feet. Your fancy, Signor, will pass as it came, and hers – pshaw – she has nothing strong in her but her voice, her voice of an angel.”
Signor Mattei was a single-minded man, though he had not dealt singly with Hugh. The good match for his daughter shrank to nothing compared to the career from which it would shut her out. That underneath lurked some consciousness of the advantage to himself is true; but never would he have dreamed of claiming any like advantages from this other suitor.
Hugh walked on by his side pale and bewildered, a horrible doubt of Violante weakening his arguments and chilling his entreaties. At last he said, desperately, “Signor Mattei, after what has passed I cannot take my answer from you. She told me nothing of a former promise. She must tell me that she has made none, and then I swear to you her life shall have none of the trials you dread. I will either go home and bring you my mother’s words of welcome – my mother herself,” he continued, rashly, “or I will seek no consent at all – none is needed. I would marry her to-morrow if you care for such a test.”
“You in England, Signor, may marry spite of a parent’s curse.”
“Curse! nonsense,” said Hugh, impatiently.
“But here a father’s word is enough. She can give you no answer but mine.”
“I will have an answer from her,” said Hugh; “and if she can tell me she is not promised to that fellow I will never give her up till – till I have persuaded you to take a different view of this.”
“But she is promised, sir, and I refuse to entertain your proposals for her.”
“She never told me so!”
“She is timid,” said Signor Mattei, with a shrug, “timid, and, like all girls, a fool. Enough; I can say no more, Signor. I have the honour to wish you good evening.” And, with a rapidity for which Hugh was unprepared, Signor Mattei darted down a side street, and left him to himself.
Baffled as he was, Hugh did not mean to rest satisfied with his answer. He could not believe that the opposition would hold out after he had proved himself to be thoroughly in earnest. If only the horrible doubt of Violante’s own fair dealing could be removed! – and removed it should be the first time he had the chance of a word with her. For Hugh was not a suspicious person, and it would have been hard indeed to doubt the shy yet passionate tenderness of Violante’s voice and face. He did not understand the entanglement, but he was not going to convict her without a trial. Still, this later interview had effectually brought him down to earth; and he went back to the Consulate with the arguments which were to bring James over to his side by no means in such order as he had hoped. He found the ladies drinking coffee and James discoursing on the delights of his afternoon ramble.
“I assure you, Miss Tollemache, she had eyes like a gazelle, and her smile – there was intelligence and intellect in it; you could see by the way that she smiled that she had a mind, you know.”
