All in the wild March morning

Front matter

THE ORIGINAL

REGAN PRINTING HO

IN THEIR NEW LOCATION,

CHAPTER I. “You have been such a time away, Tredennick!”

The lady spoke with a little aggrieved smile, and in tones of reproach, as of those of a person so accustomed to regard and consideration that the mere involuntary absence of her votaries is resented as an approach to neglect, placing as she did so her tiny feet, in their dainty black silk-stockings and kid shoes, all rosetted and gold-buckled, nearer, on her velvetcovered fender-stool, to the warmth of the crimson-glowing fire.

“ Hand me my large fan, please — that black-bugled affair. Thank you;” and* she adjusted the black glittering fan to shade her pale smooth cheek from the ardent glare* and arranged her fine cambric lace-edged handkerchief over her little, plump, white jewelled hand to protect its fairness also.

Some vain exacting young beauty she doubtless appears, this fair dame. Hasty judgments are always unwise — nearly always incorrect. *

Madam Vivian had been a beauty without doubt, and pos¬ sessed a beauty of her own yet — had been just as vain*and exacting as most young, courted, flattered beauties are— no more, no less — and was as gracefully imperious, as self-suffi¬ cient, self-willed, and self-possessed, as handsome, haughty, well-bred, well-born, and wealthy elderly ladies generally are.

Despite her dark brilliant eyes, her smooth fair cheek, her scarcely lined brow, her well-cut lips and white even teeth — all her own beauty, her own natural gift without a touch of art to aid it — Madam Vivian of Roseworthy was fifty-six years of age, and wore on her hair, which was beautiful, lus¬ trous, wavy, and silver-gray, a fragile kind of diadem of black lace, all besprinkled with glittering tremulous stars and

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ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MORNING.

crescents of jet, to denote her state of widowed mourning, although it dated back some seven years before.

The person addressed as Tredennick, therefore, was not that subservient, humble-minded, and somewhat timid indi¬ vidual who had the unparalleled good fortune to be the hus¬ band of a flattered, imperious beauty; nor was he her son, although his years numbered some twenty-four less than hers.

“My dear aunt,” he said, quietly, “the East Indiaman Chittoor is rather different in character from your little Blue - bell , in the days when you went yachting, to go here and there by the favour of wind and tide.”

“ Dear me, Tredennick, I should think I know that! ” said Madam Vivian, rather petulantly. “But you have been away a very long time, I repeat — it seems to me that each of your voyages is longer than the last. Of course I know there are no attractions in England to make you hasten home.”

The black glittering fan in Madam Vivian’s hand, and the black begemmed lace on her silvery hair, stirred and fluttered .with an air of misery and reproach.

The keen, expressive blue-gray eyes of Stephen Tredennick, Captain of the East Indiaman Cliittoor , sparkled with a pass¬ ing gleam of amusement; and then he replied, as quietly as before —

“No attractions outside the home my dear aunt is kind enough to welcome a poor sailor to.”

The compliment and tribute, warmly as they were expressed, nevertheless failed in quite pacifying Madam Vivian. She fluttered her fan more impatiently for a few moments, glanc¬ ing athwart it with her dark eyes flashing in a manner which showed what deadly service the dainty weapon might have done in the days of her early ball-room campaigns.

“ It is your own fault entirely, Stephen,” she said, sharply ancl suddenly; “you might have other attractions, and other homes to welcome you, if you cared.”

“Yes, but I do not care, aunt,” he replied more quietly, a certain stern look coming into his kind blue eyes; “we have said all we can say on that subject, and you know my mind.”

“Yes; you will never marry unless you meet a girl whom you can love,” said Madam Vivian, in rather a shrill tone, as of one labouring under much suppressed annoyance. “You only say that for want of a better answer to make me, Stephen. It cannot be possible that an educated man of thirty-two has no other ideas on the subject of an eligible wife than the mere Jack-Tar notion of ‘a girl to love! ’ ”

ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING.

“ I regret to say — such is the density of my ignorance and the narrow-mindedness of my obstinate determination,” re¬ turned Captain Tredennick, smiling still, but looking a little irritated — “the mere Jack-Tar notion is the very one for me.”

“ Well,” said Madam, changing her tactics, and beginning to reason anew, with all the pertinacity of a self-willed woman, “why can not you find the girl to love? What is to hinder you? ”

“Where am I to find her? I don’t admire the black-eyed Susans or lovely Nans of seaport towns; and I assure you, dear aunt, my acquaintance with London belles is excessively limited.”

“ Excessively limited — I should think so!” retorted Madam, petulantly, as she saw in her nephew’s face the glimmer of amusement at her anxiety. “No wonder it should be limited, when you spend your time in the smoky, groggy society of a set of sailors, and go poking about their 4 snug cribs,’ as they call their little out-of-the-way villas and cottages that are kept like ship-cabins, and with not even a female house¬ keeper sometimes!”

“ Oh, I beg your pardon, aunt,” said he, laughing; 44 Martyn has a remarkably pretty housekeeper, whom he adores, and a houseful of pretty maidservants.”

44 Captain Martyn had sense enough to marry, and marry well too,” said Madam, shortly.

44 And Stephen Tredennick has not sense enough to marry and, if he ever does, is likely to marry ill,” retorted the Cap¬ tain of the Chittoor , rising and walking away to the window.

44 1 do not at all doubt it,” said Madam, sharply.

44 That nor’-wester is blowing pretty stiff,” Captain Tre¬ dennick remarked presently, glad to change the subject of conversation, as he drew back the thick green damask cur¬ tains, and looked out into the misty stormy night. 44 Dirty weather in the Channel to-night, I fear,” he went on, talking to himself, for Madam Vivian sat with her head turned away, her little slippered foot pettishly beating the footstool; 44 there will be a gale before midnight. I think I will go out and have a look— smoke my pipe on the cliffs — that is, if it woji’t be put out,” and he laughed as he turned to leave the room.

44 At this hour, Stephen! — in the darkness and storm!” Madam Vivian exclaimed, her affection and anxiety quite overcoming her ill-humour. 44 My dear boy, you must not think of it! Are there not your own room and the study —

ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING.

both with good fires, and warm and cosy? Stephen dear, pray do not!”

“Very well then, aunt, to please you,” he said, going towards the door nevertheless; “but I shall just have a look at the night.”

“Not on the cliffs — pray, Stephen, not on the cliffs!” Madam Vivian reiterated. “Stephen, do you hear me?”

“I hear you, dear aunt,” he replied, with a kind of grave patience; “ are you afraid that a capful of wind would take me off my legs and blow me over Tregarthen Head ?”

“A capful of wind do you call it?” cried Madam, indig¬ nantly, pointing her white hand to the wildly-swaying boughs of the great elms outside, as their dark forms were visible against the lighter background of stormy, cloudy sky, through which the faint moonlight struggled dimly. “ I have been out in a gale of wind before now, and I know one as well as you do, Captain Tredennick! Come and sit down to chess this instant, under peril of my displeasure — Llanyon will send us up some tea presently — and forget your quarter¬ deck and dirty weather and night watches for once.”

“ My dear aunt, I am no more able to refuse compli¬ ance with any request of yours than my late uncle was,” said her nephew; and there was a glimmer of ridicule in the sail¬ or’s keen pleasant eyes as he turned obediently, moved the little inlaid table in front of Madam’s easy chair, and placed thereon the splendidly-carved ivory chessmen which he him¬ self had brought home from Canton as a gift. Common report would have it, indeed, that the late John Vivian, Squire of Roseworthy, parish of St. Awen, Cornwall, had carried the trait of conjugal amiability, to which his nephew alluded, so very far that it had carried him at length into the regions of conjugal slavery — but then common report is always slanderous.

Chess was Madam Vivian’s favorite game; she delighted as much as she excelled in its intriguing, its deep-laid policy, its ambuscades, and well-won victories; and it was her boast to say that she never met her match on the held of the chequered board, except in a Tredennick of Tregarthen.

She certainly did meet her match, and her victor very often, in a Tredennick of Tregarthen; but then she could grace¬ fully yield the palm to those of her own kindred, for she had been a Tredennick of Tregarthen before she came to rule over Squire Vivian’s handsome house and well filled purse in Roseworthy.

ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING.

“I had intended to go up to Tregarthen this evening,” Stephen Tredennick remarked absently, toying with a cap¬ tured pawn, and oblivious of an awful menace to his bishop from Madam’s last move. “ It is too late now; I must go up to-morrow. The Truscotts are keeping the old house together, I suppose, aunt?”

“ Yes, keeping it together,” Madam replied with a slight shrug; “ it is a perfect ruin, you know. Stephen, do you intend that pawn to remain?”

“ I am sorry for it,” said Captain Tredennick, moving the pawn carelessly; “I should not like the old home to fall to ruins, even if I never lived in it.”

“ It would take full three thousand pounds to rebuild and renovate,” observed Madam, with another'shrug; “if you are never going to live there, it does not matter, I suppose. If I had three thousand to spare, I would do it for the sake of the name of the Tredennicks of Tregarthen, but I have not. So I suppose it must go, as they will go; you are the last of the Tredennicks, and I dare say another half century will blot even the memory of tl\em off the face of the earth.”

“ I dare say,” replied Stephen Tredennick, gravely.

“There goes your bishop! ” cried Madam, sharply, swoop¬ ing down on the neglected piece. “What are you thinking of? You are playing very badly to-night! ”

“I shall not spend three thousand certainly,” Stephen Tredennick said, taking the loss of the bishop very philo¬ sophically, “ but I certainly must spend a few pounds in making it weathertight. I shall go up there to-morrow.”

“It is sad to see it in the state it is in,” returned Madam, speaking in meaning accents still. “I should like before I die to see the Tredennicks of Tregarthen there once more; but I never shall, I suppose.”

The unpleasant subject was cropping up again. Captain Tredennick made another reckless move, and turned his head towards the window.

“ Ah, the gale is upon us sooner than I thought,” he said, the sough of the trees and the mournful sighing of the night wind rising, as he spoke, into a sudden shrieking blast, that roared above the thundering din of the crashing billows out by the headland crags, and swept over the mansion fiercely, beat¬ ing at its closed doors and windows, screaming round the grouped chimneys, the angles and gables, and burying itself with long, tremulous wails in the surging hurricane of sound of the wild, leafless woodlands behind.

ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING.

“ Check to your queen! ” said Madam.

Captain Tredennick made a few feeble efforts to save the game, but a move or two more placed it entirely in Madam’s hands.

“ I do not call that a game, now — it was merely surren¬ dered,” said she pushing her chair away in pique. “ If you did not want to play, why did you not say so? Ring for tea, please, Stephen.”

“ I really do not feel my head quite clear to-night, aunt,” he explained, apologetically; “ my mind kept wandering all the time. Hark! It is a bad night for the Channel, and no mistake!”

Llanyon, Madam Vivian’s staid, grave butler, entered at this juncture with Madam’s favourite china — pale buff and gold — and Madam’s silver service, with the fragrant green tea, the sparkling sugar, the tiny silver-stoppered bottle of lemon essence, with which she always flavoured her cup, and the little richly-chased ewer of scalded cream. Llanyon had, beside the silver biscuit-basket, another coloured dish.

“ Cook sent up some c heavy-cake,’ Madam,” he said, a little apologetically. “ She says it is very nice, if you and the 'Captain would like to try it. Miss Winnie is very fond of it — only she has not come to-night.”

uOh, I see!” said Madam, laughing carelessly— “ it was made for Miss Winnie then, and cook kindly condescends to give us a morsel. I am sure we are flattered! No, of‘course the child has not come to-night — how could you expect it, Llanyon? Come, Stephen. I always like my green tea after chess; indeed, during a prolonged and well-played game I like it to sip at intervals whilst I am playing; but we are hardly in need of it to-night.”

Madam Vivian was one of those people who do not easily forgive.

“ Who is c Miss Winnie? ’ ” Captain Tredennick asked. “ I never heard of that young lady before.”

“ Oh, a little girl who conies to read or play to me in the evening,” said Madam, intent on the exact flavouring of her tea. “ Won’t you try the lemon essence, Tredennick? It’s a vast improvement. She’s a nice little creature, poor child.”

Tredennick’s eyes appeared to question, whilst he spoke no word — he was, in truth, at that moment calculating the time of the tide, 'and the probable position of some home¬ ward-bound vessels of which he knew.

“ Not a very comfortable home, poor child,” said Madam,

ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING.

in reply to his look; “ a step mother, and a parcel of disa¬ greeable children, you know, and poor Winnie made a kind of drudge for them. I would have taken her altogether as a little companion, but her step-mother had the impertinence to tell me — to tell me,” repeated Madam, setting hack her well¬ shaped head, with its trembling diadem of lace, and her full white throat — “ that Winnie could not be spared from home! Her father came to apologise, and wished me to take Winnie, but I, of course, refused.”

Stephen Tredennick did not quite see the force or justice of the “ of course,” but he merely asked —

“ What is he?”

“A Coastguard officer. He has been in the Royal Navy, and held the rank of lieutenant,” replied Madam Vivian. “You ideally should taste this ‘heavy-cake,’ Tredennick; cook always makes it deliciously. Of course, only that she is a gentleman’s daughter, I would not make a companion of poor little Winnie, though she is such a clever little being — plays quite prettily, and sings a little, and reads beautifully — quite a natural gift, poor child!”

Again Tredennick did not see, under all the circumstances, the force and justice of the “of course,” but said nothing; the allusion to the Coastguard service having sent his mind off, through the wild darkness of the bleak March night on the English coast, the driving rain and howling blast, to smugglers’ adventures, skirmishes, captures, and escapes, in the sultry gloom of tropical nights beneath the silver glory of the Southern Cross, and to the pirate’s darker craft, like a fell bird of prey darting amidst the

Summer isles of Eden lying in dark purple spheres of sea.

An impatient clink of the china and silver resulting in a tiny chime brought him back with a start to the reality of Madam Vivian’s richly furnished drawing-room, all green, in different shades and depths of hue, as regarded its upholstery and drapery of velvet and satin damask, all aglow with the light of wax-candles and blazing firelight, all glittering with black walnut-woods and heavy dull-gold frames (Madam Vivian liked green in her rooms — it suited her complexion, and it did not tire her eyes, she said; she liked wax-candles and large fires; and she chose black walnut in preference to gayer and less chaste carvings) — to the contemplation of Madam’s pale handsome face with a faint hue, the last flush of the once exquisite roses of her cheeks, relieving it from actual

12 ALL IN THE WILD MAECH MOKNING.

pallor or sallowness — to the contemplation of her silvery waves of shining hair, her rich lustreless trailing black silk, the dainty tea-table, and Madam’s jewelled fingers, with sparks of rainbow fire on them as they moved hither and thither amongst the tea-equipage; and then the wild storm and rain, drenching the windows outside, claimed him again.

“ Hark! ” said Madam suddenly, dropping the sugar-tongs with a deafening clash — “ it never can be! Did you not hear a knock and ring, Tredennick? ”

“Certainly I did,” he replied, in some surprise.

“ It can never be that child! ” said Madam irritably. “It* could not be possible! How slow Llanyon is! ”

To alleviate her impatience, Tredennick had risen and laid his hand on the lock, when he heard the hall-door unbarred, and then shut hastily against the storm, as some one rushed in with an ejaculation.

“ It’s Miss Winnie, Madam,” said the old butler, as Tre¬ dennick opened the drawing-room door; and at the same moment a small muffled-up figure, apparently dripping with wet, appeared in the brightly lit portal.

“Winifred!” cried Madam Vivian, sharply — Madam’s voice was very clear, and rather high-pitched, and could be very shrill and sharp when she chose.

“Yes, Madam,” came in rather muffled-up tones from the dripping figure.

“ What on earth induced you to come out on such a night?” Madam demanded, 'her fair smooth forehead lined with dis¬ pleasure. “ In torrents of rain, darkness and storm, and at this hour, too! Did you imagine I wanted to be read to at nine o’clock in the evening?”

“ It was much earlier when I left home, Madam,” the little wet bundled-up figure said humbly. “ It was only half-past seven when I left home, and the storm overtook me — and I had to go errands besides.”

Madam compressed her well-cut pink lips, and poured out another cup of tea for herself.

“Well, Winifred ” — sugaring, creaming, and flavouring the beverage very delicately, but without raising her eyes from her employment — “as you have been ridiculous enough to quit your own home, and come through darkness and storm until you are covered with mud and wet from head to foot, for the very laudable purpose of reading to me at an hour when I shall be going to bed — as you would scarcely be presentable for the next two hours — you had better go down to cook and

ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING.

get your clothes dried, and have some hot tea or something. Such an idea! I am sure, Tredennick, you must think me a considerate woman to expect a young girl to come more than two miles along the cliffs, on such a night as this, to read to me! Positively! ” Madam was very angry, and spilled some of her delicate tea over her cambric handkerchief. “ Shut the door, please, Winifred, and go down to cook, as I told you.”

The little dark wet figure listened quietly to the last word of the reproof, and then softly shut the door and stole away.

“Did you ever know anything so preposterous?” said Madam, angrily, to Tredennick. “The idea of the girl’s, attempting such a thing, and that abominable step-mother of hers and her stupid father to allow her! That is the worst of Winnie: she is so excessively stupid — silly, you know — a childish stupidity without an idea of discretion or judgment.

I am really exceedingly provoked with Winnie. She will run over here in all weathers — glad to get away from her wretched home, I suppose; but then I shall have the blame if anything happens to her. Just imagine, if that child were blown over the cliffs, or Tregarthen Head — she lives half a mile beyond Tregarthen — what a state I should be in! Accused of her untimely end, I dare say, by all her friends and relations! ”

“ She does not seem to have many, poor little lassie!” commented Captain Tredennick, commiseratingly.

“No, indeed,” said Madam Vivian, self-complacently, ignoring any second meaning in his words; “ she is always running after me — seems almost to cling to me, poor child!”

Madam was fond of her faithful little protegeey pitied her poverty and friendlessness, recognised the “poor child’s” natural gifts and social attractions, yet she sat there com¬ posedly drinking her high-flavoured costly beverage, and lan¬ guidly tasting the morsels of rich cake on her plate, luxuri¬ ating in the cosy warmth and elegance she loved, while the “ poor child ” had been peremptorily banished, cold, wet, and weary as she was, and bidden to seek what rest and restora¬ tion she could find from the hands of servants. Madam was utterly unconscious of any unkindness. Passing through the homage of her flattered girlhood to the more slavish homage of her indulged imperious wifehood, she had never felt what it was to love another better than herself — never felt one touch of that

Love born of sorrow*

Which like sorrow is true—*

ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING.

which makes the true heart beat so tenderly for another’s heart grief. She had never known one throb of self-sacri¬ ficing passionate affection beneath her childless breast.

Stephen Tredennick did not remember or know of this, and make her the allowance which must be made for those placidly self-satisfied, prosperous-lived, cold, untried natures. He was surprised and displeased; and the remembrance of the desolate, humble little figure drove all other considera¬ tions out of his head.

He was very silent for a long time, until Madam, impa¬ tiently abandoning all further attempts at conversation, pushed her cup aside, and betook herself to the perusal of one of “ Mudie’s last.”

“ You are tired, I dare say, Tredennick,” she said curtly; “ pray do not stand on any ceremony. I shall read for an hour or so.”

“Very well, aunt,” he replied, and, bidding her good-night, quitted the room.

Chapter II

A quarter of an hour afterwards Captain Stephen Treden¬ nick, instead of being ensconced in the well-lighted, wellwarmed bachelor rooms which were given up for the nonce to him and tobacco-smoke, was prowling about, in a state of dire uncertainty, though gloomy, draughty passages and rooms in the lower regions of Rose worthy House, and in close proximity to the cellars and pantries.

“ I really must satisfy myself,” he muttered self-apologetically — “ I really must know if my aunt intends sending that poor little girl home along the cliffs through such a gale and rain as this. The poor child is safe for coughs and colds long enough, I dare say. I really should not wonder if she were made to return as she came. I wonder at aunt Vivian! I really never would - ”

Here Captain Tredennicl^s kind-heartedness and progress¬ ive search brought him up t6 a closed door, beneath which shone a light, and through which came the sound of women’s voices.

“I beg your pardon — would you be kind enough to tell me,” he began, with a true gentlemanly courtesy to servants, and especially women-servants, as he gently knocked, and, being bidden to enter, pushed the door ajar.

The room, a small, cosy, humbly-furnished parlour, with a bright fire, a singing tea kettle, and a most fragrant perfume of tea, toast, and cake, was evidently that comfortable sanc¬ tum of the female chiefs of the kingdom below stairs, “the housekeeper’s room; ” nor had Captain Tredennick any diffi¬ culty in recognising those personages in the prim, genteel, silk attired lady’s maid and the rosy, rotund, white-aproned cook.

“Would you tell me if the little girl — that poor little body who came here a while ago through the storm - ”

He stopped; for the cook had risen at the sound of his voice, and curtsied, toasting fork in hand, smiling in the direction of the little arm-chair opposite the lady’s maid.

“ Oh, there she is! ” said Captain Tredennick, much relieved, when, at the first glance in the direction the cook had indi¬ cated, he perceived a small figure, huddled in a bright flaringcoloured shawl and a rather bundled-up-looking costume, resting in the soft little, shabby-pillowed chair by the bright fireside. “ I am glad to see you are being comfortably taken care of,” he added, pleasantly. “ I was afraid that you might have been foolish enough to venture home by the cliffs this wild night — you will not attempt it, I hope?”

The little figure half rose from her seat, trying to arrange her cumbersome drapery, which evidently belonged to a far larger and taller person, and holding the gay crimson-andyellow shawl tightly around her.

“ Oh no, sir, thank you,” she said, and a timid flush rose over her small pale face up to the very roots of her hair. “ Since I have come, Madam Vivian says I am to stop to-night at Roseworthy; and Mrs. Grose, the cook, and Miss Trewhella have been very kind to me.”

She smiled a little smile of shy girlish fun at her big shawl and trailing skirts.

“ Not at all, Miss Winnie dear,” interposed Miss Trewhella, with a genteel short cough and deprecatory gesture. “ Your dress was perfectly wet through, you know — perfectly wet, sir,” she added, turning to Captain Tredennick with a politely explanatory air; “ and of course we had to resort to remedies to prevent poor Miss Winnie from catching cold — poor child.”

“ Indeed, yes,” Mrs. Grose put in, with a broad humorous smile on her round, red, shining face; “ she was as wet as a

ALL IN THE WILD MARCH MORNING.

drowned rat, Captain Stephen, sir.” Miss Trewhella coughed again to drown the vulgar simile, but Mrs. Grose went on persistently, the fat pleasant smile beginning to widen into a laugh. “No wonder, such a terrible soaking night as this. She hadn’t a dry thread on her — had you, Miss Winnie, dearie? We had to take every stitch off of her, poor child; and she

has nothing on now only - ” Miss Trewhella coughed as if

she would break a blood-vessel, and darted a look of dignified horror at the cook — “only some things of mine and Miss Trewhella’s, sir,” continued the cook equably, proceeding to butter the toast; “ and we are a-making of her a bit com¬ fortable.”

“Indeed, so I see,” said Captain Stephen, looking pleased; “ there is no fear for any one in these comfortable quarters, Mrs. Grose. Don’t let me disturb you, I beg,” he went on, moving nearer to the fire as Miss Trewhella glided away with a profound and graceful curtsey. He meant to shake hands with the little girl, and warn her to avoid travelling by Tregarthen Head any more on dark stormy evenings like this. “ I' can not tell how you could manage to keep your feet along that cliff road over the Head in such a gale,” he was saying, when his notice became attracted to the young girl’s hair.

That it was thick, and dark, and hanging in dishevelled masses over her shoulders he had seen at first, but not until the blazing firelight and his immediate proximity revealed it to him did he perceive its lustrous, wavy abundance, the burnished golden light on the wealth of ripples and tresses, naturally curling from the effects of the late wetting and sudden hot drying, and its great length. As she sat, it fell below her waist, and lay in silken masses in her lap.

With honest, simple, admiring surprise, with not a spice of sailor gallantry in his kind gray eyes, he laid his hand lightly on the little bowed head by his side.

“ My dear child, what beautiful hair you have! ” he said.

She looked up in quick astonishment, her quiet, rather plain face lighting up strangely writh pleasure, and a pair of very dark deep-set eyes seeking his most earnestly.

Stephen Tredennick had read — as who has not? — the beau¬ tiful and touching story of “ The Child of the Marshalsea;” and in this moment there flashed across his memory the scene where the wretched woman, who yields to “ Little Dorrit’s” tender pleadings for a few words as they encounter each other in the dreary London streets, starts back from the first look into the pitying eyes with the wild cry, “ You are a woman!”