A GLANCE INTO THE COTTAGE.
“Where’s he for honest poverty
Wha hangs his head, and a’ that,
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that.”
BURNS.
The “small grey speck” just visible from the summit of Nettleby Tower,
on nearer approach expands into a stone cottage, which, excepting that
it has two storeys instead of one, and can boast an iron knocker to the
door, and an apology for a verandah round the window, has little that
could serve to distinguish it from the dwelling of a common labourer.
We will not pause in the little garden, even to look at the bed of
polyanthus in which its possessor takes great pride; we will at once
enter the single sitting-room which occupies almost the whole of the
ground floor, and after taking a glance at the apartment, give a little
attention to its occupants.
It is evident, even on the most superficial survey, that different
tastes have been concerned in the fitting up of the cottage. Most of the
furniture is plain, even to coarseness; the table is of deal, and so are
the chairs, but over the first a delicate cover has been thrown, and
the latter—to the annoyance of the master of the house—are adorned with
a variety of tidies, which too often form themselves into superfluous
articles of dress for those who chance to occupy the seats. The wall
is merely white-washed, but there has been an attempt to make it look
gay, by hanging on it pale watercolour drawings of flowers, bearing but
an imperfect resemblance to nature. One end of the room is devoted to
the arts, and bears unmistakable evidence of the presence of woman in
the dwelling. A green guitar-box, from which peeps a broad pink ribbon,
occupies a place in the corner, half hidden by a little table, on which,
most carefully arranged, appear several small articles of vertu. A tiny,
round mirror occupies the centre, attached to an ornamental receptacle
for cards; two or three miniatures in morocco cases, diminutive cups and
saucers of porcelain, and a pair of china figures which have suffered
from time, the one wanting an arm and the other a head,—these form the
chief treasures of the collection, if I except a few gaily bound books,
which are so disposed as to add to the general effect.
At this end of the room sits a lady engaged in cutting out a tissue paper
ornament for the grate; for though the weather is cold, no chilliness of
atmosphere would be thought to justify a fire in that room from the 1st
of April to that of November. The lady, who is the only surviving member
of the family of Timon Bardon and his late wife the farmer’s daughter,
seems to have numbered between thirty and forty years of age,—it would be
difficult to say to which date the truth inclines, for Cecilia herself
would never throw light on the subject. Miss Bardon’s complexion is
sallow; her tresses light, the eye-lashes lighter, and the brows but
faintly defined. There is a general appearance of whity brown about the
face, which is scarcely redeemed from insipidity by the lustre of a pair
of mild, grey eyes.
But if there be a want of colour in the countenance, the same fault
cannot be found in the attire, which is not only studiously tasteful
and neat, but richer in texture, and more fashionable in style, than
might have been expected in the occupant of so poor a cottage. The fact
is, that Cecilia Bardon’s pride and passion is dress; it has been her
weakness since the days of her childhood, when a silly mother delighted
to deck out her first-born in all the extravagance of fashion. It is this
pride which makes the struggle with poverty more severe, and which is
the source of the selfishness which occasionally surprises her friends
in one, on all other points, the most kindly and considerate of women.
Cecilia would rather go without a meal than wear cotton gloves, and a
silk dress affords her more delight than any intellectual feast. She had
a sore struggle in her mind whether to expend the little savings of her
allowance on a much-needed curtain to the window to keep out draughts
in winter and glare in summer, a subscription to the village school, or
a pair of fawn-coloured kid boots, which had greatly taken her fancy.
Prudence, Charity, Vanity, contended together, but the fawn-coloured
boots carried the day! One of them is now resting on a footstool, shewing
off as neat a little foot as ever trod on a Brussels carpet,—at least,
such is the opinion of its possessor. Grim Pride must have laughed when
he framed his fetters of such flimsy follies as these!
Opposite to Cecilia sits her father, whose appearance, as well as
character, offers a strong contrast to that of his daughter. Dr. Bardon
is a man who, though his dress be of the commonest description, could
hardly be passed in a crowd without notice. His dark eyes flash under
thick, beetling, black brows with all the fire of youth; and but for the
long white hair which falls almost as low as his shoulders, and furrows
on each side of the mouth, caused by a trick of frequently drawing the
corners downwards, Timon Bardon would appear almost too young to be the
father of Cecilia. There is something leonine in the whole cast of his
countenance, something that conveys an impression that he holds the world
at bay, will shake his white mane at its darts, and make it feel the
power of his claws. The doctor’s occupation, however, at present is of
the quietest description,—he is reading an old volume of theology, and
his mind is absorbed in his subject. Presently a muttered “Good!” shows
that he is satisfied with his author, and Bardon, after vainly searching
his pockets, rises to look for a pencil to mark the passage that he
approves.
He saunters up to Cecilia’s show-table, and examines the ornamental
card-rack attached to the tiny round mirror.
“Never find anything useful here!” he growls to himself; then, addressing
his daughter, “Why don’t you throw away these dirty cards, I’m sick of
the very sight of them!”
Cecilia half rises in alarm, which occasions a shower of little pink
paper cuttings to flutter from her knee to the floor. “O papa! don’t,
don’t throw them away; they’re the countess’s wedding cards!”
Down went the corners of the lips. “Were they a duchess’s,” said Dr.
Bardon, “there would be no reason for sticking them there for years.”
“Only one year and ten months since Annabella married,” timidly
interposed Cecilia.
“What is it to me if it be twenty!” said the doctor, walking up and down
the room as he spoke; “she’s nothing to us, and we’re nothing to her!”
“O papa! you used always to like Annabella.”
“I liked Annabella well enough, but I don’t care a straw for the
countess; and if she had cared for me, she’d have managed to come four
miles to see me.”
“She has been abroad for some time, and—”
“And she has done with little people like us,” said the doctor, drawing
himself up to his full height, and looking as if he did not feel himself
to be little at all. “I force my acquaintance on no one, and would not
give one flower from my garden for the cards of all the peerage.”
Cecilia felt the conversation unpleasant, and did not care to keep it up.
She bent down, and picked up one by one the scraps of pink paper which
she had scattered. Something like a sigh escaped from her lips.
Dr. Bardon was the first to speak.
“I saw Augustine Aumerle yesterday at church; I suppose he’s on a visit
to his brother the vicar.”
“How very, very handsome he is!” remarked Cecilia.
“You women are such fools,” said the doctor, “you think of nothing but
looks.”
“But he’s so clever too, so wonderfully clever! They say he carried off
all the honours at Cambridge.”
“Much good they will do him,” growled the doctor, throwing himself down
on his chair; “I got honours too when I was at college, and I might
better have been sowing turnips for any advantage I’ve had out of them.
It’s the fool that gets on in the world!”
This, by the way, was a favourite axiom of Bardon’s, first adopted at
the suggestion of Pride, as being highly consolatory to one who had never
managed to get on in the world.
“I think that I see Ida and Mabel Aumerle crossing the road,” said
Cecilia, glancing out of the window. “How beautiful Ida is, and so
charming! I declare I think she’s an angel!”
“She’s well enough,” replied the doctor, in a tone which said that she
was that, but nothing more.
In a short time a little tap was heard at the door, and the vicar’s
daughters were admitted. Ida indeed looked lovely; a rapid walk in a cold
wind had brought a brilliant rose to her cheek, and as she laid on the
table a large paper parcel which she and her sister had carried by turns,
her eyes beamed with benevolent pleasure. Mabel was far less attractive
in appearance than her sister, a small upturned nose robbing her face of
all pretensions to beauty beyond what youth and good-humour might give;
but she also looked bright and happy, for the girl’s errand was one of
kindness. The want of a curtain in Bardon’s cold room had been noticed by
others than Cecilia, and the parcel contained a crimson one made up by
the young ladies themselves.
“Oh! what a beauty! what a love!” exclaimed Cecilia, in the enthusiasm of
grateful admiration. “Papa, only see what a splendid curtain dear Ida and
Mabel have brought us!”
The doctor was not half so enthusiastic. It has been said that there
are four arts difficult of attainment,—_how to give reproof, how to take
reproof, how to give a present, and how to receive one_. This difficulty
is chiefly owing to pride. Timon Bardon was more annoyed at a want having
been perceived, than gratified at its having been removed. He would
gladly enough have obliged the daughters of his pastor, but to be under
even a small obligation to them was a burden to his sensitive spirit. He
could hardly thank his young friends; and a stranger might have judged
from his manner that the Aumerles were depriving him of something that
he valued, rather than adding to his comforts. But Ida knew Bardon’s
character well, and made allowance for the temper of a peevish,
disappointed man. She seated herself by Cecilia, and began at once on a
different topic.
“I have a message for you, Miss Bardon. I saw Annabella on Saturday.”
“The countess!” cried the expectant Cecilia.
“She was at our house, and regretted that the threatening weather
prevented her driving on here.”
“I’d have been so delighted!” interrupted Cecilia, while the doctor
muttered to himself some inaudible remark.
“But she desired me to say, with her love, how much pleasure it would
give her if you and her old friend the doctor (these were her words)
would come to see her at Dashleigh Hall.”
The grey eyes of Miss Bardon lighted up with irrepressible pleasure, and
even the gruff old doctor uttered a rather complacent grunt.
“She begged,” said Mabel, “that you would drive over some morning and
take luncheon, and let her show you over the garden and park.”
“Then she’s not changed, dear creature!” exclaimed Cecilia.
“And she hopes before long,” continued Mabel, “to find herself again at
Milton Cottage.”
“Mill Cottage,” said the doctor gruffly; for the name of his tenement
had for many years been a disputed subject between him and his daughter
Cecilia;—“there’s common sense in that name: Mill Cottage, because it was
once connected with a mill. To turn it into ‘Milton’ is pure nonsense
and affectation. A fine title would hang about as well on this place
as knee-buckles and ruff on a ploughman!” And having thus given his
oracular opinion, Dr. Bardon strolled out into his garden, leaving the
young ladies to pursue uninterrupted conversation together, none the less
agreeable for his absence.
“You will excuse papa,” said Cecilia, feeling that some apology was
required for her father’s abrupt departure.
Dr. Bardon’s manner was far rougher and less courteous than it would
have been had he appeared as the lord of Nettleby Tower, instead of a
poor surgeon with indifferent practice. Whether it were that he was
soured by disappointment, or that his pride shrank from the idea of
appearing to cringe to those more favoured by fortune than himself, it
would be perhaps difficult to determine; he appeared to consider that
true dignity consisted in despising those outward advantages which he
would probably have overvalued had he himself possessed them. Thus, while
Cecilia’s pride led her to make the best possible appearance, and catch
any reflected gleam of grandeur from opulent or titled acquaintance, Dr.
Bardon rather gloried in the meanness of his home, never cared to hide
the patch upon his coat, and considered himself equal in his poverty to
any peer who wore the garter and the George.
The doctor appeared to have walked off his ill-humour, for when Ida and
Mabel bade adieu to Miss Bardon, they found him ready to escort them to
his gate. With not ungraceful courtesy he presented the young ladies with
a nosegay of his choicest hyacinths, and even condescended to say that
he valued their present for the sake of the fair hands that had worked
it! There was something of the “fine old English gentleman” lingering yet
about the disinherited man.