"Love in a cottage" is a time-honoured phrase, which changes its
significance considerably, according to the lips that utter it. To some
persons, Love in a cottage would be suggestive of dreary obscurity,
privation, cold mutton, and one maid-of-all-work. To others, it might
mean a villa with its lawn running down to the Thames, a basket-phaeton
and pair of ponies, and the modest simplicity of footmen without powder.
To another class of minds, again, Love in a cottage might stand for a
comprehensive hieroglyph of honest affection, sufficiently robust to
live and thrive even on a diet of cold mutton, and warm-blooded enough
to defy the nip of poverty's east winds.
Lady Seely had joked, in her cheerful, candid way, with her niece-in-law
about her establishment in life, and had said, "Well, Castalia, you'll
have love in a cottage, at all events! Some people are worse off. And at
your age, you know (quite between ourselves), you must think yourself
lucky to get a husband at all."
Miss Kilfinane had made some retort to the effect that she did not
intend to remain all her life in a cottage, with or without love; and
that if Lord Seely could do nothing for Ancram, she (Castalia) had other
connections who might be more influential.
But, in truth, Castalia did think that she could be quite content to
live with Algernon Errington under a thatched roof; having only a
conventional and artificial conception of such a dwelling, derived
chiefly from lithographed drawing-copies. It was not, of course, that
Castalia Kilfinane did not know that thatched hovels are frequently
comfortless, ill-ventilated, "the noted haunt of" earwigs, and limited
in the accommodation necessary for a genteel family. But such knowledge
was packed away in some quite different department of her mind from that
which habitually contemplated her own personal existence, present and
future. Wiser folks than Castalia are apt to anticipate exceptions to
general laws in their own favour.
Castalia was undoubtedly in love with Algernon. That is to say, she
would have liked better to be his wife in poverty and obscurity, than to
accept a title and a handsome settlement from any other man whom she had
ever seen; although she would probably have taken the latter had the
chance been offered to her.
Nor is that bringing so hard an accusation against her as may at first
sight appear. She would have liked best to be Algernon's wife; but for
penniless Castalia Kilfinane to marry a poor man when she might have had
a rich one, would have required her to disregard some of the strongest
and most vital convictions of the persons among whom she lived. Let
their words be what they might, their deeds irrefragably proved that
they held poverty to be the one fatal, unforgiven sin, which so covered
any multitude of virtues as utterly to hide and overwhelm them. You
could no more expect Castalia to be impervious to this creed, than you
could expect a sapling to draw its nourishment from a distant soil,
rather than from the earth immediately around its roots. To be sure
there have been vigorous young trees that would strike out tough
branching fibres to an incredible distance, in search of the food that
was best for them. Such human plants are rare; and poor narrow-minded,
ill-educated Castalia was not of them.
Had she been much beloved, it is possible that she might have ripened
into sweetness under that celestial sunshine. But it was not destined to
be hers.
In some natures the giving even of unrequited love is beautifying to
the character. But I think that in such cases the beauty is due to that
pathetic compassion which blends with all love of a high nature for a
lower one. Do you think that all the Griseldas believe in their lords'
wisdom and justice? Do you fancy that the fathers of prodigal sons do
not oftentimes perceive the young vagabonds' sins and shortcomings with
a terrible perspicuity that pierces the poor fond heart like sharp
steel? Do you not know that Cordelia saw more quickly and certainly than
the sneering, sycophant courtiers, every weakness and vanity of the
rash, choleric old king? But there are hearts in which such knowledge is
transmuted not into bitter resentment, but into a yearning, angelic
pity. Only, in order to feel this pity, we must rise to some point above
the erring one. Now poor Castalia had been so repressed by "low
ambition," and the petty influences of a poverty ever at odds with
appearances, that the naturally weak wings of her spirit seemed to have
lost all power of soaring.
The earliest days Mrs. Algernon Errington spent in her new home were
passed in making a series of disagreeable discoveries. The first
discovery was that a six-roomed brick cottage is, practically, a far
less commodious dwelling than any she had hitherto lived in. The walls
of Ivy Lodge (that was the name of the little house, which had not a
twig of greenery to soften its bare red face) appeared so slight that
she fancied her conversation could be overheard by the passersby in the
road. The rooms were so small that her dress seemed to fill them to
overflowing, although those were not the days of crinolines and long
trains. The little staircase was narrow and steep. The kitchen was so
close to the living rooms that, at dinner-time, the whole house seemed
to exhale a smell of roast mutton. The stowing away of her wardrobe
taxed to the utmost the ingenuity of her maid. And the few articles of
furniture which Lady Seely had raked out from disused sitting-rooms,
appeared almost as Brobdingnagian in Ivy Lodge as real tables and chairs
would seem beside the furniture of a doll's house.
A second discovery--made very quickly after her arrival in Whitford--was
still more unpleasant. It was this: that a fine London-bred lady's-maid
is an inconvenient and unmanageable servant to introduce into a small
humble household. Poor Castalia "couldn't think what had come to
Slater!" And Slater went about with a thunderous brow and sulky mouth,
conveying by her manner a sort of contemptuous compassion for her
mistress, and a contempt by no means compassionate for everybody else in
the house.
The stout Whitford servant-of-all-work offended her beyond forgiveness,
on the very first day of their acquaintance, by bluntly remarking that
well-cooked bacon and cabbage was a good-enough dinner for anybody; and
that if Mrs. Slater had see'd as many hungry folks as she (Polly) had,
she would say her grace and fall-to with a thankful heart instead of
turning up her nose, and picking at good wholesome victuals with a fork!
Moreover, Polly was not in the least awe-stricken by Mrs. Slater's black
silk gown, or the gold watch she wore at her belt. She observed,
cheerfully, that such-like fine toggery was all very well at church or
chapel; and, for her part, she always had, and always would, put a bit
of a flower in her bonnet on Sundays, and them mississes as didn't like
it must get some one else to serve 'em. But, when she was about her
work, she liked to be dressed in working clothes. And a servant as
wanted to bring second-hand parlour manners into the kitchen seemed to
her a poor cretur'--neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red-herring.
All which indignities Slater visited on her mistress, finding it
impossible to disconcert or repress Polly, who only laughed heartily at
her genteelest flights.
But these things were not the worst. The worst was that Algernon showed
very plainly a disinclination to sympathise with his wife's annoyance,
and his intention of withdrawing himself from all domestic troubles, as
if he considered them to be clearly no concern of his. Mrs. Errington,
indeed, would have come to the rescue of her daughter-in-law, but
neither of Mrs. Algernon's servants were disposed to submit to Mrs.
Errington's authority. And the good lady was no more inclined than her
son to take trouble and expose herself to unpleasantness for any one
else's sake.
Castalia and her mother-in-law did not grow more attached to each other
the more intimate their acquaintance became. They had one sentiment in
common--namely, love for Algernon. But this sentiment did not tend to
unite them. Indeed--putting the rivalry of lovers out of the question,
of course--it would be a mistake to conclude that because A and B both
love C, therefore A and B must love each other. Mrs. Errington thought
that Castalia worried Algernon by complaints. Castalia thought that Mrs.
Errington was often a thorn in her son's side by reason of her
indulgence in the opposite feelings; that is to say, over-sanguine and
boastful prognostications.
"My dear Algy," his mother would say, "there is not the least doubt that
you have a brilliant career before you. Your talents were appreciated by
the highest in the land, directly you became known to them. It is
impossible that you should be left here in the shade. No, no; Whitford
won't hold you long. Of that I am certain!"
To which Castalia would reply that Whitford ought never to have held him
at all; that the post he filled there was absurdly beneath his standing
and abilities, and that Lord Seely would never have dreamt of offering
Ancram such a position if it had not been for my lady, who is the most
selfish, domineering woman in the world.
"I'm sorry to have to say it, Mrs. Errington, since she is your
relation. And you needn't suppose that she cares any the more for Ancram
because he's her far-away cousin. At most, she only looks upon him as a
kind of poor relation that ought to put up with anything. And she's
always abusing her own family. She said to Uncle Val, in my presence,
that the Ancrams could never be satisfied, do what you would for them;
so he might as well make up his mind to that, first as last. She told me
to my face, the week before I was married, that Ancram and I ought to go
down on our knees in thankfulness to her, for having got us a decent
living. That was pretty impudent from her to a Kilfinane, I think!"
Algernon laughed with impartial good-humour at his mother's
rose-coloured visions and his wife's gloomier views; but the good humour
was a little cynical, and his eyes had lost their old sparkle of
enjoyment; or, at least, it shone there far less frequently than
formerly.
As to his business--his superintendence of the correspondence, by
letter, between Whitford and the rest of the civilised world--that, it
must be owned, seemed to sit lightly on the new postmaster. There was an
elderly clerk in the office, named Gibbs. He was uncle to Miss Bodkin's
maid Jane and her brother the converted groom, and was himself a member
of the Wesleyan Society. Mr. Gibbs had been employed many years in the
Whitford Post-office, and understood the routine of its business very
well. Algernon relied on Mr. Gibbs, he said, and made himself very
pleasant in his dealings with that functionary. What was the use, he
asked, of disturbing and harassing a tried servant by a too restless
supervision? He thought it best, if you trusted your subordinates at
all, to trust them thoroughly.
And, certainly, Mr. Gibbs was very thoroughly trusted; so much so,
indeed, that all the trouble and responsibility of the office-work
appeared to be shifted on to his shoulders. Yet Mr. Gibbs seemed not to
be discontented with this state of things. Possibly he looked forward to
promotion. Algernon's wife and mother freely gave it to be understood in
the town that Whitford was not destined long to have the honour of
retaining Mr. Ancram Errington. Mr. Gibbs did the work; and, perhaps,
he hoped eventually to receive the pay. Why should he not step into the
vacant place of postmaster, when his chief should be translated to a
higher sphere?
I daresay that, in these times of general reform, of competitive
examinations and official purity, no such state of things could be
possible as existed in the Whitford Post-office forty odd years ago. I
have only faithfully to record the events of my story, and to express my
humble willingness to believe that, nowadays, "_nous avons change tout
cela_." I must, however, be allowed distinctly to assert, and
unflinchingly to maintain, that Algernon took no pains to acquire any
knowledge of his business; and that, nevertheless, the postal
communications between Whitford and the rest of the world appeared to go
on much as they had gone on during the reign of his predecessor.
Mr. Gibbs was a close, quiet man, grave and sparing of speech. He had
known something of the Erringtons for many years, having been a crony of
old Maxfield's once upon a time. Mr. Gibbs remembered seeing Algernon's
smiling, rosy face and light figure flitting through the long passage at
old Max's in his school-boy days. He remembered having once or twice met
the majestic Mrs. Errington in the doorway; and could recollect quite
well how the tinkling sound of the harpsichord and Algy's fresh young
voice used to penetrate into the back parlour on prayer-meeting nights,
and fill the pauses between Brother Jackson's nasal dronings or Brother
Powell's passionate supplications. Mr. Gibbs had not then conceived a
favourable idea of the Erringtons, looking on them as worldly and
unconverted persons, of whom Jonathan Maxfield would do well to purge
his house. But Mr. Gibbs kept his official life and his private life
very perfectly asunder, and he allowed no sectarian prejudices to make
him rusty and unmanageable in his relations with the new postmaster.
Then, Mr. Gibbs was not altogether proof against the charm of Algy's
manner. Once upon a time Algy had been pleasant to all the world, for
the sheer pleasure of pleasing. Years, in their natural course, had a
little hardened the ductility of his compliant manners--a little
roughened the smoothness of his once almost flawless temper. But
disappointment, and the--to Algernon--almost unendurable sense that he
stood lower in his friends' admiration (I do not say estimation) than
formerly, had changed him more rapidly than the mere course of time
would have done. Still, when Mr. Ancram Errington strongly desired to
attract, persuade, or fascinate, there were few persons who could resist
him. He found it worth while to fascinate Mr. Gibbs, desiring not only
that his clerk should carry his burden for him, but should carry it so
cheerfully and smilingly as to make him feel comfortable and complacent
at having made the transfer.
I have said that disappointment had changed Algernon. He was
disappointed in his marriage. It was not that he had been a victim to
any romantic illusions as regarded his wife. He had had his little
love-romance some time ago; had it, and tasted it, and enjoyed it as a
child enjoys a fairy tale, feeling that it belongs to quite another
realm from the everyday world of nursery dinners, Latin grammars, and
torn pinafores, and not in the least expecting to see Fanfreluche fly
down the chimney into the school-room, or to find Cinderella's glass
slipper on the stairs as he goes up to bed. Romances that touch the
fancy only, and in which the heart has no share, are easily put off and
on. Algernon had wilfully laid his romance aside, and did not regret it.
Castalia's lack of charm, and sweetness, and sympathy would not greatly
have troubled him--did he not know it all beforehand?--had she been able
to help him into a brilliant position, and to cause him to be received
and caressed by her noble relatives and the delightful world of
fashionable society. It was not that she failed to put any sunlight into
his days, and to fill his home with a sweet atmosphere of love and
trust. Algy would willingly enough have dispensed with that sort of
sunshine if he could but have had plenty of wax candles and fine
crystal lustres for them to sparkle in. Give him a handsome suite of
drawing-rooms, filled with the rich odours of pastille and pot-pourri,
and Algy would make no sickly lamentations over the absence of any
"sweet atmosphere" such as I have written of above. Only put his
attractive figure into a suitable frame, and he would be sure to receive
praise and sympathy enough, and to have a pleasant life of it.
No; he could not accuse himself of having been the victim of any
sentimental illusion in marrying Castalia. And yet he had been cheated!
He had bestowed himself without receiving the due _quid pro quo_. In a
word, he began to fear that it had not been worth his while to marry the
Honourable Miss Kilfinane. And sometimes the thought darted like a
twinge of pain through the young man's mind--might it not have been
worth his while to marry someone else?
"Someone else" was talked of as an heiress. "Someone else" was said by
the gossips to be so good a match that she might have her pick of the
town--aye, and a good chance among the county people! But Algernon
smothered down all vain and harassing speculations founded on an "if it
had been!" Neither did he by any means hopelessly resign himself to his
present position, nor despair of obtaining a better one. He persisted
in looking on his employment as merely provisional and temporary; so
that, in fact, the worse things became in his Whitford life, the less he
would do to mend them, taking every fresh disgust and annoyance as a new
reason why--according to any rationally conceivable theory of events--he
must speedily be removed to a region in which a gentleman of his
capacities for refined enjoyment might be free to exercise them,
untrammelled by vulgar cares.