w he received in it unexpectedly from that old lady,
as the last and heaviest of the long and open feud between them, but
also, chiefly, that it outraged and did permanent injury to his ideas of
the proper balance of the sexes. Between himself and Mrs. Winnion Rhys
the condition of the balance had been a point of vehement disputation,
she insisting to have it finer up to equality, and he that the
naturally lighter scale should continue to kick the beam. Behold now the
consequence of the wilful Welshwoman's insanest of legacies! The estates
were left to Adiante Adister for her sole use and benefit, making almost
a man of her, and an unshackled man, owing no dues to posterity. Those
estates in the hands of a woman are in the hands of her husband; and
the husband a gambler and a knave, they are in the hands of the Jews--or
gone to smoke. Let them go. A devilish malignity bequeathed them: let
them go back to their infernal origin. And when they were gone, his girl
would soon discover that there was no better place to come to than her
home; she would come without an asking, and alone, and without much
prospect of the intrusion of her infamous Hook-nose in pursuit of her at
Earlsfont. The money wasted, the wife would be at peace. Here she would
have leisure to repent of all the steps she had taken since that fatal
one of the acceptance of the invitation to the Embassy at Vienna. Mr.
Adister had warned her both against her going and against the influence
of her friend Lady Wenchester, our Ambassadress there, another Welsh
woman, with the weathervane head of her race. But the girl would accept,
and it was not for him to hold out. It appeared to be written that the
Welsh, particularly Welsh women, were destined to worry him up to the
end of his days. Their women were a composition of wind and fire. They
had no reason, nothing solid in their whole nature. Englishmen allied
to them had to learn that they were dealing with broomstick witches and
irresponsible sprites. Irishwomen were models of propriety beside them:
indeed Irishwomen might often be patterns to their English sisterhood.
Mr. Adister described the Cambrian ladies as a kind of daughters of the
Fata Morgana, only half human, and deceptive down to treachery,
unless you had them fast by their spinning fancy. They called it being
romantic. It was the ante-chamber of madness. Mad, was the word for
them. You pleased them you knew not how, and just as little did you know
how yo