“If we had had one,” said Betty, “he could not have stayed at home. He would have most probably been away in India or the colonies, or some terrible place! A brother’s no good if you are poor.”
“And as for having one always with you,” said Madeleine, “that is not to be counted on, whatever other circumstances are. I am not speaking about Horace’s present plans, though, for I hope when he comes back,”—he had not yet returned from a short absence in town, whither he had accompanied Mr Ryder Morion—“that it will be to stay nearly as long as we do. No, my news is not about him, and perhaps it is rather horrid of me not to feel more pleased about it. It is only that the Conrads are coming down upon us,” with a half-rueful smile. “Next week they come, for ten days or so; it is sure to get into a fortnight, and I feel as if it would be a finish up of this comfortable, self-arranging life that I have so enjoyed!”
“Will your sister-in-law expect you to be so much with her then?” asked Frances.
“N-no,” said Madeleine, “not exactly that. Mamma and she suit each other perfectly, and require no third person—are much better without one, indeed. But—oh, really,” with a change of tone, “I cannot explain it without seeming a little unkind, so, if I do seem so, promise to forget that part of it, for I do want you to understand about my sister-in-law. She is, so to say, a typical person, one of the best of her class, quite good and high principled, and with a strong sense of her responsibilities, and all that side of things. But yet she and I are not and never could be great friends, though, on the other hand, I am equally sure that we should never quarrel. Now with her brother, Ryder, I very often—no, I can’t say quarrel, it’s too strong an expression—but we very often openly disagree and argue it out, and yet I feel that we have more in common than Elise and I ever could have.”
Her three companions listened with great interest, Frances and Betty especially.
“I think I do understand,” said the former, “and I am sure I shall do so still better when I have seen her. But you know, Madeleine, you don’t perhaps take sufficiently into account that you yourself are not a typical person, by any means!”
“Am I not?” said Madeleine, laughing. “In what way?”
“There are very few,” said Frances gravely, “who would have remained so unspoilt, unself-engrossed as you, in the same circumstances.”
This was strong commendation, above all from such a person as Frances, whom no one could have suspected for an instant of flattery, and who yet loved to be able to admire. And whenever she had a fit occasion to express her admiration and appreciation, few things pleased her more than doing so, and few people could have done so more gratifyingly.
For such power of expression is not a common gift. Nothing is easier than to criticise with even a certain cleverness, on which its possessors will always be found to pride themselves most unduly; but to “admire,” to discern “the admirable,” of which few human beings are entirely devoid, one must indeed have risen to a far higher plane, both morally and intellectually. Nay, indeed, might not one almost add “spiritually?” And a curious anomaly is to be observed as regards this subject. One often hears the excuse—“I am not effusive—it does not come naturally to me to praise people. I have a horror of flattery”—yet this same reticence, this same powerlessness of expression disappears in a really remarkable and all but magical way when a disagreeable or hurting remark, personal or otherwise, suggests itself.