Chamberss Edinburgh Journal, No. 425 | Page 7

Paulina Bonderlay.' And so on with the
other two, who explained that they were juniors, as they waved a lily
hand towards their eldest sister, indicative of her supremacy. But as the
evening advanced, we learned to distinguish them by a peculiarity of
expression, which had gained for these amiable maidens the somewhat
singular cognomens of Really! Indeed! and Impossible! for their
conversation, if conversation it could be called, consisted almost
wholly of these interjections, pronounced in an unvarying, monotonous
voice, while no shadow of emotion was perceptible on the cloudless
expanse of their unwrinkled physiognomies.
When they were addressed in the usual conversational appeal which
demands a reply of some kind, Miss Bonderlay, sipping her tea, or
bending over her work, softly ejaculated: 'Really!' If you turned to Miss
Paulina for some more tangible announcement of her opinion, she
responded, in precisely the same tone: 'Indeed!' And when, as a last
resource, you looked towards Miss Constantia, the word 'Impossible!'
and that word alone, fell in honeyed accents from her ruby lips. By this
means they were easily distinguished; and their most intimate friends
often failed to recognise which was which when apart, and sometimes

even when they were together, until the talismanic syllables gave to
each her individuality. The peculiarity gave rise to a little
good-humoured ridicule; but for our part, we thought it quite wonderful
how well they played their part in conversation with so small a stock of
words. There is much pliability of meaning, however, in an interjection;
and in company, where there are always several persons who are
anxious to be heard, it is a positive virtue. In Miss Constantia's
intonation of her favourite 'impossible!' it seemed to me that there
mingled a dash of sadness, a kind of musical and melancholy cadence,
which was followed by an unconscious absence of mind, evidencing
the fact, that her thoughts were what is vulgarly termed
'wool-gathering.' On mentioning this impression to Mrs Smith, she
complimented us on our keen observation, since, in truth, a tinge of the
romantic did attach to the history of the fair Constantia; and she then
sketched the following outline, leaving all details to be filled up by the
imagination of the auditor:--
The Misses Bonderlay, it seems, had attained the age of womanhood,
when, by the decease of their surviving parent, a man of high moral
rectitude, but a stern disciplinarian, they were left in possession of a
comfortable independence, fully equal to their moderate wants. They
had been governed with such an iron rule, and treated as such absolute
automata from their childhood, that when the hand of death released
them from the despotic sway, its effects still continued apparent in the
constraint which habit had rendered second nature. They continued to
reside in their native town, only removing to a smaller house, and
pursued undeviatingly the routine they had always been accustomed
to--a routine which might well bear comparison, in its monotony and
apathy, with that of monastic seclusion. Rumour, with her thousand
tongues, had never singled out these vestal ladies as objects of
matrimonial schemes; no suitors darkened their doors or disturbed their
peace; they made no enemies, and, perhaps, no very enthusiastic friends.
They listened to the gossip retailed by their neighbours, as in politeness
bound, but the imperturbable 'Really!' Indeed!' and 'Impossible!' gave
no encouragement to gossip: they never asked questions, never
propagated reports, but listened and ejaculated, and ejaculated and
listened, giving and receiving no offence. It never was positively

ascertained whether the Misses Bonderlay conversed among
themselves; but popular opinion maintained, that they did not,
assigning the ill-natured reason, that they had nothing to say. Being
neither oral inquirers nor readers, what could they have to talk about?
Still, popular opinion is often wrong, and perhaps it was so in this
instance. At anyrate, if they did not exchange confidential sentiments,
quarrels were avoided; and smoothly the three fair sisters sailed down
the troublous stream of time.
It was a great and stirring event in their tranquil lives, when a maternal
uncle, as if to vindicate the fidelity of old romance, did actually return
from India to his native land with a large fortune. Mr Elliston, a
childless widower, took up his abode at a watering-place, and sent for
his eldest niece, Miss Bonderlay. She promptly obeyed the summons,
and of course it was generally reported, and with some colouring, that
the bulk of the nabob's fortune would be hers if she 'played her cards
well.' But she did not play her cards well, as the event turned out; for
the old splenetic Indian tired very soon of the monotonous
'Really!'--the sole response to his wonderful narratives of tiger-hunting
and Eastern marvels in general. At length, Mr Elliston bluntly gave his
visitor to understand that he