“I sometimes hear people,” said he, “deplore their living in vain. No one
lives in vain who does or bears the will of God. Where there is little
or nothing to perform, there may be something to endure. A baby can do
nothing, and is only the object of solicitude to others, but I suppose
no one with any sense or feeling will say that babies live in vain.
Even if they answer no other purpose, they are highly useful in creating
sympathy, watchfulness, and unselfishness in others. A paralyzed person,
a person shut up in a dark cell, may, by patient endurance, eminently
glorify God. And, as long as He thinks it worth while we should live, we
may always find it worth while to fulfil the purposes of living in things
however small. Only the bad, the slothful, the selfish, live in vain.
We may have our good and evil tempers without speaking a word. We may
nourish holy or unholy wishes, contented or discontented dispositions,
without stirring from our place. ‘Since trifles make the sum of human
things,’ even a bit of liquorice given to a servant-girl with an
irritable throat, going out in a cutting wind, shall not be in vain.
“No one can say, my dear Mrs. Cheerlove, that that good and great man,
Sir Isambard Brunel, lived in vain. Towards the close of his life,
however, days of weakness and helplessness supervened, when he was drawn
about his son’s garden in a Bath chair, on sunshiny mornings. Well, Lady
Brunel told me that on those occasions he would often bid them bring him
one of his favourite blue and white minor convolvuluses, and he would
then examine it with his magnifying glass, till he espied the minute
black insect which he was sure to find in it, soon or late. ‘See here,’
he would exclaim, ‘this little creature is so small as scarcely to be
discernible, and yet the Almighty has thought it worth while to give it
every function requisite for life and happiness.’ He did not think it
lived in vain.”
* * * * *
Harry has had tea with me for the last time, though he does not go to
London till the day after to-morrow. We have promised to correspond,
which, I saw, pleased him; for, poor boy, he feels very homesick, now
that he is actually going, and will be glad of any little glimpse of his
family that I can give. I said, “How is it that you, who thought anything
better than your monotonous life, are now sorry to leave home?”
“Ah! what can be more monotonous than a solitary lodging will be!” cried
Harry.
“But the romping of noisy children—the crying baby—”
“Don’t name them, please! I see now, they are not worthy to be named.”
—“Are destructive of the repose needful for literary composition,” said
I, rather mischievously. “Then, Margaret’s daily practising—the surgery
bell—”
“Will be sounds by distance made more sweet,” interrupted he. “Pray, Mrs.
Cheerlove, have you ever taken the trouble to—ever found leisure to—dip
into the little manuscript volume of poems I placed in your hands before
our unhappy loss?”
Instead of giving him a straightforward answer, I opened a small book
beside me, and read:—
“‘In broad daylight and at noon,
Yesterday I saw the moon
Sailing high, but faint and white
As a schoolboy’s paper kite.
“‘In broad daylight yesterday
I read a poet’s mystic lay;
And it seemed to me, at most,
As a phantom or a ghost.’”
“Oh horrible, horrible!” cried Harry. “So then you think my verses poor
and unreal? Not fire enough? or what—what is it?”
“Pause, and hear me,” continued I, reading on:—
“‘But, at length, the feverish day
Like a passion passed away;
And the night, serene and pale,
Fell on village, hill, and vale.
“‘Then the moon, in all her pride,
Like a spirit glorified,
Filled and overflowed the night
With revelations of her light.
“‘And the poet’s song again
Passed like music through my brain:
Night interpreted to me
All its grace and mystery.’”
“Did it?—did it?” cried he.
“Well, in some degree it did. I read them by daylight, when I confess I
thought your time might have been better spent in almost any harmless
thing than in writing them. After tea I remembered how many of my
own young attempts, of one sort and another, had demanded far more
indulgence. So then I read them again, and not only liked them better,
but liked some of them very well—very much. I do not think, however, that
your verses will _sell_. Here, now, is a stanza you must explain to me:—
“‘Overcome with trouble deep,
Rest, too restless to be sleep,
While these sorrows did combine,
An angel’s face looked into mine.’
Now, what did you mean by that?”
“That I shall never divulge,” said Harry, folding his arms.
“Oh, very well, then. If you only half confide to me and to the public a
secret that is never to be divulged, we may as well know nothing about
it.”
“There is a very solemn meaning underneath,” said he, gravely.
“There _may_ be,” said I, after pondering over it a little. And a vision
floated before me of poor orphaned Harry crying himself almost to sleep,
and then suddenly becoming aware that his mother was bending over him
with looks of love. “The next verse,” said I, “I tell you frankly, Harry,
I like very much:—
“‘Oh! if my griefs their hold forsook,
But at an angel’s passing look,
Saviour, how great the joy must be,
Always of beholding thee!’
Yes, Harry, that is very sweet—very nicely thought and worded. Go on
amusing yourself, my dear boy, at leisure moments, only don’t let
it interfere with the real business of life. Sir Walter Scott said,
‘Literature was a good stick, but a bad staff.’ Remember that our four
greatest poets, Chaucer, Shakspere, Spenser, and Milton, were all
practical men; and would never have written in their masterly way if
they had been otherwise. And don’t get into the way, Harry, of writing
far into the night; it robs the morrow—nay, it robs many morrows. There
are young men who like the reputation of being great readers, writers,
and thinkers, who boast of keeping themselves awake to study by drinking
strong coffee, tying wet towels round their heads, and other silly
things. In the first place, I do not quite believe them; in the second,
I always feel a little contempt for boasters: and even supposing they
neither boast nor exaggerate, they burn the candle at both ends, and it
wastes all the faster. Rise as early as you will, it does no harm to the
health nor the head; but remember Sir Walter Scott. As long as he rose at
five, lighted his own fire, and wrote before breakfast, he could devote
the chief part of the day to his other affairs, and the whole evening to
relaxation in his family. As long as he did that, all went well with him.
But when, with a laudable desire to pay off debts,—which, after all, he
could not pay,—he wrote, hour after hour, all day long, and by gas-light,
nearly all night too, human nature could not stand it; his mind, already
overwrought by heavy afflictions and perplexing difficulties, gave way
under the too great pressure he put upon it in its state of extreme
tension. The consequence was, his powers of usefulness ceased—his
magician’s wand was broken!”
“Poor man!” said Harry, after a little pause. “No, I’ll never overdo
myself like that; and yet, Mrs. Cheerlove, there’s something grand, too,
in dying at one’s post.”
“Very grand and very glorious in many cases; only, if you exhaust
yourself at the beginning of the race, you won’t reach the goal, or win
the prize, which otherwise you might have reasonable hopes of. And, to be
_useful_, you must not despise commonly prudent precautions. By the way,
would you like an admission to the reading-room in the British Museum?”
“Oh, very much! You know I shall be quite near it.”
“Well, I think I can get you one. Perhaps you would like to know a nice
old lady and her daughter, who live in a quiet street hard by?”
“Dear me, yes—exceedingly! You know, I don’t know a soul.”
“Their name is Welsh. They are not smart people, but the mother is
very kind, and the daughter, who is some years older than yourself,
intelligent and intellectual. If you like one another (which I see no
reason to doubt), I think your dropping in on them now and then, just as
you drop in here, to tea, would be taken kindly.”
“I am sure it would be a kindness to myself,” said Harry, brightening.
And he took down their address in a little pocket-book, that his sister
Emily had given him as a keep-sake; and I promised to write to Mrs.
Welsh, and prepare her to expect him.
“I know a clever artist, too,” said I; “a sensible, friendly man, with a
nice little wife. They, also, are quiet people; but yet they sometimes
receive, beneath their unassuming roof, noteworthy persons, whom one
would like to have a glimpse of.”
“Why, Mrs. Cheerlove, that promises still better than the other! Will you
write to them too?”
“I will, Harry. And now I believe you know the extent of what little I
can do for you.”
“I call it much, not little,” said he, gratefully; and the rest of our
conversation was very cheerful.
* * * * *
I have had a small tea-party, of very small people—their ages ranging
from five to twelve. Two Hopes, two Bretts, and three Honeys. I took
Mary Brett into my confidence, and gave her half-a-crown to lay out to
the best advantage for the tea-table; and it was astonishing to see the
variety of little paper bags she brought back. This having been _her_
treat, Louisa Hope’s was that of being tea-maker, in which she acquitted
herself admirably. All talked at once; and, as I had expected as much, I
was very glad no grown-up person was present to compel a check to it, for
it was not of the smallest annoyance to myself.
After tea, I proposed that Mary Brett should be blindfolded, and put in
the corner, while Phillis cleared the table, and then, still blindfolded,
come forth and tell us a fable of her own making. The idea was applauded;
and the fable was a very fair one, to this effect:—
“A cuckoo, observing a thrush busy making her nest, contemptuously
remarked—‘It is easy enough to stick a few bits of wool and straw
together in that way.’—‘It may be very easy for you to _say_ so,’ replied
the thrush, after dropping a dead leaf from her beak, ‘but if you were
industrious enough to try yourself, instead of using other people’s
nests, you would find the difference.’
“‘_Moral._—People who have never made a book, a fable, or shirt, or
anything, don’t know how hard it is till they have tried.’”
Helen Brett, fired with the desire of emulation, immediately declared
_she_ would make the next; but I made them all file in silence round
Mary, who, touched by each in turn, said—“Not you,”—“Not you,”—“Not you;”
and at length—“_You_ shall be the next,” catching little Gertrude by the
wrist.
Gertrude’s effusion was about as witless as might have been expected. “A
bear—no, a tiger,—no, a bear met a lion one day, and said—‘What are you
going to have for dinner?’ The lion said—the lion said—O dear, I don’t
know what he said!”
This produced shouts of derisive laughter, and Gertrude was doomed to
forfeit. Then the others took their turns, with various success; after
which, the forfeits were cried. Then we had “The Knight of the Whistle.”
I produced a penny whistle, and, blowing a pretty shrill blast, put Willy
Hope in the middle of the room, and told him he was to find out who blew
the whistle. The children ran round him, blowing the whistle, he running
sometimes after one, sometimes after another, never able to find it;—for
a very good reason, because very early in the game, it had been pinned by
a long string to the back of his own little tunic.
Then I reclaimed the whistle, and again blowing a loud blast, said to
Willy, “See if you can do like that;” but dropped it on the carpet, and
affecting to pick it up, produced another, which, the moment he blew it
with all his might, sprinkled his face all over with flour.
Of course, these tricks did not bear being repeated. Moreover, I could
perceive Louisa Hope was thinking—“All this may not be too childish for
_you_, but it is for _me_.” So I said—“Now then, Louisa, write something
on a piece of paper, and take care I do not see what you write.” She
looked surprised, but immediately complied. “Fold it up very small,”
said I. “Hold it to the right,—what are you afraid of? Stretch your
arm straight out, it won’t hurt you! Now to the left. Now towards the
ceiling. Now towards the floor. Now put it _on_ the floor, and place on
it a candlestick, a box, or _anything_ that will completely cover it.”
All this took up some time; and she became a little excited, while the
younger ones were intensely interested.
“Nay,” said I, “stand upon it, so as completely to cover it. I will tell
you what is on the paper all the same.”
“What?” said she, with her eyes very wide open. After a moment’s silence,
I coolly said, “_You_ are upon it.” On which ensued shouts of laughter
from the little ones; while she, springing away from the paper, cried—“Is
_that_ all?” but could not help laughing too.
I had one more trick for her in store. I took six pieces of paper, placed
three of them on the back of my hand, and then, as a preliminary, blew
them away with an air of great mystery—informing my audience, at the same
time, that they were going to see something they did not expect. Then,
placing the other three pieces in my hand, I said—
“Which of these three pieces do you desire shall remain on my hand, when
I blow on them?” The children drew round. Louisa looked keenly at me,
and then, with decision, selected her piece. I immediately placed my
forefinger on it, and blew the others away; while the children laughed
and clapped their hands; and Louisa exclaimed, with anger at herself for
having been deceived into expecting anything better—“Oh, Mrs. Cheerlove,
anybody could do that!”
Sponge-cakes and roast apples concluded the evening.
* * * * *
Two dozen rosy little country children and more came to my door this
morning, with their little nosegays of cowslips, primroses, blue-bells,
and cuckoo-flowers, tied at the top of small peeled wands, chanting their
artless rhyme of
“Please to remember the first of May,
For ’tis the ladies’ garland-day;”
which Mr. Sidney thinks a variation from
“For ’tis _Our Lady’s_ garland-day.”
However that may be, who can refrain from giving halfpence and biscuits
to the pretty little rogues? The white-headed milkman is carrying quite
a beau-pot of garden and hothouse flowers, on the inverted lid of his
milk-pail, from house to house, this afternoon, hoping for a sixpence or
shilling here and there, which may meetly be granted to his grey hairs
and laborious life. For, in hot afternoons, along the shadeless road, and
long before dawn, on inhospitable winter mornings, in face of hail, snow,
rain, or ice, this old man punctually fulfils his vocation, which none
should heedlessly call light. He is one of our country worthies. Another
is the postman, who brings our letters at six in the morning, and calls
for those we wish to post at seven in the evening; a stalwart, Robinson
Crusoe-like looking man, with cheery voice and intrepid mien, who wears
a brigand-like high-crowned hat, enormously thick boots, and a leathern
belt, and padlocked bag. I know his swift, steady tramp from afar, and
like to hear his blithe “good-night” to Phillis.
This man’s name is Love. Phillis did not know him or his name when she
first came here, and finding such a formidable-looking personage at the
door about dusk, asked him somewhat bluntly—“Who are you?”—“Love,” said
he, with equal curtness. “Nonsense!” said Phillis. On which he burst
out laughing, and assured her it was his true-born surname, and that
he had no other, except that which was given him by his godfathers and
godmothers. Whereupon Phillis, as she averred afterwards, was ready to
bite her tongue off for speaking such a foolish word, and for a long
time she hated to answer the door to him; but gradually they have become
cronies (I believe he is equally civil to all the servants along the
road), and she even sometimes asks after his wife.
* * * * *
Emily Prout came to me this morning, all smiles, to show me Harry’s first
letter. I could not help observing how much older she looked in mourning;
sorrow and fore-thought have laid their fingers on her young brow; while
her manners are remarkably lady-like and self-possessed. Harry, after
warm-hearted inquiries for all at home, went on to say that his first
lodging was horrid—its evils were beyond description. However, in the
course of a few days, he had called on Mrs. and Miss Welsh, who, to
his surprise, had received him as kindly as if he had been the son of
an old friend. It was very encouraging. And they had invited him to tea
that very evening, and everything was as snug and cosy as at dear Mrs.
Cheerlove’s; and Mrs. Welsh quite pitied him about his lodging, and said
she knew a very much better one, _and cheaper_, in her own street; and he
had already moved into it, and was as comfortable as possible. The few
inconveniences that _might_ be named, he would not; they would do him
good:
“Lives of great men all remind us,
We may make our lives sublime!”
which he meant to do. And Miss Welsh was a delightful companion, and had
promised (“to take him” scratched out) he should take her to the National
Gallery, British Museum, and all the gratis sights, little by little,
till he had seen them all. And he was always to go to church with them,
morning and evening (“which you know will save the expense of tipping
the pew opener, and be more sociable too.”) And Mr. and Mrs. Whitgrave,
also, were very nice people. He had found an Italian patriot there, who
spoke of unhappy Orsini; and had known that glorious Garibaldi, and
related how Madame Garibaldi swam across a river, holding on by her
horse’s tail. And he did not mind the office life at all; he had so many
pleasant things to think of. James and Ned and he should see one another
sometimes. James had a tail coat, and did not look bad.
Poor, good, brave boy! For there _was_ bravery in thus meeting
insurmountable evils in a great, untried world. I loved him for dwelling
so on the cheerful side; and a tear started into my eye, when Emily,
in her affectionate way, kissed me, and said, “All _this_, dear Mrs.
Cheerlove, is owing to _you_.”
* * * * *
“_Il se répand quelquefois de faux bruits._” And the corollary ought to
be, “Do not help to spread them.” Small country towns are proverbially
rife with false reports, often to the serious detriment of their
subjects, even when the reports themselves are not ill-natured.
I have known so many groundless reports heedlessly spread, that my custom
is to say, “Oh! indeed,” and let the matter drop, unless there should be
anything of a noxious tendency in it; and then I not only forbear to pass
it on, but endeavour to make the reporter admit at least the possibility
that it may be untrue or exaggerated. This may sometimes lessen the
rapidity and virulence with which it spreads; at any rate, I have been
found a non-conductor, and my house “no thoroughfare.” When Mrs. Brett
asked me mysteriously if I had heard the dreadful news that Mr. Hope was
going out of his mind, I not only replied in the negative, but gave my
reasons for supposing it untrue: and so it has proved. Again, when Miss
Secker told me that the Holdsworths were such adepts in table-turning,
that the tables flew about the room like mad, _especially after
unbelievers_, I plainly told her I must hear it confirmed by more than
one credible witness before I could believe it; and some weeks afterwards
I had an opportunity of quietly inquiring about it of Mrs. Holdsworth’s
aunt, who assured me it was all nonsense, and that a mere Christmas
waggery had been distorted into a scandal, greatly to the annoyance of
Mr. and Mrs. Holdsworth. That report, too, of old Mrs. Ball’s sudden
death, and their holding a glass over her mouth to see if she breathed,
actually had not a shadow of foundation, and would never have been
traced, had not some one accidentally opened a letter that was intended
for somebody else.
This morning, Miss Burt told me what I should be very sorry to hear, were
I assured of its truth, although I have no personal acquaintance with
the parties. But though Mr. and Mrs. Ringwood may have had some little
differences, I cannot think that they will separate. His companionable
qualities are such, that they lead him too much into society; and, as the
editor of a somewhat influential local paper, he has a certain literary
reputation. This may (though it need not) make him less domestic and more
dissatisfied with cold mutton at home than one could wish, especially
if the cold meat be accompanied with cold looks, and the only tart is a
tart reply. Nor is it impossible that Mrs. Ringwood may be a bit of a
worry, and revenge herself for lonely evenings by morning confidences of
how she is used, and what she has suffered. I think she looks a little
querulous and self-conceited. But this report I believe to be idle.
* * * * *
Mrs. Pevensey has again taken me a drive. This time, it was through the
town, along the north road, and all round Hutchley Heath, which looked
lovely. As we passed Mrs. Prout’s, it was melancholy to see the sale
going on:—old stair-carpets hanging out of the windows, shabby-looking
chairs and glasses on the door-step and in the hall, with business-like
brokers looking at them in a disparaging way. The surgeon, who has
purchased the business, has been glad to take the house, but not the
furniture; so Mrs. Prout is selling off all she does not want, and
removing the rest into No. 2, Constantine Terrace, where everything is so
fresh and clean, that Mrs. Pevensey thinks she will find herself far more
comfortably situated than in her large, old house.
“Well,” said Mrs. Pevensey, smiling, “we are going to have a great loss
in our family. We are going to lose Mademoiselle Foularde!”
“Indeed!” said I.
“Yes; she is going to leave us at Midsummer, and settle in Germany. She
is engaged to be married to a Professor Bautte.”
“Professor of what?”
“Gymnastics.—I knew you would smile; but you _would_ ask.”
“Oh, I only smiled because I was surprised. I concluded he was a
professor of metaphysics, at least; or something prodigiously learned,
that I did not understand.”
“Gymnastics are safer than German metaphysics. The one can but break your
neck, the other may turn your head.”
“So you will have to look out again.”
“Yes, but at my leisure. I think of taking all the children to the
sea-side for the holidays; and as the younger ones are rather beyond the
nurse, and require to be kept a little in order, I have been thinking
of offering to take Emily Prout with us, if she would undertake their
charge.”
“Dear me! what a very nice thing!”
“You do not think she would object to it, then?”
“Oh no! I am persuaded she would like it exceedingly. She is so very
anxious not to be burthensome to her mother! And she is much more womanly
than she was. Her manners are so quiet and pleasant, that I feel sure you
will like her.”
“Well, it may be that if I found her enough of a governess for Rosaline
and Flora, we may make a permanent engagement; but I shall prefer seeing
what is in her first, which I can very well do during the holidays. She
is very young, I believe.”
“Barely seventeen. Too young for Arbell.”
“Oh, I am not thinking of Arbell. Arbell is getting on very well at
present; the chief danger is of her doing too much. She is growing fast,
and I shall not be sorry to slacken her lessons a little for some months.
If I find I can leave the children quite comfortably with Miss Prout,
at Hardsand, Mr. Pevensey and I shall probably take Arbell with us on a
tour of some extent. It will open her mind, and give her something to
remember with pleasure, all the rest of her life.”
“It will, indeed, be a great treat to her; and it is such an advantage to
young people to see new and interesting places with their parents. Is she
sorry Mademoiselle is going away?”
“Not sorry; but she behaves to her very pleasantly, and is busy in my
room, at every spare moment, working a present for her. Arbell is very
clever at her needle.”
“That is a good thing, for every woman ought to be so, whatever her
condition. How it beguiled the captivity of Mary Queen of Scots! Queen
Caroline, the wife of George II., used to do great quantities of
knotting. And think how Marie Antoinette, Madame Elizabeth, and Madame
Royale, used to mend their own clothes and those of the poor king, in
the tower of the Temple. No doubt it, in some measure, diverted their
thoughts from their sad fate. The tranquillizing effect of needle-work is
what our impulsive, excitable sex cannot be too grateful for.”
“My mother knew an old Scotch countess,” said Mrs. Pevensey, “who, in
her latter days, used often to exclaim, piteously, ‘Oh, that I could
sew!’”
After a pause she resumed:—“I have sometimes puzzled myself about the
much-vexed question, ‘Should we try to do good in the world at large,
before we have done all the good that needs to be done at home?’ There is
a great cry got up against Mrs. Jellaby, and other pseudo-representatives
of a class whose sympathies are widely engaged; and so much has been said
about ‘charity beginning at home, and charity that ends there,’ that one
gets rather perplexed. The Bishop of Oxford has, I think, lately settled
the question. He said, ‘Our Saviour foresaw and provided against it, by
dispersing His disciples far and wide, while yet much remained to be done
in Jerusalem.’ Here is a guide, then, for us: we may do all the good we
can, far and wide, even though we should be disappointed nearer home, or
even _in_ our homes, of doing all the good we _wish_.”
After this, we fell into a very interesting conversation, which I only
hope was as profitable to her as I felt it to be to me. I have been
stupid and sluggish of late, but this interchange of thought, feeling,
and experience quite roused me.
Christian and Hopeful were approaching the end of their journey when they
came to the drowsy land called the Enchanted Ground; and the way they
kept themselves awake was, by conversing freely on their past experiences
of God’s mercies and providences.
* * * * *
This morning, I have had rather a painful little adventure.
Though the wind was southerly, and the clouds portended rain, yet Phillis
was sure it would blow off. In fact, she had set her mind upon certain
cleaning, which I believe she preferred doing in my absence; and as
I took a hopeful view of the weather, I went to the week-day morning
service at church.
On returning, as usual, in the rear of the little congregation, I was
slowly drawling along Church Row, and thinking what a pity it was that
such good houses should be so falling out of repair, when down came the
rain very heavily. I had just passed Mrs. Ringwood’s, and noticed that
the parlour-blind wanted mending, and that Mrs. Ringwood, with a baby
in her arms, was idly looking over it. I began to spread my shawl more
completely over me, and was putting up my umbrella, when some one from
behind called, “Mrs. Cheerlove! Mrs. Cheerlove!”
The boy stopped the donkey, and said, “There’s Mrs. Ringwood a calling of
you.”
I looked round, and saw her, without her baby, standing on her door-step,
with her light curling hair blowing in the wind, while she eagerly looked
after me.
“Do come in, ma’am,” cried she, with great good-nature, and colouring as
she spoke. “It is raining quite fast! I am sure you ought not to be out
in it.”
The boy, at the same moment, took the matter into his own hands, by
turning the donkey round, so that I was before her door the next minute.
“I don’t think it will come to much,” said I, bowing and smiling. “I’m
extremely obliged to you. _Pray_ don’t come into the rain.”
“Oh, it won’t hurt me,” said she, now at my side, “and it _will_ hurt
you. Do come in till it is over.”
It was very good-natured of her. I made no more resistance, but alighted
as quickly as my infirmities would permit, and entered the house just as
the rain became a violent shower.
I was turning round to speak to the boy, when I saw him drive off,
at a good deal quicker pace than he drove _me_; and Mrs. Ringwood
said, laughing, “I told him to come for you when the shower was over;
otherwise, the chair would have been quite wet, and unfit for your use.”
So I followed her into the parlour, where she had put the baby down on a
sofa, in order that she might run out to me.
“It was very lucky,” said she, “that I was looking over the blind.”
My heart smote me for having called her, even to myself, idle; and I
thanked her very gratefully for her kindness. She answered with a smile,
and then left me for a moment or two alone with the baby. It was a long
while since I had been alone with a baby; I looked at it with interest,
and amused myself by making it smile.
A casual glance round the room disappointed my expectations of its
comforts and capabilities. It was smaller than I should have supposed it,
and inelegantly contrived. No fitting up could have concealed this; but
the fitting up was not very good. The carpet was showy and shabby, and
did not harmonize with the paper. The room wanted papering and painting;
but the window-curtains were conspicuously new, and made the rest of
the furniture look still more worn. On the table lay _Punch_ and the
_Athenæum_, and a smart cap in the process of making.
Mrs. Ringwood came back, looking rather discomfited. “Dear me,” said she,
“I can’t find my keys—Oh, here they are!” And carrying them off, and her
cap at the same time, she presently returned with a glass of wine and a
biscuit, saying, “You really must take this.”
In vain I assured her I was a water-drinker; I saw I should hurt her if I
declined, and therefore took the glass, and put it to my lips, though I
knew it would do me no good.
“I don’t know what I should do without a glass of wine sometimes,” said
she. “I hope baby has not been troublesome.”
“O no! What a nice little fellow he is! How old is he?”
So then ensued some baby-talk, which seemed to make us much better
acquainted.
“He must be a great resource to you,” said I.
“Well, children are plagues as well as pleasures, sometimes,” said Mrs.
Ringwood. “I often think people who have no families have no idea of what
mothers go through.”
“That is true enough, I dare say,” said I. “But the maternal instinct
is implanted to make us insensible to those troubles—or, at least,
indifferent to them.”
“Oh, nobody can be indifferent to them, Mrs. Cheerlove! Duty is duty, and
pleasure is pleasure; but they don’t amount to the same thing, for all
that.”
This was said with an asperity which seemed to place us miles apart
again. The next moment she added, “At least, time was—when I was very
young, you know, and fresh married—when I believe I really did think them
one and the same thing.” She gave a little laugh, to hide a tear.
“I don’t know how it may be with you,” said I, twining the baby’s little
fingers round mine, “but I think in most people’s lives there are times
when, all at once, they seem to break down under their burthens, and to
need a friendly arm to set them up again.”
“Some have not that friendly arm,” said she, her mouth twitching. “I only
wish I had. Oh my goodness, Mrs. Cheerlove!”—suddenly becoming familiar
and voluble—“you’ve no idea what a life mine is! These four walls, if
they had tongues, could tell strange stories!”
“Ah! what walls could not?” said I, hastening from particulars to
generals. “We were not sent into this world to be happy——”
“Well, _I_ think we _were_,” interrupted she; “and yours must be a
strange, gloomy religion if it makes you think otherwise.”
“At any rate, we cannot depend on being happy,” said I, “as long as our
happiness is founded on anything in this world.”
“Ah! there I agree with you,” said she, sighing profoundly; “there’s no
trusting to anything, or any one, whether servant, friend, or husband—you
find them all out at last.”
She fixed her eyes on mine.
“My lot,” said I, “was, I know, a favoured one; but I never found out
anything of Mr. Cheerlove, but that he was a great deal better and wiser
than myself.”
She raised her eyebrows a little.
“Some think that all men are superior to all women,” said she, rocking
the baby to and fro, “but I can’t subscribe to that opinion. I think we
have our rights and our feelings as well as our duties; and our rights
and our feelings have some little claim to attention. When a man makes
invidious remarks—”
“Or a woman either,” said I, laughing a little.
“—Which are felt to be meant for personal application,” pursued she,
“one’s spirit rises.”
“Certainly, it is best to speak out,” said I, “or else be silent.”
“Oh, let them speak out! If it’s in them, I’d rather it came out of them.
I detest your innuendoes!”
“However,” said I, “we can never make the crooked tree straight. We must
take people as we find them.”
“Or _leave_ them!” said she. Then, suddenly pausing, she pressed me,
quite in an altered tone, to take a little more wine. “You have scarcely
tasted it—perhaps you prefer some other sort.”
“Oh no, thank you. The fact is, I have so long been a water-drinker, that
even a little sip makes my mouth feel all on fire.”
“Ah! then that can’t be pleasant, I’m sure,” said she, cordially. “I
won’t press you to have any more. I only wish I knew what you _would_
like.”
“I like looking at you and your baby,” said I, smiling.
“Do you think him like me?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! you said that, I fear, to please me. I own I laid myself out for
it. But now, tell me, Mrs. Cheerlove, don’t you think that we have
pleasing things said rather too often to us before marriage, and too
seldom afterwards?”
“Yes, I think that is sometimes the case.”
“Oh, and how it depresses one, not to know if you please!—nay, to be
pretty sure you don’t! I’m sure, I could do anything, almost, to give
satisfaction—take down a bed, lift a box!—”
“You would be like the French crossing the Alps when the trumpet sounded.”
“Just so; I lose all sense of fatigue and crossness.”
“Can’t you hear a _mental_ trumpet?”
“What?”
“Something _within_, that shall cheer you along your path.”
“Ah! I fear I can’t.”
And the poor little woman, gushing into grief, told me, the acquaintance
of an hour, such a tale of woe, that my tears flowed with hers. She was
comforted by my sympathy, and said, clasping her hands—
“Oh that I could see my path clear!”
“I think you will,” said I, though my hope was not very sanguine.
“Sometimes I think I’ll write to mamma. I sit down and write her such
long letters, and after all, don’t send them.”
“Excellent!” said I.
She looked surprised.
“Your plan is excellent,” I pursued. “By pouring out your griefs to your
dearest and earliest friend, you relieve your own mind; and, by not
sending your letter, you give no pain to hers.”
“But it is merely from irresolution,” said she.
“Never mind what it is from. The plan is excellent. Continue to write
to her—write often—pour out your whole heart—and then put the letter
carefully away till the next day; enjoy the comfort of finding what a
strong case you made out—and, having done so, burn it!”
“Are you joking?” said she.
“No, as serious as possible. It is no joking matter.”
“Well, I thought you were too kind to do so. And, dear me! I feel a
great deal better for this talk. Things don’t look so dark; and yet they
have not in the least altered.”
“Only a different hue is thrown over them. That makes all the difference
sometimes;—and answers as well as if the things _were_ altered; as long
as we can make the hue last.”
“Only,” said she, beginning to chafe a little, again, “one cannot bear to
be put upon.”
“Ah,” said I, gently putting my hand on her arm, “_the Christian will
even bear to be put upon_, be it ever so much, and, for his Master’s
sake, bear it patiently; and when he _has_ so far subdued his feelings as
to be able so to do, how glorious the triumph, the happiness, and peace
that will take possession of his heart!”[3]
“Oh!” said she, after a moment’s deep pause, “what a cordial! How _could_
you say it? What a mind you must have!”
“Not at all,” stammered I, feeling dreadfully stupid and humiliated.
“_Could_ you say it all over again? I have such a poor head, and would
so gladly retain it. You can’t, I suppose. Ah! well—‘the Christian can
bear to be put upon,’—that was the text—that’s enough. It will bring all
the rest to mind—the general effect, that is.”
“And you’ll try to _act_ upon it?”
“Yes. I really will. I give you my word. Only it isn’t at all fair all
the effort should be on one side. But I’ll try, though I’m sure I shall
break down.”
“Oh no! I hope better things of you!”
“Ah, you don’t know me—I’m such a poor, weak creature. I don’t like
_him_ to say so, though,” she added, laughing, with one of those sudden
transitions which seemed natural to her.
“Here comes the donkey-chair. I thank you _very_ much for your great
kindness.”
“Mine? oh, don’t name it. It has been all on the other side! What is the
line of poetry about ‘An angel unawares——’”
“In the Bible,” suggested I, provoked at being tempted to smile.
“Oh yes! (what a shame!) ‘thereby entertained,’ and so on. Which is just
what I’ve done, you know. Oh, I’m so sorry you’ll go. Do look in again
some day. I have very few friends; for some people look down on me, and
I look down on some other people. And so I get no society at all. Baby
wants you to kiss him. ‘Ta, ta, Mrs. Cheerlove.’ Pretty fellow!” (kissing
him rapturously). “Mind you don’t get the hem of your dress draggled as
you go down the steps. There now, the scraper has torn your braid! Mind
your foot does not catch in it, and throw you on your face. I’ll have
that scraper mended against you come next. Mr. Ringwood has spoken of it
several times. You’ve done me so much good, you can’t think! more than a
glass of wine!”
Poor little woman! I’m afraid her head is rather empty. But if her
intellect has not been much cultivated, she has genuine affections—with
a good deal of _étourderie_, wilfulness, and self-appreciation. How they
will get on together I cannot conjecture. A chance word of mine made a
transient impression; but “the next cloud that veils the skies” will
sweep it all away.
We must not, on that account, however, relax our humble endeavours, nor
despise the day of small things. Line upon line, precept on precept, here
a little and there a little, effect something at last. Grains of sand
buried the Sphinx.
* * * * *
Directly I saw Phillis, I perceived a very queer expression on her face.
“Ah,” thought I, “she remembers what she said about the weather, and is
rather ashamed of my having been caught in the rain. I shall charge her
with it, and hear what excuses she can make. She is a capital hand at
self-defence.”
But, at that moment, my ears were struck by a loud, harsh, jarring sound,
that absolutely petrified me—the piercing scream of a cockatoo!
“Where in the world is that bird!” cried I, in dismay.
“In our kitchen, ma’am,” said Phillis, demurely. “’Tis a present from
Miss Burt. I guess she thought you was fond of birds.”
“Fond of them? Why, I’m so fond of them that I can’t bear to see them in
cages.”
“But this here thing’s on a stand!”
“Or anywhere but in their native woods,” continued I, rapidly. “I have
been offered canaries and bullfinches again and again, and always
refused. The sweetest melody could not reconcile me to their captivity.
And a cockatoo, of all birds in the world! Why, it will drive me
distracted!”
“Well, there, _I_ says ’tis a nasty beast,” says Phillis, with a groan,
“and has made a precious mess on my clean floor already, scattering and
spirting its untidy messes of food all about, and screeching till one
can’t hear one’s self speak. ‘Do be quiet, then!’ I’ve bawled to it a
dozen times, and it answered me quite pert with, ‘_cockatoo!_’”
I could not help laughing. “Really,” said I, “it is too bad of Miss
Burt—she might have given me warning.”
“Oh, I suppose she thought ’twould be an agreeable surprise,” said
Phillis, with a grim smile. “There’s a note for you along with it.”
“Pray give it me.”