“I think I have been laid up nearly two years on this sofa, Phillis?”
said I.
“Two years, come the 6th of October,” said Phillis.
“And, during that time, what mercies I have received! what alleviations,
what blessings!”
“What sea-kale and early spare-o’-grass! what baskets of grapes and
pottles of strawberries!” said Phillis.
“What songs in the night, what in-pourings of strength!” said I.
“So many pheasants, too, and partridges!” said Phillis. “Teal, woodcocks,
and wild ducks!”
“David might well say, the Lord maketh our bed in our sickness, Phillis,”
said I.
“Such a pretty bed as it is, too!” said Phillis. “So white, sweet, and
clean! Russia sheets and Marseilles quilt, bleached on a heath common,
close by a sweetbriar hedge!”
“Not only that—” said I.
“Not only that,” said Phillis, “but such pretty daisy-fringe to the
curtains, and a clean tarletan blind to the window.”
“Such a lovely view from the window!” said I.
“‘Ever charming, ever new.’”
“You see everything that goes by,” said Phillis.
“Yes, Phillis. And then the hill! I scarcely ever look at it without
saying to myself, ‘I will look unto the hill from whence cometh my help.’”
“The doctor lives the other way, though,” said Phillis.
“I am never weary of watching the continually varying effects of light
and shade on it. And yet, how loath I was to settle in this place! But,
directly I saw that hill, with its steep, chalky sides, its patches
of short turf, its fringe of beeches at the top, and its kilns and
lime-burners’ cottages at the base, with the steep bridle-roads and
sheep-tracks winding up it, I felt, ‘That hill is my fate: there must
be a fresh air blowing over it, a fine view from it; and, with God’s
blessing, it may make me wiser, healthier, and happier than I am now.’”
“It hasn’t made you healthier, though,” said Phillis.
“O yes, Phillis, it did. For a long while after I came here, I used to
walk to it, and at length up it, every day. At first, I was surprised to
find how steep and long the road was, even to its foot.”
“Oh, it’s a goodish step,” said Phillis.
“But I thought nothing of it afterwards,” said I. “At first I used
to call it (to myself), the Hill Difficulty. After that, the Hill of
Conquered Wishes.”
“Because you couldn’t get to the top,” suggested Phillis.
“Not only that. There were a good many things I wished altered—things
that I could not alter for myself, and that I did not feel quite sure it
would be right to pray to God to alter.”
“Such as puddles and miry bits of road,” said Phillis.
“No, not things of that sort. And so I used to think them over, as
I walked up that hill, and struggle with myself to take them kindly,
humbly, and submissively, as they were, such seeming to be God’s will;
and at length I succeeded.”
“That was a good job,” said Phillis.
“At the top of the hill, there was a steep patch of turf, on which, as it
seemed to me, grew every wild-flower that I knew. I used to call it (to
myself), the Garden of the Lord.”
“Wasn’t that rather wicked?” said Phillis.
“Why, whose else was it, Phillis? Man had nothing to do with it.”
“A woman had, you mean,” said Phillis.
“No, I don’t.”
“Why, wasn’t you a woman?—leastways, a lady?”
“But I had not had the planting of it.”
“Oh, I didn’t know it was planted,” said Phillis. “You said the things
growed wild.”
“Well, so they did—the Lord planted them. I used to stand there, looking
at them, and smelling them, and inhaling the sweet, fresh air, till He
seemed nearer to me there than anywhere else.”
“La!” said Phillis.
“Then, if I felt very strong, I used to go on yet further, and climb
quite up to the trees at the top. I used to call that (to myself), the
Wood of the Holy Spirit.”
“I wonder you wasn’t afraid,” said Phillis.
“No, ‘the voice of the Lord’ seemed walking in the garden, and took away
all fear. Of what should I be afraid?”
“Tramps,” said Phillis.
“I never met any.”
“That was a wonder, then,” said Phillis, “for they mostly come right away
over that hill, to and from the Fox’s Hole.”
“Stay a minute, Phillis, and I will explain to you why I never was
afraid.”
“Dear me! and I’ve been awaiting and awaiting all this time,” cried
Phillis, “to baste the chicken! I only stepped away from it for a moment,
to give you your medicine!”
“Go, baste the chicken, then, Phillis. I beg your pardon for detaining
you. I forgot how many things you have to do, and to think of. Go,
Phillis, and baste the chicken.”
This is just the way she goes on from day to day. It is certainly very
discouraging. An invalid finds it particularly hard to be without a
sympathizer; or, at any rate, a companion that can understand one. As to
calling me “ma’am,” she does not—and will not—once a week. But a Norway
deal won’t take the polish of mahogany; and a rough, stout, country
servant, will not convert into a Mrs. Flounce or a Mrs. Mincing. It is
surprising what work she can get through—what weights she can lift. I am
sure she could lift _me_.
* * * * *
The way I came to have Phillis was this. My nice maid, Hannah, married;
and Jane, her successor, did not suit me at all. My energetic neighbour,
Miss Burt, who is almost too bustling and busy for her friends, came in
one day when I was very ill, and told me she had found me a “sterling
creature,” who would suit me exactly. I had never empowered her to look
out. And when I heard that this sterling creature had only lived in a
farm, and afterwards with an old single gentleman, I did not feel very
desirous to enter into treaty with her. Miss Burt, however, told me she
had told her “there could be no harm in calling,” in which I did not
quite coincide; and she enlarged so much on her fidelity, sobriety,
honesty, cleanliness, and general proficiency, that I was somewhat
overpowered, and agreed to see the young person when she called, if I
were well enough. “Young! oh, she won’t see thirty again!” cried Miss
Burt, as she swung out of the room; and indeed I believe several more
years had been numbered by this “daughter of the plough.” But Phillis
is exceeding sensitive on the subject. “My age is my own,” says she,
shortly; “my age, and my name.” The latter, however, she told me one
day, in an uncommon fit of good humour, had been given her by her father
because it was in a favourite old song of his. “And when parson,” pursued
Phillis, “objected that it wasn’t a _Christian_ name, father said he
should like to know whose business it was to choose the name, his or the
parson’s. So there,” added Phillis, triumphantly, “I fancy father had the
best on’t!”