The Wellfields: A novel. Vol. 1 of 3Fothergill, Jessie
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The Wellfields: A novel. Vol. 1 of 3
Fothergill, Jessie
English fiction -- 19th century
At Ems, the morning of the same day, some time after the Trockenau
procession had gone past on its way to the station, two young ladies
seated themselves on a bench in the Kurgarten, beside the broad walk.
They had brought their novels and their fancy-work, and were of one
mind and one spirit in their purpose to idle away the morning, watch
the visitors, and, after the manner of Miss Austen’s sarcastic heroes
and ingenuous heroines, ‘quiz the company.’ They were English; they
were the daughters of an M.P. for one of the great manufacturing
towns. They were staying at the _Vier Jahreszeiten_, and they had
closely observed all the rest of the company staying there. Until a few
days ago, the most perfect sisterly harmony had reigned between them;
but a lamentable discord had lately arisen, and that upon the subject
of a man.
‘Dora, see! There’s your wonderful dark angel coming mooning along with
his sister. Pray don’t miss the chance of looking at them, since you
admire them so much.’
‘You are boiling over with spite, Lucy. I will look at them. I like
looking at them, and so do you, but you won’t own it.’
‘_I!_’ ejaculated Lucy, with supreme contempt. ‘He is very handsome, I
grant you; but I believe him to be a sham.’
‘What do you mean by a sham?’
‘He looks like a hero of romance, and I believe he is a very
commonplace personage after all.’
‘No one with such a voice could be commonplace, Lucy. Sims Reeves is
nothing to him.’
‘I should say you were cracked,’ replied Lucy, witheringly.
‘Should you? What a powerful imagination you must have! He is coming
down this way. I am sure “a dark angel” is an excellent name for him.’
‘I shall conclude next that you write poetry about him—a man who has
never spoken to you, and who doesn’t recognise you when he sees you.
And as for that tall girl, with her streams of yellow hair, she ought
in decency to put it up, in——’
‘In a chignon—do say a chignon at once! It would suit her so
admirably—about as well as it would suit Venus or Hebe.’
‘We shall never agree about them, that is evident.’
‘Well, I know that. Do let me admire them in peace. ’Tis all I ask.’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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