It was not that she had troubles at home. Those things she seemed to find odd and amusing, like a story of the life of some other person—poverty and one of her sisters “very peculiar,” another engaged to a scamp and another going to be a shop-assistant, and two more, “doties” very young, being brought up in the country with an aunt. Everything that happened to people and all the things people did seemed to her funny and amusing, “tickled her to death.” Harriett’s engagement amused her really, though she pretended to be immensely interested and asked numbers of questions in a rich deep awestruck voice … blarney. … But she wanted to hear everything, and she never forgot anything she was told. And she had been splendid about the operation—really anxious, quite conscious and awake across the landing that awful night and really making you feel she was glad afterwards. “Poor Mrs. Henderson—I was never so glad in my life”—and always seeming to know her without having her explained. She was real there, and so strange in telling the Pernes about it and making it all easy.
Miriam leaned upon Julia more and more as the term went on, hating and fearing her for her secret sorrow and wondering and wondering why she appeared to have such a curious admiration and respect for herself. She could understand her adoration for the Pernes; she saw them as they were and had a phrase which partly explained them, “no more knowledge of the world than babes”—but what was it in herself that Julia seemed so fiercely and shyly to admire?
She knew she could not let Julia know how she enjoyed washing her hands, in several soapings, in the cold water, before dinner. They would go their favourite midday walk, down the long avenue in the park through the little windings of the shrubbery and into the chrysanthemum show, strolling about in the large greenhouse, all the girls glad of the escape from a set walk, reading over every day the strange names on the little wooden stakes, jokes and gigglings and tiresomenesses all kept within bounds by the happiness that there was, inside the great quiet steamy glasshouse, in the strange raw bitter scent of the great flowers, in the strange huge way they stood, and with all their differences of shape and colour staring quietly at you, all in the same way with one expression. They were startling, amongst their grey leaves; and they looked startled and held their heads as if they knew they were beautiful. The girls always hurried to get to the chrysanthemums and came away all of them walking in twos relieved and happy back through the cold park to dinner. But Julia, who loved the flowers, though she made fun of their names in certain moods and dropped them sotto voce into the general conversation at the dinner-table would have, Miriam felt sure, scorned her own feeling of satisfaction in the great hand-washing and the good dinner. And she detested pease pudding with the meat, and boiled suet pudding with treacle.
She ate scarcely anything herself, keeping her attention free and always seeming to be waiting for someone to say something that was never said. Her broad-shouldered, curiously buoyant, heavy, lounging, ill-clad form, her thick white skin, her eyes like a grey-blue sea, her dark masses of fine hair had long been for Miriam the deepest nook in the mealtime gatherings—she rested there unafraid of anything the boarders might say or do. She would never be implicated. Julia would take care of that, heading everything off and melting up the difficulties into some absurdity that would set all the Pernes talking. Julia lounged easily there, controlling the atmosphere of the table. And the Pernes knew it unconsciously, they must know it; any English person would know it … though they talked about her untidiness and lack of purpose and application. Julia was a deep, deep nook, full of thorns.
Julia had spoiled the news of Sarah’s engagement to Bennett Brodie. It had been such a wonderful moment. The thick envelope coming at midday in Bennett’s handwriting—such a surprise—asking Miss Perne’s permission to read it at the dinner-table—reading the startling sentences in the firm curved hand—“assert my privilege as your prospective brother-in-law by announcing that I’m on the track of a job that I think will suit you down to the ground,” the curious splash, gravy on the cloth as somebody put the great dish on the table, faraway vexation and funny familiar faraway discomfort all round the table, “no more of this until I’ve got full particulars on the tapis; but it may, oh Grecian Mariamne, not be without interest to you to hear that that sister of yours does not appear to be altogether averse to taking over the management of the new house and the new practice and the new practitioner, and that the new practitioner is hereby made anew in a sense that is more of an amazement to him than it doubtless will be to your intuitive personality. That life had such happiness in store for him is not the least of the many surprises that have come his way. He can only hope to prove not unworthy; and so a hearty au revoir from yours affectionately.” … Then Bennett would always be there amongst the home things … with his strange way of putting things; he would give advice and make suggestions … and Sarah’s letter … a glance at it showing short sentences, things spoken in a low awestruck voice. … “We had been to an entertainment together. … Coming home along the avenue. I was so surprised. He was so quiet and serious and humble.” … All the practical things gone away in a moment, leaving only a sound of deep music, … mornings and evenings.
