“‘Why Lonicera wilt thou name thy child?’
I asked the gardener’s wife, in accents mild.
‘We have a right,’ replied the sturdy dame:
And Lonicera was the infant’s name.”
Rather against the grain, I engaged Phillis. I was too ill to lose time,
and too ill to superintend her first start, consequently she fell into
her own way of doing things, and will not now adopt any improvement on
them without more exertion of authority on my part than I often feel
inclined for. I put up with her—and, perhaps, she puts up with me.
* * * * *
After living many of my earlier years neither in town nor country, but
in one of the western suburbs of London, I cannot express the pleasure
with which I hailed the novelty of a real country life. To exchange a
house in a row for a detached dwelling, in the midst of hills, copses,
and cow-pastures, was so delightful as to afford some compensation for
removing far away from many whom I dearly loved. Seven years my good
husband and I shared in tranquil married happiness; and, as he had
previously been a busy man in the city, the country was as new to him as
to me.
It is a good thing for leisurely people, of whatever age, to acquire the
habit of noting down what they observe of interest, in a new position.
To such a habit, we owe the rich storehouse of John Evelyn’s “Journal,”
and White’s “Natural History of Selborne;” two books which, perhaps, no
country but England could have produced. On going to Nutfield, I resolved
to observe everything, try many an experiment, keep a note-book, and ask
many questions.
We obtained possession of our house at Christmas; but did not go down to
it till the middle of February. In that month (as I failed not to enter
in my journal) the white wagtail re-appears, the woodlark, thrush, and
chaffinch begin to sing, rooks and partridges to pair, and geese to lay.
Mr. Cheerlove told me that the clamorous rook, the cheerful cuckoo, the
swift-darting marten, and the lively, sociable little red-breast, had
been called the birds of the four seasons. We arrived at Nutfield in the
rooks’ honeymoon.
The first thing that struck us was the air. How cold, but how fresh it
was! How clear and free from smoke the atmosphere! A thin blue mist rose
from the ground, but it was but the ghost of a London fog. Then again, as
Mr. Cheerlove remarked, the dirt, plentiful as it was, merely consisted
of earth and water mixed together, without any abominable additions,
and, compared with London mire, might even be called _clean_ dirt. The
leafless condition of the trees gave us the opportunity of admiring the
forms of their branches—the gradual and beautiful decrease of size and
increase of delicacy between the sturdy trunks and the smallest twigs.
The landscape was not destitute of green: the grass, though scanty
and coarse, still retained its colour, and much of the growing wood
was coated with fine moss; while the glossy laurel and cheerful holly
contrasted with the sober laurustinus. Here and there, in the garden, we
found a snowdrop, a hepatica, a yellow aconite, a Christmas rose, and a
few sweet-scented blossoms of the alpine coltsfoot.
When we began to explore the neighbourhood, we found scarcely any
wild-flowers, save now and then a daisy or sprig of gorse, or that
common-looking nettle that bears the splendid name of white archangel.
But we could say “a good time is coming!” and cheerfully await it.
Meanwhile the horse-chestnut, hazel, and honeysuckle were budding, and
the chickweed was putting forth its small white flowers; while the robin,
sparrow, wren, and thrush sang blithely among the bushes, and the lark
poured forth a short but lively song over our heads.
Mr. Cheerlove had accumulated a great many books, which, on wet days, it
was his delight to arrange. We had two country maids and a boy, who found
enough to do, but were not overworked. The first year we made scarcely
any acquaintances; but my sister Eugenia, many years younger than myself
(now, alas! no more), was frequently with us; and, after our loved
mother’s death, lived with us entirely. Before she did so, Mr. Cheerlove
and I used frequently to take little journeys in our one-horse carriage,
jogging on from one place to another, putting-up, when it suited us, at
some neat inn, and there spending a day, half-day, or two or three days,
according to the attractions of the neighbourhood. In this way we strayed
through many counties, and made acquaintance with many rivers, towns,
villages, churches, cathedrals, old castles, and abbeys.
At the end of seven years, my good husband died. He was several years my
senior, but I loved him—oh so dearly! and respected him so deeply! He was
not what is called a shining man, but with the kindest heart, an equable
temper, well-stored mind, a deliberate manner that gave great impression
to what he said or read, without being in the least tedious, and a habit
of employing himself beyond all praise.
He was gone; and the sunshine of my life was gone too! It seemed to me
as though I had never valued him enough while he was alive—might have
expressed more demonstrative affection. We never had an unkind word.
Dear man! how I love to think of him! The memory of his dear, placid
face, his harmonious voice, his gentle touch, and tread, and tone, makes
my heart swell!
Eugenia and I were then left together. She had nothing; I was not rich;
and we quitted Nutfield, and went into a country town. We had once been
members of a large, cheerful family, but death had mown them all down,
and reserved his keenest, most relentless edge for the last. After a few
uneventful years, Eugenia became fatally ill. She died; and I was left
alone! And then I came here.
People were very kind to me. Miss Burt was my first acquaintance, and I
must say she did me good service; never resting till she had fixed me
under this roof. Indeed, she is seldom happier than when doing something
for somebody; her only faults, that I know of, being a love of vexatious,
petty domination, and a great impatience of check. Having nailed me here,
as she called it, she next took me round to a few poor people under the
hill, whom she put, as it were, under my charge; saying her own hands
were full enough, and too full already, and the superintendence would
rouse me, and do me good. I shall never forget her tone and attitude
when, on entering one of these cottages, and espying a small grease-spot
on the floor, she stood transfixed, and tragically exclaimed—
“What’s _that_ I see?”
The poor woman looked cowed; and I am sure I felt so.
When we came out, Miss Burt said to me, complacently and with a little
authority, “That’s the way you must do things.” She had looked into every
corner, turned up the basins and tea-cups, detected a black-beetle, which
scudded away with a very reasonable instinct of self-preservation, and
removed the match-box, which she said was too near the fire.
It might be her way, but I could never make it mine. I could not defy the
_Lares_ and _Lemures_ of a rustic hearth in that fashion; and never could
make myself more at home in a poor person’s dwelling than its owner. But
perhaps Miss Burt did most good.
Time had its healing effect. I had practically learnt that here we
have no “continuing city,” and the impression of the lesson was perhaps
weakening, when I was laid low by a prostrating and painful illness, that
at first threatened my life, and then left me in a state of weakness and
incapacity that has confined me two years to this sofa.
Thus, the story of my life is comprised in few words. And yet I retain
the habit of jotting down its nothings. As a favourite writer of mine in
_Fraser’s Magazine_ has said, “There is a richness about the life of a
person who keeps a diary, unknown to others. A million more little links
and ties must bind him to the members of his family circle, and to all
among whom he lives. Life, to him, is surrounded, intertwined, entangled
with thousands of slight incidents, which give it beauty, kindliness,
reality.”
* * * * *
I wish Harry Prout would leave off writing poetry. He might do something
good in prose, but he has a taste, which he mistakes for a talent, for
verse. There are many books of the day which he might translate well, if
he would but seize the passing moments as they fly.
Harry looked in this evening, and gladly remained to drink tea with me.
There was a small iced plum-cake on the tea-table, a present from Mrs.
Secker; and I was pleased to see the lad pay his respects to it pretty
handsomely. We got quite cozy and confidential over our little meal. He
looked about him with satisfaction, and said, “Everything is so trig and
tidy here! I wish we were in your easy circumstances, Mrs. Cheerlove.”
I laughed, and said, “My circumstances are very narrow, however easy I
may make them—or take them.”
“They may be comparatively easy, though, if not absolutely, I think,
ma’am.”
“Yes, there are comparative and absolute values.”
“Compared, for instance, with those of a straitened family like ours.”
“Ah, Harry, there are so many of you! Your father has a larger income
than mine, but there is not so much to spend per head. But soon, my dear
boy, some of you will be able to increase it; and, meanwhile, comfort
yourself with the reflection that the real or imagined necessary expenses
of those who have large means, are greater than those of persons who have
only small ones.”
“I can’t make the reflection, ma’am, because I don’t believe it.”
“It is so, though, I assure you. Take the case of a number of persons
(I quote Archbishop Whately) of each amount of income, from a hundred a
year to a hundred thousand, and you will find the preponderance of those
who are in pecuniary difficulties constantly augmenting as you proceed
upwards.”
“If the _fact_ be so, ma’am, of course I cannot controvert it; but I
cannot see how it should be so.”
“And when you come to sovereign states, whose revenues are reckoned by
millions, you will scarcely find one of them that is not involved in
debt.”
“Ah, they have so many public expenses.”
“And private people have so many private expenses. The temptation to
spend increases faster than the wealth.”
“Well, it seems to me, that if I had but competence, I could keep within
my income.”
“At first you would; but your ideas of competence would alter. At least,
it is the common tendency of people to go beyond their means. I feel it
in myself.”
“_You?_” incredulously.
“Yes, indeed, Harry. Perhaps I think how shabby and faded the crimson
window-curtain begins to look, and I find I can afford to buy a new one.
Then I consider that the new window-curtain will make the old carpet look
very bad, and I find I cannot have that without pinching. Besides, the
new carpet would entail the expense of a new rug; and then the fluted
silk of the cabinet piano must be renewed; and, after all, how little
it would add to the expense to have new chintz for the sofa and chairs!
Thus, expenses mount up—expenses I cannot afford.”
“I see.”
“So it ends in my not incurring any of them.”
“Your curtain looks very nice, though, Mrs. Cheerlove.”
“Ah, I had it dipped and embossed.”
“Your chintz, too.”
“That was washed and callendered.”
“Well, I thought only such persons as mamma did those things.”
“There is no need they should be obtruded, Harry.”
“No, that’s what I’m always so afraid of.”
“Nor, if they happen to become known, is there any need to be ashamed.”
“Ah, I can’t help that.”
“Not always, I dare say, being young and thin-skinned; but the less you
annoy yourself that way, the better. So you think I am better off than
_you_?”
“O yes, with this nice quiet room. You may smile, Mrs. Cheerlove, but
really it’s no joke, when a fellow wants to do a bit of writing, to have
a parcel of children swarming about him, making all sorts of noises. It
has such an effect sometimes on _me_, I know, that I am ready to declare
the supreme good to be, a quiet room and leisure to use it.”
“To write poetry in it—hey, Harry?”
“Well—perhaps—yes.”
“Meanwhile, the high stool in the office—”
“May better be filled by some one else, ma’am.”
“While you—
“‘Invoke the Muses, and improve your vein.’
Do you admire Coleridge?”
“Oh immensely! Did he make that line?”
“Ah, Harry, you betray your ignorance of your favourite craft! No; the
line is Waller’s.”
Harry blushed, and said, “You laid a trap for me.”
“Not intentionally, I assure you. But my transition was rather abrupt.
I was going to direct your attention to a favourite passage of mine in
Coleridge’s works.”
“Pray do,” said Harry, rising alertly and going to the book-case.
“Bring me the second of those two small volumes, lettered ‘Biographia
Literaria.’”
“Oh, it’s in prose!” said Harry, in disappointment.
“Prose by a poet, however—which, by-the-way, was the name of a pretty,
though not very shining, little work by James Montgomery, that has now
dropped out of sight. Here is the passage: it begins—‘Never pursue
literature as a trade. With one exception’ (I think he means Southey)
‘I have never known an individual healthy or happy without some regular
employment which does not depend on the will of the moment—’”
“Bah!” muttered Harry.
“‘But can be carried on so far mechanically that an average quantum of
health, spirit, and intellectual exertion are requisite for its faithful
discharge.’”
“I’m surprised Coleridge should say that.”
“Well, Harry, he was one of the many people who preach better than they
practise. Hear me to the end—‘Three hours of leisure, unalloyed by
any alien anxiety, and looked forward to with delight as a change and
recreation, will suffice to realize in literature a larger product of
what is truly _genial_ than weeks of compulsion.’”
“Ay, I never write but when the fit is on me,” murmured Harry.
“‘Money and immediate reputation form only an arbitrary and accidental
end of literary labour. The _hope_ of them may often prove a stimulant to
industry, but the _necessity_ of acquiring them will, in all works of
genius, convert a stimulant into a narcotic.’
“It did in Sir Walter Scott’s case,” I observed.
“‘Motives, by excess, reverse their very nature; and, instead of
exciting, stun and stupify the mind. For it is one contradistinction of
genius from talent, that its predominant end is always comprised in the
means; and this is one of the many points of likeness between genius and
virtue.’”
“Then I’ve a genius,” cried Harry, laughing, “for I always write verses
for the pleasure of writing, and not for money!”
“Stop, my dear boy, hear him out—‘My dear young friend, I would say to
every one who feels the genial power working within him, suppose yourself
established in any honourable occupation. From the counting-house, the
law-courts, or from visiting your last patient, you return at evening
to your family, prepared for its social enjoyments; with the very
countenances of your wife and children brightened by the knowledge that,
as far as they are concerned, you have satisfied the demands of the day.
Then, when you retire into your study—’”
“I wish I had one!” sighed Harry.
“‘You revisit in your books so many venerable friends with whom you can
converse. But why should I say _retire_? The habits of active life will
tend to give you such self-command that the presence of your family will
be no interruption. Nay, the social silence, or undisturbing voices of
a wife or sister, will be like a restorative atmosphere, or soft music,
which moulds a dream without becoming its object.’”
“What beautiful English he writes,” said Harry.
* * * * *
I was interrupted where I last left off by the entrance of the three
young Pevenseys, with their governess, Mademoiselle Foularde, whom I
had supposed still at the sea-side. But it appears that an epidemic
had broken out at Hardsand, which occasioned their immediate return to
the Stone House. I was very glad to see them all; they seemed to bring
sunshine into my shady little room; and I had a toy railway-engine for
the amusement of my little friends, which delighted the two young ones
exceedingly. Arabella, or, as they frightfully abbreviate her name,
Arbell, has grown quite tall and womanly, for a girl of fourteen. She
has her mother’s good profile, but is dark, like her father, and the
expression of her face is rather stern and repelling. Mademoiselle was
charming; but I do not think she and her eldest pupil go on comfortably
together. Whenever I addressed a remark to Arbell, Mademoiselle answered
it, and went on speaking so as to detain my attention; this occurred
three times, and I could observe Arbell look annoyed. As for Flora and
Rosaline, they had a regular boxing-match, when they thought I was not
looking. I caught Rosaline’s hand in mine, with the little fist doubled
up, and said, “Why, Rosaline! you quite surprise me! I did not know you
were a pugilist!”
She opened her large blue eyes, as if amazed at my interference, and then
seemed disposed to laugh; but I said quite gravely—“No, no, we have no
fighting here. If it is allowed at the Stone House, I don’t allow it in
my parlour.”
“It is not allowed at the Stone House, but they do it for all that!”
burst forth Arbell, and then shut herself up again in rigid silence.
Mademoiselle Foularde darted an indignant look at her, and then drew
Flora towards her, fondling her, and saying—
“_Ah, fi donc, Rosaline! Bonne petite Fleurette! comme je l’aime!_ I
never saw her fight before, did I?”
“How _can_ you say so!” muttered Arbell, and then sighed, and began to
play with her little dog Shock.
After this, the conversation rather flagged; but I showed the little ones
some prints I was meaning to paste into a nursery picture-book; and when
I had quite won their good-will, kissed them, and said, “You won’t fight
again, will you?” Both said “No” very cordially; and Mademoiselle and I
exchanged looks and smiled, and then I said, “I am sure you remember that
pretty verse:
“‘But, children, you should never let
Such angry passions rise;
Your little hands were never made
To tear each other’s eyes!’
What _were_ they made for, hey?”
Both gave me a quick look, but seemed at fault.
“Why, to work, and to write, and to draw, and to paint pictures, and hold
knives and forks, and spoons, and slices of plum-cake, and to give pence
and sixpences to poor people, and a thousand other good and pleasant
things. Will you remember?”
Both smiled, and said “Yes;” and then I produced slices of the iced
plum-cake Harry Prout had cut up, and told them to hand the plate first
to Mademoiselle and Arbell, and then to help themselves. This produced
general good humour and sociability, and, after the cake had been duly
honoured, Mademoiselle rose to take leave, saying she feared they had
stayed too long, but that it was so difficult to get away from _me_, I
so charmingly blended instruction with entertainment, &c. &c. &c., which
I might have liked better if I had not thought it rather exaggerated and
insincere.
I said to Arbell at parting, “I have seen and heard too little of you.
What a treat it would be if you would spend a morning with me, and help
me to make this picture-book.”
Her face brightened directly, and she exclaimed, “Ah! I only wish I
might!” But Mademoiselle interposed with something about Mrs. Pevensey’s
wish that the school-room routine should suffer no interruption, with a
little smile and shrug to me, as much as to say, “So, of course, we must
obey;” and Arbell went away, looking as rigid and uncomfortable as at
first, carrying Shock under her arm.
In the afternoon, to my surprise, Mrs. Pevensey’s elegant carriage
stopped at my little garden-gate, and Mrs. Pevensey herself came in.
She was charming with smiles and good-nature; and, in her delicate
silver-grey silk, rich velvet, and blush roses, looked so youthful, that
one could hardly suppose her the mother of seven children. She has a
well-stored mind, ready wit, or rather, playfulness, good judgment, and
everything that contributes to make a delightful companion. As a wife
she is admirable, living on the most affectionate terms with a husband
who is considered by most people rather hard to please; she has formed
extensive plans for ameliorating the condition of the poor, which she
is carrying out with great success; and, as a neighbour, she is most
thoughtful and kind—as I have good reason to know.
She brought her own entertainment with her; for her conversation was an
almost uninterrupted flow of what she had done, whom she had seen, where
she had been, interspersed with remarks full of good feeling and good
sense. I must say that, to an invalid, this continuous flow is sometimes
more fatiguing than if the communications were more reciprocal and broken
up. The mind is kept on the full stretch; the eyes gaze on the speaker
till they ache, and even the bodily posture becomes wearisome; yet I am
sure the kind friend always goes away thinking, in the goodness of her
heart, “Well, I have amused her nicely, and given her a good many things
to think about,” which is true, too, though they have been purchased
rather dearly.
It was only after Mrs. Pevensey had told me a multiplicity of things, and
was going away, that I found the opportunity of telling her how glad
I had been to see her children quite recovered from the effects of the
measles.
“Yes,” said she, with a motherly smile, “they all look well—all, at
least, except poor Arbell; and _she_—” (Here she gave a little shrug,
like Mademoiselle, as much as to say, “Something is not quite straight in
that quarter.”)
“I told Arbell I wished she might be permitted to spend an hour or two
with me some morning,” said I. “If I have more than one companion at a
time, I can hardly do them or myself justice.”
“I am sure I wish she would come,” said Mrs. Pevensey, smiling sweetly.
“With your permission, I think she will,” said I. “May I claim it?”
“Ah, I shall be too happy,” said she; “but you don’t know Arbell.”
“Suppose, then, we say to-morrow,” said I, pertinaciously.
“To-morrow the hair-cutter is coming. Any other day.”
“The day after to-morrow, then?”
“With all my heart, if—I don’t know what Mademoiselle will say.”
“Mademoiselle seemed to think the same of _you_.”
“Of _me_? Oh, I’ve no voice in the matter! Mademoiselle has unlimited
sway in the school-room. Mademoiselle is a most excellent creature.
I have unbounded confidence in her. She is quite superior to her
position—came to me from the Comtesse de St. Velay—has written an
admirable essay on education—her brother is professor of foreign
literature at Tarbes.”
“Perhaps Mademoiselle uses your name as a kind of authority.”
“Very likely,” laughing sweetly; “_Mamma’s_ name is probably made free
use of, in the school-room and nursery. I remember when, ‘I’ll tell your
Mamma!’ was a terror to myself. Oh, we all go through these things in
our turn. Poor, dear Arbell! there is excellent promise in her; but at
present she is under a cloud. She lives in a world of her own, is proud
and stubborn, and Mademoiselle says her spirit must be broken. It may be
so, but I don’t wish to stand by and witness the operation.”
“I am sorry to hear you say that,” cried I, anxiously, “for I think the
operation so extremely hazardous, that it ought only to take place under
the mother’s eye.”
“It would affect me more,” answered she, very seriously, “than a surgical
case.”
“I can quite believe it,” replied I, with equal seriousness; “but
possibly your sagacity and maternal affection united would enable you to
discern that no such painful course was needed. If Arbell were a little
more under your eye—”
“My dear friend,” interrupted she, “Arbell is constantly under my eye
already. Do you imagine I shut myself up from my children? No, no! that
would indeed be neglecting a mother’s first duty. Dry recapitulation
of lessons, indeed, and endless practising, fall exclusively to the
superintendence of the governess; but Arbell always _learns_ her lessons
and writes her exercises in the room with me, for hours every morning.”
“I am heartily glad to hear it,” said I, with a sense of relief.
“We lunch together—that is, they have their early dinner when we lunch,”
pursued Mrs. Pevensey; “always except when we have friends. And though my
afternoons are generally engaged in drives, and the children of course do
not appear at the late dinner, they may always do so at dessert, and the
younger ones always _do_. In the evenings, it is very much at Arbell’s
option, or, at least, at Mademoiselle’s, whether they appear or not.
Sometimes Arbell has lessons to prepare; sometimes she is engaged in her
own devices; and really, I think they are more healthful and suitable for
a young girl than large mixed parties, when silly people too often say
silly things to children, so that frequently I am not sorry to miss her
from the drawing-room. And now, good-by! I have paid an unconscionable
visit; but there is no getting away from _you_. I am so glad you are—I
_think_ you are better?”
“Thank you, yes. Then I shall see Arbell the day after to-morrow?”
“Undoubtedly, if she will come. At what hour? They dine at two.”
“Shall I say eleven?”
“Yes, do; and I will send for her at half-past one, because it is nearly
half-an-hour’s walk. Good-by, good-by! I must make peace as I can with
Mademoiselle.”
And she left me with an engaging smile.
* * * * *
Arbell has been, and gone. She came in rather before eleven, carrying her
little white lap-dog, who had a new scarlet ribbon round his neck. I saw
directly that the cloud was gone,—she looked as fresh as a rose, and as
cheerful as a lark.
“Good girl, for being so punctual,” said I.
“Punctual!” said she. “Why, I hope I’m more than that, or Shock and I
have raced in vain! I would not let old John come with me more than half
way, and then we took to our heels and ran—didn’t we, Shock?”
“I feel the compliment,” said I, very sincerely. “Perhaps, though, you
would as soon have run in any other direction.”
“No, I shouldn’t,” said she, with a bright look, as she untied the blue
strings of her large straw hat, and threw it on the ground. The next
minute she picked it up, and put it, with her gloves and visite, on a
side-table.
“Why did you do that?” said I, curiously.
“Because you are not Mademoiselle. She says I never can be tidy, but you
see I can.”
“What people can be, they ought to be,” said I.
“What people can be at some times they can’t be at others,” said Arbell.
“Is it not so, Mrs. Cheerlove?”
“Yes, my love, sometimes.”
“Thank you for calling me ‘my love.’”
“By-the-by, why do they abbreviate your name into Arbell?”
“Because an ugly name is good enough for an ugly girl,” said Arbell,
quickly; and then, with a little self-reproach for so captious a speech,
“No, the real reason is, because it is the abbreviation by which the
celebrated Lady Arabella Stuart was called by her grandmother, the old
Countess of Shrewsbury. Mamma read about her in Miss Strickland’s
“Queens,” I believe, and so took a fancy to call me Arbell.”
“Though you do not like it.”
“I like whatever mamma likes, almost.”
“I am very glad to hear you say so, my love. Are you hungry?”
She looked at me artlessly, and said, “I should like a slice of
bread-and-butter.”
“Or jam?” said I.
“No, bread-and-butter. I should only have dry bread in the
school-room—and scarcely that, because Mademoiselle says we ought not to
be hungry before an early dinner.”
“But you have had a walk,” said I, ringing the bell; “and persons who
have left off growing sometimes forget how hungry they were when they
were not full-grown.”
“_You_ don’t.”
“Ah,” said I, “young people only come to me by way of a treat—to me and
to themselves. If you were with me much, I’m afraid I should spoil you.”
“What _is_ spoiling, Mrs. Cheerlove?”
“Can you ask?”
“I know what it is in the common acceptation of the word—it is what
Mademoiselle does to Flora: she spoils her by letting her have her own
way; but she spoils me by _never_ letting me have mine!”
“It is easy to see, Arbell, that you are not very fond of Mademoiselle.”
“How _can_ I be?”
“(Some bread-and-butter, Phillis.) My dear, I cannot reply to your
question, except by asking others; and I do not feel it quite right to
seek a confidence which you do not repose in your own mother.”
“I wish she would let me,” said Arbell, with filling eyes.
“Why, my dear, you spend your mornings together.”
“But how? Dear mamma is always preoccupied—by papa, by the housekeeper,
by the gardener, by the nurses, by her own maid. She must always see
poor little Arthur’s spine rubbed herself” (here Phillis brought in the
bread-and-butter, and went out), “and baby is cutting her teeth; and she
has to give orders about her Italian garden, and dinner, and relief for
the poor, and the children’s new dresses and her own, and to send baskets
and hampers of things to grandpapa. Then, when all this is over, if I
venture to begin with ‘Mamma!’ she says, ‘My dear, I am writing a note.’”
A tear dropped on Shock’s white coat, and she turned her head away.
“Nobody has so small a share of her as I,” said she; “and I love her so
much!”
“My dear Arbell,” said I, after a pause, “I cannot help thinking what
an inestimable advantage it may be to you in after-life, to have had
this training, this by-play, this insight, as a bystander, into your
mother’s life. You may yourself be placed at the head of an equally large
establishment: many girls, so placed, after a life exclusively devoted
to their own studies and amusements, are completely at sea. They have no
practical knowledge, no taste even, for the daily duties which it is a
woman’s greatest honour and pleasure to discharge well; they are complete
babies. They meet every emergency with a helpless, ‘Well, I’m sure I
can’t tell what is to be done!’ and everything is at a stand-still, or
goes the wrong way.”
Arbell seemed struck. “That never occurred to me,” said she.
“In spite of the elegancies by which your mother is surrounded, hers is,
in reality, what many would pronounce, and find to be, a very hard life.
Her cheerfulness, presence of mind, sound judgment, and love of order,
enable her to get through its cares gracefully and successfully; so that
those who only see the _face_ of the enamelled watch, and not all its
interior works and springs, little guess that her head, and even her
hands, have more to do, in their own peculiar department, than those of
some of her dependents.”
“That may be true,” said Arbell, reflectively. Then, after a short
silence, “What would you do in my place?”
“Ah, my love, I should probably not do better in your place than you do,
if as well.”
“Oh, Mrs. Cheerlove!”
“The question is not what I, or any other person might do, but what
_should be done_. A very able and excellent author—well known to your
mother—John Foster, has said, ‘There is some one state of character, and
plan of action, _the very best possible_, under all the circumstances
of your age, measure of mental faculties, and means within your reach;
the _one plan_ that will please God the most, and that will be the most
pleasing to look back upon at the hour of death.’ Now, should not you
aspire to ascertain what is that best possible course, and then most
zealously devote yourself to its execution? I believe you to be capable
of it.”
Arbell looked full of high and generous resolve. “If mamma had said this
to me,” exclaimed she, at length, “I should have been capable of it long
ago.”
“Perhaps you have never spoken to her on the subject with the openness
with which you have now spoken to me.”
“I have never had the opportunity. However, I will not dwell any more on
that. What is the one best course now for me?”
“There need be no marked change in outward performances: only in their
spirit. Your mother loves you dearly, but she is too busy to attend
to all your little troubles. Do you be too busy for them too! Take
an intelligent interest in whatever you are about, be it French, or
German, or anything else; and if interrupted in it, and your attention
distracted by what is being said to nurse, housekeeper, or gardener,—take
an intelligent interest in that too! Think, ‘Ha, here is something worth
remembering!’ treasure it, note it, commit it to memory, bear it in mind,
lay it to heart; and then return with fresh eagerness to the matter in
hand.”
“It sounds well,” said Arbell, thoughtfully; “I’ll try.”
“And if you cannot get others to sympathize with you, why, sympathize
with _them_. It is easy to say, ‘I can’t; their tastes and feelings
are so different.’ So are yours from theirs, and yet you expect them
to sympathize with _you_. Don’t get into the way of feeling isolated.
Robinson Crusoe really _was_ so, and did not find it very comfortable,
in spite of his pretty plantations and snug cave. If you plant yourself
on a little island, and break down the bridge to it, you must not expect
people to be at the trouble of fetching a boat. Besides, you perhaps
seek sympathy at unseasonable times. Your father, in the midst of some
profound calculation, would hardly like your mother to come in and claim
his attention to some sentimental sorrow: she thought he had looked
coldly at her on such and such an occasion; or could hardly have been
aware, such another time, that she felt low and unwell.”
“No, indeed,” said Arbell, laughing.
“Nor must you expect Mrs. Pevensey to have leisure or relish for such
ill-timed appeals from yourself. Be intent on forming a noble character;
and you will be sure to find that character appreciated in after-life.”
“Ha!”
“You will try, will you not?”
“I will! if only Mademoiselle——”
“Ah, let us look on Mademoiselle as some one placed in close relation to
you by our heavenly Father for wise purposes of His own, which He does
not think it necessary to communicate to her or to you. And now eat your
bread and butter.”
She did so, having first given me a hearty kiss.
I am always glad when fine, bright weather on a Sunday morning favours
the church-goers, though I am debarred by bodily infirmities from joining
the multitude on their way to the house of God, and swelling the voice
of praise and thanksgiving among such as keep holy-day. And though my
eyes have sometimes swelled with tears, and my heart yearned with vain
longings, as I have seen the scattered parties trooping past my gate, yet
more often, far more often, I have silently bidden them good speed, and
mentally repeated that sweet and soothing sonnet of Mrs. Hemans—
“How many blessed groups this hour are bending
Through England’s primrose-meadow paths their way!
Toward spire and tower, ’mid shadowy elms ascending,
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day!
The halls, from old heroic ages grey,
Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low,
With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play,
Send out their inmates in a happy flow,
Like a freed vernal stream. _I_ may not tread
With them these pathways; to the feverish bed
Of sickness bound. Yet, oh my God! I bless
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled
My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.”
And, since I have been no longer bound to the sick-bed, but only to the
house, my thankfulness has deepened under a cheerful sense of alleviated
pains and added blessings; so that I may sincerely say my home-kept
Sabbaths have generally been very calm and sweet.
I have made out a little routine for myself, which I adhere to pretty
closely. Having early in life acquired the habit of rising betimes, I
have no temptation to curtail the Sunday by lying in bed; nor is Phillis
so overworked as to need, or even to wish for, an extra hour’s sleep. I
therefore hear her stirring as soon as the clock strikes six; and, till
she comes to afford me a little assistance at seven, I lie tranquilly
cogitating on God’s mercies, lifting up my heart to Him, and almost
invariably repeating that hymn of Hugh White’s, which so fitly opens the
invalid’s Sunday.
“Let me put on my fair attire,
My Sabbath robes of richest dress,
And tune my consecrated lyre,
Lord of the Sabbath! thee to bless.
“Oh, may no spot of sin to-day
My raiment, clean and white, defile!
And while I tune my heartfelt lay,
Bend down on me thy gracious smile.
“Let holy feelings, heavenly themes,
Raise, and refresh, and fill my mind;
And earth’s low vanities and schemes
No place nor entertainment find!
“The looks, the thoughts, the sweet employ
Of saints, whose treasure is above,
Be mine to-day! their zeal, their joy,
Their peace, and purity, and love.
“My spirit may with theirs unite,
My humble notes with theirs may blend,
Although denied the pure delight
Thy sacred courts with them to attend.
“The faith and patience of the saints,
These I may exercise each hour—
When, weak with pain, the body faints,
I best may exercise their power.
“O Saviour! with completion crown
Desires thou wakenest not in vain;
Stoop to thy lowly temple down,
Bring all these graces in thy train!
“This is thy day of bounty, Lord!
I ask no small, no stinted boon,
But showers, rich showers of blessing, poured
On me, though worthless and alone.
“If the weak tendril round thee twine,
It ne’er is hidden from thine eye:
I cling to thee, life-giving Vine,
Strength, verdure, fruitfulness supply!”
Hugh White, himself on the bed of sickness, used to send Mrs. Hemans
beautiful flowers in her last illness; and perhaps he may have sent her
this pretty hymn too. I should like to know that he did, and that it
comforted her with the comfort wherewith he himself was comforted: one
Christian poet should fitly thus console another.
Having chewed the cud awhile on this sweet hymn, and possibly on one or
two others, I begin my toilette with great deliberation. It is indeed
always a lengthy process; not on account of any special self-decoration
(of course, the “Sabbath robes of richest dress,” in the hymn, have a
purely figurative meaning, though I think respect for the day may be
shown in the outward garb too), not because I delight in braiding of the
hair and costly array; but on account of downright bodily weakness, which
necessitates frequent little rests and intermissions: and as I have no
one to hurry for, why should I hurry?
However, by eight o’clock I find my way to my sofa in the adjoining room,
with the little breakfast table set near the fire in winter, and near
the open window in summer. I read a psalm, collect, and the epistle
and gospel of the day, to myself, while I recover myself a little. I
have no voice for reading aloud before breakfast. My breakfast is no
great matter; it does not take long, neither do I hurry it; but when
one has nothing to do but to eat and drink, it cannot be a very tedious
occupation. Phillis clears the table, brings in her Bible, we read a
portion, verse and verse alternately, and then I offer a prayer, and she
then goes to her breakfast. Then I lie and meditate a little.
I have put secular books, newspapers, work-baskets, &c., out of the way
overnight; so that the room has an orderly, Sabbath-like appearance. The
large Bible and little Prayer-book are on the small table beside me: some
other book also at hand, in the course of Sunday reading. My canary-bird
must be attended to, Sunday as well as week-day. I give him my attention
as soon as I am a little rested; and perhaps remain at the window a
little, looking at the flowers in the garden-borders, the little children
from the hill trooping to the school with their cold dinners in their
bags, and the hill itself, girdling in the prospect, and ever calling to
mind the verse, “I will look unto the hill from whence cometh my help.”
A widow woman, who nursed me during part of my illness, always comes to
cook my dinner, and take care of me while Phillis goes to church. She
gets her dinner for her pains, and sits placidly reading while the meat
is roasting, now and then with an eye to the spit. Afterwards, she goes
to afternoon service. She is too infirm, and too far from the church to
be able to go more than once in the day.
Of course, I always have a few pleasant words with Mrs. Goodey; and
sometimes she tells me of some case of distress among the cottagers,
which I make it my business to relieve, or get some one to look into,
the first opportunity. But punctually, as the clock strikes eleven, I
commence my solitary prayer service, feeling it a special pleasure, as
well as duty, to offer prayer and praise at the same time that my fellow
Christians pray and praise.
Now, as I do not slavishly go through those portions (they are but few),
which can only be appropriately used collectively (St. Chrysostom’s
prayer, for instance), one would think I should arrive at the end of
the morning service a good deal sooner than they do in church. Sooner,
certainly, but not so much so as one might suppose. For, when thoughts
wander, (and, alas! who is there among mortal men, who, in this respect,
sometimes sinneth not?) I feel it incumbent on me to go over the ground
again. Thus, if I repeat a clause in the litany mechanically, I feel that
the least I can do is to repeat it with more attention, and something of
contrition. Even the wicked king in “Hamlet” said:
“My words fly up—my thoughts remain below:
Words, without thoughts, never to heaven go!”
Thus, of course, the more I detect inattention, the more I lengthen
the service. And then again, in the lessons, I frequently read the
consecutive chapters, perhaps two or three. So that, sometimes, Mrs.
Goodey comes in, to my surprise, to lay the cloth, before I have
finished. But, more generally, I have done earlier, and lain back on
my sofa-cushion, and taken a good rest, gazing on my Sunday nosegay,
and on my dear father’s portrait on the wall. I have no likeness of my
mother—not even a _silhouette_; she never would have one taken: but her
face is indelibly stamped on my memory and heart.
Then Phillis bustles in with the one hot dish; and generally has brought
home some scrap of news, which she is in haste to impart.
“Master Frank preached to-day.” (The Rev. Francis Sidney is always, with
her, Master Frank). “How well he do speak up, to be sure! The deafest
in church might hear ’un. Well, I can’t justly mind what ’twas about,
but ’twas charity, I think, or else hope. No, ’twas charity; because he
brought in, ‘But the greatest of these is charity.’ Yes, I know he did.
Yes, yes—’twas on charity.”
Then she adds that Mrs. Stowe’s twins are going to be christened in
the afternoon, by the names of Esau and Jacob. And then I observe that
Esau and Jacob indeed were twins, but that I hope the little Stowes
will love one another more than they did; adding that, as if to show
the universal sinfulness of the human heart, a remarkable instance
was given us in them, that even the proverbial love of twins for one
another was insufficient to prevent one from over-reaching the other. To
which Phillis, with a grunt, rejoins, “The young Stowes ha’n’t got no
birthright.”
In the afternoon Phillis generally comes in, and we read the prayers,
psalms, and lessons together; but sometimes Miss Secker drops in, and
then Phillis and I defer our reading till the evening, unless she goes to
church. Miss Secker brings a sermon with her, and sometimes I speculate
a little, beforehand, whether it will be by Barrow, or Bishop Wilson, or
Jeremy Taylor, or by Douglas Forsyth, or Melville, or Henry Vaughan of
Crickhowel. We generally talk it over afterwards, and though our remarks
may not be very original or deep, they refresh and animate me, being my
only intellectual intercourse during the day.
Often our remarks make us turn to our Bibles to verify and illustrate
them; which sometimes unexpectedly opens up a new subject fertile in
interest. Thus, last Sunday, we lighted on that wonderful statistical
account of the ancient glory and wealth of Tyre, as vivid and minute as
if the details were of yesterday:—how that its famous merchant-ships,
the instruments of its mighty commerce, were built of deal from Senir,
_i. e._ Mount Hermon, and their masts were of cedar from Lebanon, their
oars of oak from Bashan, their benches of ivory from Chittim, their sails
manufactured in Egypt, their awnings from the isles of Elishah; how that
the mariners of these ships were from Sidon, their pilots picked men of
Tyre, their caulkers the men of Gebal; and then the details of their
armies, their merchants, their great fairs and markets, and the endless
variety of merchandize brought to them from all parts of the civilised
world. It gave us a great deal to think of:—and very likely it seemed as
incredible to the Tyrians, that their proud city should ever become a
mere desolate rock, on which the lonely fisherman should dry his nets, as
it would to us that London should be reduced to its condition before the
days of Julius Cæsar, when old King Lud changed its name from Trinovant
to Lud-town.
Another time, finding that Nathanael was by some eminent scholars
supposed to be the same with the apostle Bartholomew, we hunted up
all we could on the question; and came to the conclusion that, as he
was supposed to be the son of Tholomai, or Ptolemy, Bartholomew, or
Bartholomai, might be the surname given him by our Lord to signify the
son of Tholomai; in like manner as he called Peter, Bar-jona, or the son
of Jona. Questions of this sort will continually arise to interested
readers of the Scriptures; for the more we search them, the more do
little twinkling lights disclose themselves to us, reflecting light on
one another.
I happened, unguardedly, to drop something about these pleasant readings
to Miss Burt, when she put me into a sad fright by exclaiming, “Oh,
_I’ll_ come and read to you some day!” for I did not like her reading,
which is too much of the denunciatory sort. However, happily for me,
she found it would not consist with her more important engagements; she
therefore not only refrained, but took some pains to prevent Miss Secker
from coming to me too, telling her that if she had any time to abstract
from her own devotional exercises between morning and evening services,
she thought she might just as well devote it to some of the poor, who
could neither read nor write, as on a friend who could do both, and had
every comfort around her. However, Miss Secker did not see it exactly in
the same light, and therefore has continued to drop in once every two or
three weeks, to my great comfort and obligation. She rarely stays more
than an hour; and when she does not come, Phillis and I have our little
service together, and then I read or meditate in quiet till tea.
Mary Cole, a great favourite of Phillis’s, then drops in to have tea in
the kitchen, and take charge of the house while Phillis goes to church.
I can’t say Mary is quite as great a favourite of mine as she is of
Phillis’s; but that is no great matter, as she comes to see Phillis, not
me. Thus, Phillis has a companion at both her Sabbath meals: it makes a
little change for her, and prevents her hankering for more holidays than
I can grant. And the visitors, neither of whom are capable of walking a
second time to the distant church, get their meal and a little variety
in return for their charge. People of their rank are seldom much of
readers, and it is well to give them a little sober intercourse in lieu
of their falling asleep with their heads on the kitchen-table. To whom
little is given, of them will less be required than of others more
favoured.
Mary Cole, though a heavy girl, is gifted with a sweet voice and correct
ear for music; and as she sits all alone, she beguiles the evening
hours by singing hymns, often to my solace and delight. Sometimes it
is my favourite “Wiltshire,” sometimes “St. David’s,” another time the
plaintive penitential psalm,
“From lowest depths of woe,”
to the rare old tune called Irish, which fills my eyes with quiet tears.
* * * * *
In that twilight hour known as “blind man’s holiday,” I lay this evening
mentally colouring a picture of what I had just been reading, till it
became distinct and real.
A desert place, all sand and stones, with scattered tombs hewn here and
there in the rocks, or mere cairns heaped rudely over human remains,
gleaming white and ghastly in the fitful moonlight. A single living
figure, making night hideous by leaping among these tombs—wildly
shrieking as the moon drifts through the clouds and casts strange
shadows—yelling in ecstasy of fear, to the dismay of far-off travellers,
who hasten on their journey in dread of they know not what. Can anything
be more forlorn than the state of this poor wretch? His fellow men,
at a loss how to treat him, bound him with strong chains, which he
snapped in their faces, and then he fled. And now, unless indeed, some
fellow-sufferer be glaring at him, silent and unseen, from among those
tombs, he is alone—alone with his tormentors, for he feels possessed by
myriads of evil spirits, whom he can no more cast out of his loathing
_self_, than he can tear out his brain. If he can frame a connected
thought, it is of despair.
But three little boats are crossing that surging lake, in the darkness
of night. When they quitted the opposite shore, early in the evening,
the waters of that lake were still. The chief of the little company
lay down wearily to rest, and fell asleep, with his head on a pillow.
The others toiled at their oars, and looked anxiously about, as clouds
gathered, winds rose, and the waves became high and rough, and threatened
to engulf their little barks. The night wore on, and became more and more
tempestuous; they were, seemingly, in great jeopardy: and all this peril
and distress were being incurred that the Son of God might, unsought, go
and heal that one poor man.
He recognises the Lord at once. “Oh!” he says, in anguish, “have you come
to torment me before the time?” Torment you, poor man! oh, how little you
know! You are possessed, you say, by a legion. Well, that legion shall,
if you will, take visible possession of those two thousand swine feeding
on the mountains—swine, which, they who keep shall deservedly lose,
seeing that their own law prohibits them as unclean. There!—the real
Master of those swine has driven them all, impetuously, into the sea:
and _you_—_feel_ yourself delivered. Ah, well you may fall at His feet,
and look up to Him so meekly, gratefully, and lovingly; well you may
suffer yourself to be clothed by His compassionate disciples; and, while
they who have lost their swine roughly desire Him to depart out of their
coasts, well may you, fearing the evil ones may return unto you in His
absence, and make you seven-fold worse, beseech Him to let you ever abide
with Him. No safety, no sweetness, like that of being ever with Jesus.
But he mildly forbids, and charges you rather to go and declare to others
what great things He has done for you; and you cheerfully, implicitly
obey. Strange things have you to relate to those wondering friends and
kinsfolk, who lately thought the best thing they could do, was to bind
you with chains!
* * * * *
I have often thought how capitally I invested five shillings a few years
ago, in two apple-trees, which I gave to two poor women living under the
hill. One of the trees produced twelve fine apples the second year; the
year following, its owner sold a couple of bushels of the fruit. In a
cottage full of hungry children, where meat is only tasted on Sundays,
a good apple-pudding is no despicable hot dish on the noon-day board.
Blackberries, of the children’s gathering, sometimes make a savoury
addition to it.
When my cook Hannah married and settled in a cottage of her own, I gave
her a few roots of Myatt’s Victoria rhubarb, and some round, white,
American early potatoes, with enough onion-seed for a nice little square
bed; a quart of peas, a quart of beans, a few early horn carrots, and
a little parsley-seed; also pennyworths of canariensis, nasturtium,
escolzia Californica, sweet-pea, candytuft, and red and white malope. Her
husband immediately dug, raked, and planted the ground, and at once took
to gardening after his day’s work. I need not say they are a respectable
couple. He cannot read; but she reads _The Leisure Hour_ and _Sunday at
Home_ to him.
Though we had a February of almost unprecedented warmth, I am told the
primrose is shyly and charily putting forth its blossoms. But soon
the warm banks will be gay with them, while the sweet wood-violet will
betray itself by its fragrant breath at the roots of old trees. Among
the earliest wayside productions is Jack-in-the-hedge, or sauce-alone;
as ugly a Jack as one need wish to see, breathing odiously of garlic.
Somewhat later, and rarer, is the perfoliate shepherd’s-purse, with its
miniature pouches, that remind one of the scrip wherein a young shepherd,
who lived to be a king, put five smooth pebbles from the brook. Its
leaves, as I lately showed the little Prouts, are perfoliate, that is
to say, they look as though the stem runs _through_ them—a very nice
and singular distinction, never to be forgotten after being once seen.
A fortnight hence I expect to hear the yellow celandine has made its
appearance. Wordsworth, who has immortalized it, as much as a poet can
immortalize a flower, says, at first his unaccustomed eye saw it nowhere;
afterwards, he saw it everywhere.
If the month be genial, we shall, towards its close, see “God’s
hand-writing on the wall” of our gardens, in the opening buds and
blossoms of our cherry-trees. Sheep are already turned out on the fresh
pasture-land: their bleatings and tinkling bells sound prettily. Here and
there may be seen a bee, a small fly, a gnat: how soon shall we see the
first butterfly?
Toads are curious creatures: there was one that used to sit watching Mr.
Cheerlove at his gardening with its beautiful eyes, and sometimes climb a
little way up the paling to have a better view. I suppose it varied the
monotony of its life. ’Tis of no use to cart them away in a flower-pot;
they will return from a considerable distance to their old quarters.
If you hurt them, they will look at you very viciously—and why should
they not? We have no call to molest the poor wretches; the world is wide
enough for us all. Efts and newts are objectionable: they haunt old
drains, dust-holes, and any damp, unaired corners. Moles loosen the soil,
and make sad work sometimes with the roots of one’s flowers; but yet, on
the whole, they are found to do more good than harm. They make themselves
subterranean galleries, and are very methodical, taking their walks at
stated times. Hence it is very easy to trap them; but if you take one,
you may take two, for they are so affectionate that the mate is sure
to follow the leader. Hence I always felt a sort of pang in having them
destroyed, especially as they have such human-like little hands for paws;
and I was glad to be told that the cruelty was unnecessary, and that
their loosening the soil did it good, though it might injure particular
plants. In moving a stack of firewood at Nutfield, we found underneath it
a rat’s nest, containing fifteen partridges’ eggs. How did the rat convey
them there? Did he roll them, or carry them on his fore-paws, walking on
his hind legs?
The starry heavens are now very glorious. Jupiter, bright, untwinkling
planet, is splendid to behold. There are many more stars to be seen to
the east than to the north; no human being knows why. The naked eye
beholds what are called stars of the sixth magnitude, whose light left
their surfaces a hundred and forty years ago. It is very singular that
numerous stars, beyond the range of any but a very powerful telescope,
prove to be placed in _couples_: they are called _binary_ stars. Before
Sir William Herschell’s death, he had completed a list of three thousand
three hundred double stars. His sister Caroline shared his watchings, and
took down the result of his observations in writing.
My dear father gave me a taste for astronomy very early in life; and in
later years I have found star-gazing to have a strangely calming effect
under the pressure of great trouble. I have looked out on the star-lit
sky during Eugenia’s last illness, and after her death, till I felt every
grief silenced, if not allayed, and every feeling steeped in submission.
The stars make us feel so little! our lives so fleeting to a better
world! our souls so near to God! O Cassiopeia, Andromeda, and Perseus, I
owe to you many a consoling and elevating thought of your Maker!
* * * * *
My chimney does not smoke once in six months; but to-day, as ill-luck
would have it, an unfortunate little puff came out in the presence of
Miss Burt, who immediately declared that my chimney wanted sweeping
shockingly; and that if I did not immediately put the chimney-sweeper’s
services in requisition, I should not only be endangering my own
life,—which I had no right to throw away,—but that of my servant, who
would not particularly relish being burnt in her bed.
In vain I assured her that the chimney had not long been swept. Miss Burt
talked me down, utterly deaf to the reminder that, being on the ground
floor, we could easily walk out of the house in case of any disaster.
“As if _you_ could walk out of the house!” cried Miss Burt, indignantly;
and just then, Phillis coming in with coals, “Phillis,” cried she, “have
you any mind to be burnt in your bed?”
“I should think not, Miss Burt,” replies Phillis, brisking up, and
looking secure of some very entertaining rejoinder.
“You hear,” says Miss Burt, nodding triumphantly at me.
“You may go, Phillis,” said I, softly, which she did with some
reluctance.
I was in nervous expectation of a fresh puff, when Miss Burt luckily
found herself a new subject.
“There goes Miss Sidney!” said she. “How she does poke to be sure. Any
one can see she has never had dancing-lessons. I think Mr. Sidney much to
blame. By the way, Frank gave us an excellent sermon on Sunday. I wish
you could have heard him.”
“I wish I could,” said I.
“Oh, I don’t suppose you care much about it, as you had Miss Secker to
read Jeremy Taylor. Doesn’t she read through her nose?”
“Dear me, no!”
“Well, I should have expected it. Young people waste hours on their music
now-a-days, but—commend me to a good reader.”
“Then,” said I, laughing, “I really can commend you to Miss Secker, or at
any rate, honestly commend her to _you_; for her reading is neither too
fast nor too slow, too loud nor too low; her voice is pleasant and her
manner reverent.”
“Ah, I like something _earnest_.”
“She is earnest too. What a favourite word that is now.”
“Is it? Then I’ll drop it! I hate words that are used up:—suggestive,
sensuous, subjective, objective. Bad as Shakspere, taste, and the musical
glasses!”
She started up, and was going to take leave, when she stopped short and
said—
“What do you think that absurd man, Mr. Hitchin, has done? Painted his
cypher on his wheel-barrow!”
“Well,” said I, amused, “I cannot emulate him very closely, as I have no
wheel-barrow, but I can put my crest on my watering-pot!”
She laughed rather grudgingly, and said, “I suppose you don’t remember
the tax on armorial bearings.”
The chimney-sweeper has just called!—Miss Burt met him, and told him
there would be no harm in his just looking in, to know if he were wanted!
* * * * *
Can April indeed be here? Yes, the blackbird wakes me at six o’clock, and
the nightingale sings long after the sun has set.
The hedges are beginning to sprout, and the banks are decked with
primroses and celandine.
“Scant along the ridgy land,
The beans their new-born ranks expand;
The fresh-turned soil, with tender blades
Thinly the sprouting barley shades.”
So sings the sweet rural poet, Thomas Warton; of whom I suspect Harry
Prout knows as little as of Waller.
* * * * *
Poor Mr. Prout is dead! the father of eight children. Yesterday morning,
while it was yet dark, the turnpike-man heard a horse galloping furiously
down the hill. On going down, he found the horse stopping at the gate,
with Mr. Prout’s foot dangling in the stirrup, and his bleeding body
on the ground. His skull was fractured, and he was quite dead. He was
praising his new, showy, chestnut horse to me only a few days ago, and
saying it was well worth a hundred guineas. It would have been worth a
good many hundred guineas to his family had he not bought it. Poor Mr.
Prout!
The turnpike-man’s wife, it seems, immediately got up, assisted her
husband to carry him in and lay him on their bed, and then washed his
wounds; while the man, leading the vicious creature he was afraid to
mount, came into the town to tell the news and get assistance. Poor Mrs.
Prout and Harry were soon on the spot; Mr. Cecil soon followed. He and
Mr. Prout were rivals, and rather cool to one another; but he looked very
sorry as he hastened up the hill.
I cannot help constantly thinking of them all. Last night, I dreamt I
saw Mr. Prout galloping up the hill, all in the dark, along the edge of
that frightful chalk-pit, to the poor woman for whom he had been sent;
and then coming home, thinking of his snug house and warm bed, when—off
dashed the horse!
I have lost a kind doctor and friend; rich and poor deplore him, for he
was sociable, kind, and humane. Often in money difficulties, poor man;
though I believe his good wife made every shilling go twice as far as
most could. She always kept up appearances, too, so nicely! No finery,
no waste; but everything (whatever poor Harry might think) suitable and
appropriate.
Every one I have yet seen—not many, to be sure, but every one I _have_
seen—expresses regret, and is eager to show sympathy, and wonders what
the widow and children will do. Something for themselves, that is
certain—except the little ones, who cannot. Mrs. Prout is hardly capable,
I am afraid, of undertaking a school; or that would keep them all nicely
together. Therefore, Emily and Margaret must go out as governesses or
teachers; Harry must get a place in some office; something must be found
for James; Edward must be put to school; and Fanny must make herself her
mamma’s little factotum, and look after the two youngest.
Easy to _say_ “must” to all this!
What a change a few hours have made!
* * * * *
Harry has spent more than an hour with me this evening. I never saw a
poor lad so overwhelmed with grief. He, the rosy-cheeked fellow! who
would have you believe—in his verses—that his tears were his meat day and
night, is now positively ashamed of crying bitterly over an irreparable
loss. I honour him for so deeply lamenting a good father; it raises him
in the scale of human being—as genuine, well-placed affection always
does. He will now have to exchange imaginary woes for stern realities.
He came quite at dusk. I did not think, at first, it was his voice,
asking if he might come in, it was so subdued. I said, “Ah, Harry!” and
held out my hand. He grasped it in his, and then sat down and sobbed. I
waited a little while in silence; then, when his emotion had somewhat
spent itself, I said—
“I thank you very much for coming—it is very kind of you, for I was
longing to hear many things that no one else could so well tell.”
“Oh!” said he, drying his eyes, “the kindness is to myself—I could not
stand it at home any longer!”
“How does your dear mother bear up?”
“Wonderfully!”—crying again. “But she quite broke down this evening: so
my sisters persuaded her to go to bed; and as they are sitting with her,
I was quite alone, and thought I would steal out to you for a little
while. What a shocking thing it is!”
I knew to what he referred, and said, “It is indeed, my dear Harry. For
your comfort, you must reflect that our heavenly Father is _peculiarly_
the God of the widow and orphan. He makes them his _special_ charge.”
“I can’t think what we shall do!”
“Do your best, my dear boy, and you will be sure to do well.”
“Uncle John will come to the funeral. And Uncle John will very likely
provide for James, and take him into his business, which is that of a
wholesale druggist; but what is to become of _me_, I can’t think!”
“Should you be glad if your uncle took you instead of James?”
“Why no, not glad; because it is not a line of business that suits my
taste. You know, Mrs. Cheerlove,” said the poor boy, faltering, “I
always aspired to be something of a gentleman.”
“And is not your uncle one?”
“Hardly. But I would be anything just now, to be of service to mamma—my
_mother_!”
“That’s right. Perhaps you would like to be in a surveyor’s office.”
“That would be better—only, who is to place me in one?”
“Or should you like to be a medical man, like your father?”
“Ah, Mrs. Cheerlove, his was a hard life! And those hospitals! But have
you heard of Mr. Pevensey’s kindness?” cried he, suddenly brightening.
“No!—in what?”
“Directly he heard of what had happened, he sent my mother a note, to
say how sorry he was; and that as he was sure she would be glad to part
with the horse that had occasioned such a terrible calamity, and he heard
my father valued it at a hundred guineas, he inclosed a cheque for that
amount, and would take it off her hands.”
“Excellent!” said I. “So opportune! so kindly thought of! And this is the
man whom so many think churlish!”
“Ah, he’s anything but that,” said Harry; “and quite the gentleman. Of
course mamma—my mother, I mean—was glad to get rid of the brute, and
would have been so for half the money. How strange it seems! Only three
days ago, my father was patting and praising that animal, and calling him
‘Hotspur,’ little thinking he should so soon be laid low! What an awful
thing sudden death is, Mrs. Cheerlove!—_here_ one minute, and the next in
the presence of God!”
“Are we not in His presence _now_, Harry? We cannot see Him, but He sees
and hears us. If a person is well prepared, a sudden death is, in my
opinion, a great mercy.”
“Oh, how _can_ you think so!”
“Well, I do. The shock is very great, doubtless, to the survivors; but
the sufferer is mercifully spared a great deal of painful discipline: and
if he be but about his Master’s work, ‘Blessed is that servant whom his
Lord, when He cometh, shall find so doing.’”
“My father was about his Master’s work, Mrs. Cheerlove.”
“Certainly he was. He was visiting the sick and needy, in the exercise
of his profession. It could never have been without self-denial that
he turned out of his bed into the dark, cold night, on such an errand,
whether to rich or poor.”
Harry seemed to dwell on the reflection with comfort; and I rang for tea,
and gave him a cup that was both hot and strong, which I knew to be good
for his poor aching head. We had a long talk afterwards, and he left me
in a composed and chastened frame of mind. Certainly, a sudden death,
like Mr. Prout’s, may be called a leap in the dark; but the believer
_leaps into his Saviour’s arms_.
* * * * *
This morning, to my great surprise and pleasure, Mrs. Pevensey came in,
bright with smiles, and said, “The weather is most lovely! and you know
you always promised that I should take you your first drive. It shall be
as short as you like; but, if you feel equal to the effort, you cannot
have a better opportunity. And as I am just going on to inquire after
poor Mrs. Prout, I will take you up on my return, which will give you
time to get ready without hurry.”
I felt quite bewildered, for I had not been out for more than two years!
If I had had time, I believe I should have said “No,” but as I had not,
I said “Yes,” and very thankfully too. All my nervous misgivings about
over-exertion and painful consequences were lost sight of in the thought,
how delightful it would be to breathe once more the sweet, sweet open air!
Phillis _did_ stare when she heard of the projected attempt. I think her
surprise vented itself in the ejaculation—
“Well, I’m sure!——”
But there was no time to say more, for there was a grand hunt to make
for carriage-boots, and warm shawls, and gloves, and a certain bonnet
that would unquestionably require all Mrs. Pevensey’s self-command not to
laugh at—it was so sadly out of date. She _did_ give it one amused look,
but that was all; for she is kindness itself, and has too much real wit
to depend for it on personal ridicules. She knew she had taken me by
surprise, and must make allowances. So, having triumphantly got me into
her most easy of close carriages—
“Where shall we go?” said she.
“Oh,” said I, “the turnpike will be _quite_ far enough.”
“Very well. Then, to the turnpike, George,” said she, as the footman shut
us in. But the roguish woman must have glanced, I am sure, to the left
instead of to the right, as she spoke; for the coachman, doubtless taking
his instructions from George, drove us to the farthest turnpike instead
of the nearest.