“The common air, the earth, the skies,
To me were opening Paradise.”
We are nearly through April; and the hedges are quite green, though the
oaks, ashes, and beeches are still leafless, and the meadows are not yet
sprinkled with buttercups. But the blackthorn is in full flower. Besides,
a great many alterations had been effected since I was last out, which I
noticed with surprise and interest; for though hearing of alterations is
one thing, seeing them is quite another. My old favourite promenade, the
elm-tree walk (sometimes called the Queen’s Walk, though the queen’s name
I never could ascertain), was as yet unharmed amid the rage for letting
ground on building leases to freehold-land societies; but, beyond it, new
houses had sprung up in various directions. When I first came to live in
the neighbourhood of Elmsford, there were only four houses between me
and the town; and having for some few years been accustomed to live in a
street, I used occasionally, on dark nights, to feel rather unprotected.
If a dog barked at the moon, I used to think of thieves, and remember
that some suspicious-looking man had begged at the door; or I thought of
fire, and ruefully considered the scarcity of water. Besides, where were
we to get help?—Why, in _heaven_, where I may ask for it at once, thought
I, and for freedom from all disquieting alarms. So I used to seek it, and
then yield to the quiet, dreamless sleep that was _sent_.
Now, in place of four houses, I saw a dozen, with stone porticoes to
the doors and heavy architraves to the windows, and very little green
about them higher than three-foot laurels, which the cows had evidently
nibbled, as they do mine, on their way to and from milking.
At one of these houses we stopped, while the footman carried a beautiful
basket of hothouse flowers to the door, and delivered a message. While we
waited, I heard the sound of a harp, and listened to it with pleasure.
“How pretty!” said I.
“Ah, you may well say so,” said Mrs. Pevensey, with a sigh. “The player
is soothing a much afflicted father, who, in his day, was an accomplished
musician, and a man of fine intellectual taste. I shall take her a
drive to-morrow; it will make a little change for her, which is better
than none. ‘He that contemneth small things shall fall by little and
little.’”[1]
A door or two off, we left a little flat round basket, containing about
two dozen large hothouse strawberries—scarlet, ripe, and tempting, as
they peered out of their coverlet of dark green leaves. Several such
little baskets had, during two or three springs, found their way to _me_.
“That is for poor Miss Peach, who is dying of consumption,” said Mrs.
Pevensey. “Arbell set them out so nicely. My dear Mrs. Cheerlove,
whatever you said to Arbell the other day, has had magic effect! She has
been quite a different girl ever since!”
“That is more to her praise than mine,” said I. “What I said was very
little.”
“All the better, perhaps, since it was to the purpose. She is now brisk,
pleasant, and active—has found her way out of dreamland into the affairs
of daily life. Mademoiselle is highly satisfied with her; and Mr.
Pevensey, finding she was writing a little summary of Italian middle-age
history for her own amusement, was so pleased at it, that he told her
he would give her five sovereigns, if she did it well by Christmas. So
she is carrying it on with double spirit, ransacking the library for
materials about the Guelfs and Ghibelins, the Neri and Bianchi, instead
of moping; and is glad to refresh herself afterwards with a good
wholesome game of play with Rosaline and Floretta.”
“Ah, a golden spur sometimes pricks the best,” said I. “Small premiums
for small achievements are better than competitions for a prize, which
_must_ disappoint one or many. A rivalry with one’s self is the only safe
rivalry.”
“I think so too. And five pounds is nothing, you know, to Mr. Pevensey.”
“No, but a hundred pounds may be more so. Harry Prout gratefully told me
of his buying the horse.”
“Mr. Prout had over-estimated it,” said she, quietly smiling.
“I guessed as much.”
“In fact, if it cannot be thoroughly broken, by Rarey’s means or others,
Mr. Pevensey will have it shot; for he says it is better a showy horse
should be killed, than another father of a family.”
“Surely.”
“And the money, you see, won’t be wasted, because it was useful where it
was sent. There is some thought of quietly getting up a subscription,
under the name of a testimonial. Mr. Secker, the suggestor, will
acquaint Mrs. Prout with it, and ask whether she would like a silver
cup or the money; and of course she will prefer the latter. Only
half-sovereigns will be asked, but those who like to give more may do so
unknown to all but Mr. Secker, as there will be no published subscription
list.”
“All the better,” said I. “There are too few who—
“‘Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.’”
“More than you think, though, perhaps. There!—now you get a glimpse of
the church. Your next wish will be to be in it; but you must not attempt
too much at first. In a little while, I hope you may manage it.”
Having nearly reached the turnpike, we turned about on our homeward
course. And thus ended my pleasant drive. Had I had my choice, my frame
of mind would have been serious; as it was, it was cheerful. I felt tired
and shaken, but less so than I expected. On saying so to Phillis, she
remarked—
“Said so—didn’t I? My ’pinion is, if you’d gone afore, it never would
have hurted ye.”
Kind words cost little: and I had _had_ a good many. I could not help
thinking, had Eugenia been alive, how she would have sped me forth
with fond solicitude, and tenderly hailed my return!—with some word
of thankfulness, too, to Him in whose hand are the issues of life and
death—some cheery gratulation that we were to be spared yet a little
longer to each other.
But I called to mind the substance of a nice little tract called “The
Scales Adjusted.” Things are often equalized by roughs and smooths being
set against one another. And, though snubbed by my maid, I felt that in
this instance my good things predominated.
* * * * *
“So you’ve been and seen them big stone houses at last!” said Phillis, as
she wheeled my little tea-table up to my easy-chair. “They _do_ make ours
look small, don’t they?”
Now this was a very disagreeable view of the subject. Of course, a little
house _does_ look smaller than a large one, turn it which way you will;
but mine—Whiterose Cottage—was quite large enough for me, and could
not be turned in a prettier direction. As we lost sight of the tall,
shapeless stone houses, and came first to the graceful elm avenue, and
then to—
“Where my cottage-chimney smokes,
Fast between two aged oaks,”
I could not help thinking how snug and suitable for its mistress it
looked.
True, it has only one sitting-room, save a little snuggery eight feet
by ten; true, it is all built on one floor, and that on the ground:
every room in it, but the first and last, opening into a narrow matted
passage, or gallery. But to me this seems the very prettiest, most
convenient plan, for a single woman with one servant, that could possibly
be desired; and my only wonder is, that instead of there not being such
another, perhaps, in England, there are not dozens, or hundreds. How many
a rich man, now, might run up a little place like this, on some corner
of his estate, for a widowed aunt, or old maiden sister or cousin, where
she might be as happy as the day is long, and live on next to nothing,
quite respectably; and, when she dropped off, like a ripe acorn from
the oak, and almost as noiselessly, the “Old Maid’s Home” might revert
in perpetuity to a succession of decayed gentlewomen, whose simple, yet
genteel tastes would thereby be met by their modest means.
Not that I would have them _called_ old maids’ homes, for that would
stamp them at once, like a workhouse woollen waistcoat, or a charity
cloth cloak. No; they should be Sweet Homes, or have other such pretty
significatives; giving them rank with the best Rose Cottages, Myrtle
Cottages, and Laurel Cottages, in the land. They might prettily be
called after their fair owners—Julia’s Cottage, Maria’s Cottage, Helen’s
Cottage, and so forth. Mine is Whiterose Cottage. It has not an exterior
like a long, narrow knife-tray, or candle-box: on the contrary, though
its rooms lie parallel, they are not of an uniform width or length;
consequently, the walls have what Mary Russell Mitford called “a charming
in-and-outness;” and there is not a straight line or “coign of vantage,”
that is not draped by some gay or graceful climbing plant—rose,
jessamine, lophospermum scandens, morandia Barclayana, ecremocarpus,
nasturtium, and callistegia, or Romeo’s ladder.
The dwelling was built by a retired tradesman of good taste, and some
originality as well as education. He was a widower, without children,
determined to have everything comfortable for his old housekeeper as
well as himself—consequently, the kitchen, though small, is as complete
in all its appointments, as can possibly be wished; with water laid
on, and a little oven in the kitchen-range—in which, as the furnishing
ironmonger triumphantly says, you may bake a pie, a pudding, and a pig.
Phillis, I believe, enjoys her kitchen quite as much as I do my parlour.
Kitchen and parlour stand sentries, as it were, at each end of the house.
There is hardly a hall worth speaking of—only a little vestibule built
on, that will just hold a mat, a flower-stand, a hall-chair, and an
umbrella-stand. Over the threshold, the quaint old man has carved “PARVA,
SED APTA,” which, I am sure, is true enough. And on one of the panes of
the high lattice-window, with its eight compartments, in the parlour, is
written with a diamond ring—
“True happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy to pomp and noise.”
On another, “Know Thyself.” The good man, though much respected, was
accounted rather crotchety—and, perhaps, I am so too; for, certainly, I
no sooner saw these little whimseys, than I took a fancy to the place,
and was quite thankful to find the rent within my means. It was not till
I had taken it, that I remembered (towards night) the possibility of
alarms from thieves and sturdy beggars. A kind friend suggested a fierce
dog; but, to confess the truth, I am also much afraid of fierce dogs.
So then, the same kind friend suggested a kennel without the dog, a
man’s hat hung up in the hall, and a large bell—adding, that, with these
defences, I must be safe. I trusted I might be so, even without them. So
here I am thus far in safety. And often, as I lean back to rest towards
sunset, letting harmless fancies have their course, I picture to myself
the old recluse, seated, like brave Miles Standish, with his Cæsar’s
“Commentaries,” at the lattice, poring over some huge old book—Bunyan’s
“Holy War,” suppose—
“Turning the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks, thick on the margin,
Like the trample of feet, proclaimed where the battle was hottest.”
* * * * *
“As well be out of the world as out of the fashion,” said our amusing
friend Captain Pinkney; and, accordingly, I sent this morning for little
Miss Campanelle, to hold counsel with her about a new bonnet. Mrs.
Pevensey took me by surprise, and therefore made allowances; but she will
not take me by surprise next time, and therefore I must not expect her
to make allowances again. We owe it to our richer friends not to neglect
appearances consistent with our means; on the other hand, the rich do
us more harm than they perhaps are aware of, when they avow a contempt
for such moderate efforts to keep pace with the times as we ought not to
exceed.
My bonnet was decidedly behind the times.
“Dear me, ma’am,” said Miss Campanelle, primming up her little rosebud
mouth, which showed a strong inclination to expand into a laugh, “there
is enough in this bonnet for _two_. Only, the shape is so completely out
of date, that it won’t bear altering: otherwise the materials are quite
fresh.”
“They may well be,” said I, “for they were nearly new when I put them
away two years ago. However, I mean to have a new bonnet; and I dare say
I shall find some one who will be glad to have this.”
“Dear me, yes, ma’am; it will be quite a nice present,” said Miss
Campanelle, hastily. “There are many people who would be glad to
modernize it for themselves.”
Then, thought I to myself, why could not you modernize it for _me_?
Perhaps she read my thought in my face, for she added—
“There are some people who do not at all mind style, if they are but
respectable. Now, respectability depends upon the material; but style on
the making it up. And it’s style that shows the lady.”
“Yes,” said I; “one style shows the old lady, and one the young lady; one
the fashionable lady, and one the lady who does not care for the fashion.
It does not seem to me so very many years ago since bonnets were worn so
large that it was considered a very severe, but not extravagant, remark,
when some one said of another,
“‘And all her soul is in her hat—
Quite large enough to hold it.’”
“Ah,” said Miss Campanelle, “that must have been before my time.” And,
as she still seemed inclined to ruminate on the future of my bonnet, I
nearly committed the unpardonable folly of asking her whether she could
make any use of it herself. Instead of which, I very fortunately began by
asking her whether she knew of any one who would be glad of it.
“Why, since you are kind enough to ask me, ma’am,” said she, quickly,
“I _do_ happen to know of some one for whom it would be the very thing.
Some one _very_ respectable, and very poorly off,—a widow, but no longer
wearing widow’s mourning; only black, ma’am, like you,—who seems quite
overlooked, because she’s below the genteel, and yet no one can class her
among the poor—her manners are above that; but yet I do assure you, she
often dines on bread-and-butter.”
It appeared she was the widow of a pianoforte-tuner, who lodged with
Miss Campanelle; and as I feared it might hurt her to receive the bonnet
from myself, I gave it to Miss Campanelle to give it in her own person
to her, which she was quite pleased to do. And she went away with the
_Illustrated News_ and some black-currant jam for herself.
* * * * *
The funeral is over. The house is re-opened, and the little mourners go
about the streets; while their widowed mother must do many things besides
sit at home and weep, for she has to provide for their future and her
own. Mr. John Prout is going to take James, and get Edward into Christ’s
Hospital. How strange the little flaxen-headed fellow will look in his
blue gown and yellow stockings! I hope his round cheeks will not lose
their fresh, rosy colour in London. The subscription will enable Mrs.
Prout to article Harry, and leave her something over. How much better
than spending it on a silver cup or vase, for which she would have no
use! She hopes some one will buy the good-will of her husband’s business,
and take the house, and perhaps furniture, off her hands; otherwise
there must be a sale. At any rate, she must find cheaper quarters. Mr.
John Prout proposed her going to live cheaply in Yorkshire, with little
Arthur and Alice, while the two elder girls went into situations; but she
naturally shrank from going so far from them. Mr. Prout insured his life
for a small sum, so that she is not utterly destitute. I understand there
is a pretty little row of houses called Constantine Place, newly built at
the other end of the town, and that one is still vacant, and thought to
be just the size that will now suit Mrs. Prout.
Well—I have been to church once more!—on a week-day, not on a Sunday;
but I am deeply thankful for it. I went slowly crawling along in the
donkey-chair, the wheels of which would have creaked less had they
received a not very expensive greasing with a little dripping. The ride
shook me a good deal, and the boy kept worrying the donkey with a little
stick that did no good, and only made it obstinate. They who would
quicken a donkey’s paces must observe the law of judicious kindness.
I felt rather bewildered and scant of breath when I was in church:
there were not a dozen persons in it, and the few voices sounded faint
and hollow. I was hardly capable of more than a general emotion of
thankfulness; but the service was very short; and by waiting till every
one else had left the church, I escaped salutations.
——Miss Burt has just looked in.
“_I_ saw you!” said she. “You need not think to creep into any corner
where _I_ shall not spy you out! Well, I congratulate you with all my
heart; and I hope that now you have once begun, you will keep it up.
Nothing worth doing, is to be done without a little effort; and if _I_
were never to go out but when I felt inclined, I might stay at home all
my life. Of course you saw the memorial window?”
“No, I did not look about—”
“Not see the window! Why, it was immediately in front of you! You could
not have helped seeing it!”
“Then of course I did see it; but I did not observe it.”
“My mother taught me at a very early age,” said Miss Burt dryly, “to
observe _everything_. So that now I never go into a church, or room, or
pantry, without seeing everything in it at a glance—and remembering it
too. It is a faculty that may be acquired: and therefore should be. This
was the way in which Robert Houdin taught his son to exhibit what passed
for second-sight. He used to take the child up to a shop-window—the next
minute take him away. ‘Now, Robert, what did you see?’—‘Two work-baskets,
ten penwipers, six whizzgigs.’—‘No, you didn’t.’—‘Yes, I did.’—They go
back again. The child proves right. The boy, by cultivating the faculty,
had become quicker than his father. He took in at a glance the whole
contents of a shop. And applied this habit so dextrously before a crowded
audience, that things which they did not believe he saw, or had seen,
he described accurately. The consequence was, that his father realized
immense profits.”
She paused to take breath.
“I think, however,” said I, “that there are times when such a faculty may
be supposed to lie dormant.”
“No, never. It becomes intuition.”
“I think there are times when feeling takes the place of observation.”
“Oh, if you’re getting metaphysical, I’ve done with you! Never _would_
dabble in metaphysics! When people begin to talk of their feelings—”
“I was not going to talk of my feelings,” said I, with a tear in my eye.
“Fine feeling and I shook hands long ago,” said Miss Burt, rapidly. “Deep
feeling is quite another thing; and does not betray itself in words.
Deep feeling leads to action—fine feeling to inaction; deep feeling is
excited for others—fine feeling thinks of itself; deep feeling says,
“‘Life is real, life is earnest’—
fine feeling is ready to lie down and die; deep feeling is a fine, manly
fellow—fine feeling is a poor, puling creature.”
“Very good,” said I, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry; for it
really was clever, only I knew it was all meant for a hit at myself.
“Very good, only you won’t let it do you good, hey?” said Miss Burt.
“‘Excellent soup for the poor.’ You think the cap would fit Mrs. A. or
Mrs. B. very well.”
“No, I was not thinking of Mrs. A., B., or C.”
“You were not, were you, _Mrs. C._?” laughing. “No; that’s just what I
thought.
“‘General observation,
Without self-application,’
does little good that I know of. _My_ plan always is to take a thing
home.”
“But, my dear Miss Burt, I laid no claim to deep feeling, that I can
remember; and surely you have hardly cause to charge me so _very_
plainly with fine feeling.”
“Now don’t get warm! There’s nothing that hurts me so much as to see
anything I have meant kindly, taken quite amiss. _Do_ keep your temper. I
assure you I came into this house prepared for nothing but kind words.”
“And I am sure I have spoken no unkind ones,” said I, the tears rolling
down my cheeks.
“Now you’ve upset yourself. This church-going has been too much for you.
Why didn’t you lie down the minute you came in?”
“I was going to do so, but——”
“Why didn’t you lie down? You should have lain down directly. Phillis
should have _made_ you do so, and then have brought you a glass of jelly,
or a little good broth. Phillis was to blame for not having it all ready
for you against your return, without your knowing anything about it. I
shall speak to her.”
“Oh, pray don’t! Phillis’s place is to obey orders, and not to prepare
surprises. Surely I can direct her what I shall like her to prepare,
myself.”
“You are now making a matter of temper of it. I shall say not a word. I
am quite calm, but I feel I’d better go. If anything _does_ make me feel
irritable, it is to see.... Well, well, I will look in another time, when
I hope we shall be in better tune. I’m sure I had not an idea!—Good-by;
good-by!”
As soon as I heard the little gate slam, I had a hearty cry. Mr.
Cheerlove used to speak of people making a storm in a saucer, and surely
this had been one, if ever there was such a thing.
On first coming in, my intention had been to lie down and rest quietly
till Phillis brought me a little arrow-root; but I had scarcely untied
my bonnet-strings when Miss Burt came in. _Had_ I had time to recover
myself, I should not have been so weak as to let her upset me; but, as
the matter stood, she had done so completely, and I felt utterly unable
to resist shedding tears.
“Don’t come in, Phillis,” said I, hastily, as she opened the door; for I
thought I should have some observations, silent ones at any rate, on my
red eyes.
“Here’s Mr. Sidney,” said Phillis.
I looked up, quite ashamed. Kind Mr. Sidney it was, who had, like Miss
Burt, seen me in church, but who had come to congratulate me in a very
different manner.
“I am afraid you have done rather too much this morning,” said he, very
kindly. “I am not at all surprised to see you rather overcome. It is a
good way from this house to the church; and I dare say the donkey-chair
shook you a good deal. I wish there were an easier one to be had. My aunt
uses it sometimes, and says it shakes her to pieces. Well, but my dear
Mrs. Cheerlove, this is a great step gained. I am sure we all have great
reason to be thankful that it has pleased the Lord to restore you to
us. You have a great deal of ground yet to gain, I can readily believe,
before you are quite one of _us_; but still, every step in advance is a
mercy.”
He appeared not to notice my tears, and, though they still forced their
way, they had lost their bitterness.
“I went home,” continued he, “and said to my wife, ‘Mrs. Cheerlove was
in church this morning; I shall step down and wish her joy:’ and I put
this little book in my pocket to read you a few lines, which I thought
you would enter into. What I like myself, I can’t help expecting others
to like;—others, I mean, in whom exists some similarity of taste and
feeling. You know I have known what it is to be brought very close to
an unseen world, and to have been raised up again quite contrary to all
expectation; and, therefore, I can sympathise very truly with you.”
“You had so many things to make life dear,” said I, dejectedly, “and so
many depending on you in your family and parish, that your death would
have been a very heavy misfortune; but I have not one near tie left! My
work, which was never very important, seems done; and I am, in fact,
little more now than a cumberer of the ground. I therefore cannot feel
quite as thankful perhaps, for recovery as I ought.”
“That proceeds,” replied he, quietly, “from rather a morbid state of
feeling, which is not at all natural to you, and which will in a great
measure pass off with your present exhaustion. But nevertheless, I can
quite understand that a Christian believer, brought very close to the
threshold of God’s kingdom,—so as almost to hear the voices on the other
side the door, and very sincerely desirous to enter His awful presence,
under the assured protection of the Redeemer,—_may_ feel a kind of
disappointment at being sent back again into this wilderness-world—just
as the Israelites were when they were on the very confines of the
promised land. But all we have to do in such case is _to submit_, and _to
trust_; and I think this little hymn very experimentally teaches us our
duty.” Then, in a very feeling, calming voice, he read:—
“‘It is thy will, my Lord, my God!—
And I, whose feet so lately trod
The margin of the tomb,
Must now retrace my weary way,
And in this land of exile stay,
Far from my heavenly home.
“‘It is thy will!—And this, to me,
A check to every thought shall be,
Which each might dare rebel.
Those sacred words contain a balm,
Each sad regret to soothe and calm,
Each murmuring thought to quell.
“‘It is thy will!—And now anew,
Let me my earthly path pursue,
With one determined aim;
To thee to consecrate each power,
To thee to dedicate each hour,
And glorify thy name.
“‘It is thy will!—I ask no more;
Yet, if I cast toward that bright shore
A longing, tearful eye,
It is because, when landed there,
Sin will no more my heart ensnare,
Nor Satan e’er draw nigh.’[2]
Do you like it?”
“Oh yes! very much.”
“Carry shall copy it for you then. This little volume is my _vade mecum_.
You may always find my Bible in my right pocket, and this in my left. It
is rather too dear for the poor, which I regret; but its circulation is
already very extensive.”
I found that it was the “Invalid’s Hymn-book,” and that my favourite
Sabbath hymn, which I had erroneously attributed to Hugh White, was, as
well as this, by Miss Elliott.
“Will you let me offer you a glass of wine?” said I.
“Thank you, I shall like a glass of wine-and-water and a biscuit very
much, if you will have the same.”
“I will, then.”
I believe it was partly on my account he had it. As we partook of our
refreshment, he spoke so pleasantly and interestingly, that I was
completely lured away from all my sad thoughts; and, after offering up a
short, fervent prayer, which was full of tempered thanksgiving for life,
and faith in the life to come, he left me quite composed and cheerful.
And here have I been living the happy half-hour over again.