“Yes, I think so. You see, my dear, between you and me, her aunt in London, with whom she was living, has got a family of daughters, who have recently come out. Eva has been kept back as long as possible, but now that she is twenty it was impossible to keep her back any more. But then, on the other hand, it was felt—at least I think that it was felt—that to continue to bring Eva out with her cousins would be to quite ruin their chance of settling in life, because when she was in the room, no man could be got to look at them. And so, you see, Eva has been sent down here as a penalty for being so handsome.”
“Most of us would be glad to undergo heavier penalties than that if we could only be guilty of the crime,” said Dorothy, a little sadly.
“Ah, my dear, I daresay you think so,” answered the old lady. “Every young woman longs to be beautiful and get the admiration of men, but are they any the happier for it? I doubt it. Very often that admiration brings endless troubles in its train, and perhaps in the end wrecks the happiness of the woman herself and of others who are mixed up with her. I was once a beautiful woman, my dear—I am old enough to say it now—and I can tell you that I believe that Providence cannot do a more unkind thing to a woman than to give her striking beauty, unless it gives with it great strength of mind. A weak-minded beauty is the most unfortunate of her sex. Her very attractions, which are sure to draw the secret enmity of other women on to her, are a source of difficulty to herself, because they bring her lovers with whom she cannot deal. Sometimes the end of such a woman is sad enough. I have seen it happen several times, my dear.”
Often in after-life, and in circumstances that had not then arisen, did Dorothy think of old Miss Ceswick’s words, and acknowledge their truth; but at this time they did not convince her.
“I would give anything to be like your niece,” she said bluntly, “and so would any other girl. Ask Florence, for instance.”
“Ah, my dear, you think so now. Wait till another twenty years have passed over your heads, and then if you are both alive see which of you is the happiest. As for Florence, of course she would wish to be like Eva; of course it is painful for her to have to go about with a girl beside whom she looks like a little dowdy. I daresay that she would have been as glad if Eva had stopped in London as her cousins were that she left it. Dear, dear! I hope they won’t quarrel. Florence’s temper is dreadful when she quarrels.”
This was a remark that Dorothy could not gainsay. She knew very well what Florence’s temper was like.
“But, Mr. Jeremy,” went on the old lady, “all this must be stupid talk for you to listen to; tell me, have you been rowing any more races lately?”
“No,” said Jeremy, “I strained a muscle in my arm in the ’Varsity Race, and it is not quite well yet.”
“And where is my dear Ernest?” Like most women, of whatever age they might be, Miss Ceswick adored Ernest.