The youth considered that women were, by nature, passive and reflective, not original.
Hadria thought the novelty of that idea not the least of its charms.
The youth allowed that, in her own way, and in her own sphere, woman was charming and singularly intelligent. He had no objection to her developing as much as she pleased, in proper directions. (Hadria felt really encouraged.) But it was so absurd to pretend that women could do work that was peculiar to men. (Hadria agreed, with a chuckle.) When had they written one of Shakespeare’s dramas? (When indeed? History was ominously silent on that point.)
“Hadria, what is amusing you?” enquired her hostess, across the table.
“Oh, well—only the discouraging fact that no woman, as Mr. St. George convincingly points out, has ever written one of Shakespeare’s dramas!”
“Oh,” said Lady Engleton with a broad smile, “but you know, Mr. St. George, we really haven’t had quite the same chances, have we?”
Perhaps not quite, as far as literature went, the youth admitted tolerantly, but there was failure in original work in every direction. This was no blame to women; they were not made that way, but facts had to be recognised. Women’s strength lay in a different domain—in the home. It was of no use to try to fight against Nature. Look at music for instance; one required no particular liberty to pursue that art, yet where were the women-composers? If there was so much buried talent among women, why didn’t they arise and bring out operas and oratorios?
Hadria couldn’t understand it; especially as the domestic life was arranged, one might almost say, with a special view to promoting musical talent in the mistress of the household. Yet where were those oratorios? She shook her head. Mr. St. George, she thought, had clearly proved that the inherent nature of women was passive and imitative, while that of man, even in the least remarkable examples of the sex, was always powerful and original to the verge of the perilous!
“I think we had better go to the drawing-room,” said Lady Engleton, discreetly. The youth twirled his moustaches thoughtfully, as the ladies filed out.
Hadria’s happiest hours were now those that she spent with little Martha, who was growing rapidly in stature and intelligence. The child’s lovable nature blossomed sweetly under the influence of Hadria’s tenderness. When wearied, and sad at heart, an hour in the Priory garden, or a saunter along the roadside with little Martha, was like the touch of a fresh breeze after the oppression of a heated room. Hadria’s attachment to the child had grown and grown, until it had become almost a passion. How was the child to be saved from the usual fate of womanhood? Hadria often felt a thrill of terror, when the beautiful blue eyes looked out, large and fearless, into the world that was just unfolding before them, in its mysterious loveliness.