“Whiterose Cottage, Wednesday morning.
“My dear friend,
“On returning from church, I found your kind note and your bird
awaiting me, and I am sorry your maid was obliged to return
without the directions for knitting the ruff, which I inclose.
You are very good to provide an amusement for me in your
absence; but if Mrs. Grove really wishes for the cockatoo, I
hope you will let me transfer it to her, for its loud voice is
too much for me, and I understand nothing of the management of
birds. Wishing you a pleasant visit to your friends, I remain,
“Affectionately yours,
“HELEN CHEERLOVE.”
Having dispatched this missive, I felt greatly relieved; but my morning’s
work had so tired me that I was fit for nothing but a long rest on the
sofa, and would gladly have taken a little nap; but, every time my eyes
were ready to close, I was roused by the angry cry of “cockatoo.”
“That bird is a most disagreeable animal,” thought I. “How can any one
endure him? Even the wearisome cry of a gallina would less offend my
ears. It would be long before I should wish for a parrot: but a parrot is
a clever, entertaining bird, and affords some variety—this bird has only
one word. A rook can only say ‘caw,’ yet contrives to make its one harsh
note tolerably pleasant; but _this_ tiresome thing—Oh dear, there it
goes again! Phillis must be tormenting it.”
In fact, the cockatoo set up such a noise that I became quite irritable,
and rang the bell. “Phillis, don’t worry that bird.”
“_I_ worrit the bird?” cries she, in high dudgeon, “why, I wasn’t even in
the kitchen. I declare it worrits _me_!”
And, hastening off, she soon returned with the cockatoo on its stand,
flapping its wings, and violently pecking her bare arms, and set it down
before me with a jerk, saying, “There, you’ll see now, mum, whether it’s
worrited by me or not. And it was a present, not to me, but to yourself.”
“Poor Phillis! how _could_ you let it peck your arms so?”
“Oh!” said she, mollified, and smearing them with her apron, “I’m not
made of gingerbread!”
“But I really cannot have this bird _here_.”
“Why, you see, he’s quiet with _you_.”
“But, if he is, I cannot be. I was trying to go to sleep; and I shall
expect him to scream every moment.”
“Oh well, then, I must carry him off.”
“Don’t let him peck your arms more than you can help.”
“Of course I shan’t,” said she.
“He’s really a handsome bird.”
“Handsome is that handsome does,” said Phillis, pitying her arms.
“Perhaps if I go along with you, offering him something to eat, he may
not fly at you.”
“Well, you can but try, mum,” said Phillis.
So I did try; and directly he felt his perch in motion he flew, not at
her, but at me.
“Oh, that’ll never do!” says Phillis. “Tell ye what, you radical, I’ll
wring your neck for you as soon as think, if you don’t keep quiet.
Please, mum, leave ’un alone—you only makes him wus.”
And off she went with her screeching enemy, leaving me deeply impressed
with her own valour, and my incapability.
A man has just called for Mr. Cockatoo, bringing rather a _dry_ note from
Miss Burt, saying she was sorry I could not take a kindness as it was
meant.
* * * * *
Early as the sun now rises, the nightingale is awake while yet dark,
uttering the sweetest melody. Then a profound pause ensues; which, in
half-an-hour or less, is broken by some infinitely inferior songsters;
and soon, when the glorious sun uprears himself in the east, a full
chorus of larks, linnets, thrushes, blackbirds, redbreasts, titmice,
redstarts, and other warblers, pour forth their morning hymn of praise;
while the rooks caw on the tall tree-tops, and the wood-pigeon and cuckoo
are heard in the distant wood.
Yes, I am fond of birds in their own green shades. I am fond, too, of
entomology, though not very knowing in it. The change of grubs into
butterflies is so striking, that, as Swammerdam says, “We see therein
the resurrection painted before our eyes.” Spence and Kirby, in their
delightful book, have elicited wondrous facts. How many people see rooks
following the plough without knowing why they do so. It is in order
to eat the cockchafer grubs which the plough turns up. The cockchafer
grub, which remains in its larva state _four years_, preys not only
on the roots of grass, but of corn; and will so loosen turf, that it
will roll up as if cut with a turfing-spade; so that the rooks do good
service in destroying these mischievous little grubs. But insects are
not universally mischievous. A fly was once discovered making a lodgment
in the principal stem of the early wheat, just above the root, thereby
destroying the stem; but the root threw out fresh shoots on every side,
and yielded a more abundant crop than in other fields where the insect
had not been busy.
This reminds me, while I write, of another instance of compensation,
which occurred to my own knowledge. A great many years ago, a good old
market-gardener, whom I well knew, and who used to go by the name of
“Contented Sam,” lost a fine crop of early green peas he was raising
for the spring market, by a violent storm, which literally shelled the
pods when they were just ready to gather, and beat them into the earth.
He was looking at the devastation somewhat seriously, when some one
passing cried out, “Well, master, can you see anything good in _that_
now?” “Yes,” said he, rousing up, “I dare say God has some good purpose
in it, somehow or other.” And so it remarkably proved; for the peas,
_self-sown_, came up late in the season, when there were none in the
market, and sold at a much higher price.
To return to Messrs. Kirby and Spence. The friendship of these two good
and eminent men lasted nearly half a century. During the course of that
time, the letters that passed between them on entomology were between
four and five hundred. These letters were mostly written on sheets of
large folio paper, so closely, that each would equal a printed sheet of
sixteen pages of ordinary type. These they called their “first-rates,” or
“seventy-fours;” the few of ordinary size being “frigates.” But once, Mr.
Kirby having even more than usual to say, wrote what he called “The Royal
Harry,” alluding to the great ship “Harry,” built in the reign of Henry
VIII., of which I have seen a curious print. This _noteworthy note_ was
written on a sheet nearly the size of a _Times_ Supplement, and closely
filled on three pages! Talk of ladies’ long letters after this!
The correspondence sprang up, and was continued, some months before they
ever saw each other. They then spent “ten delightful days together,” at
Mr. Kirby’s parsonage, and devoted part of the time to an entomological
excursion in the parson’s gig.
At length, the idea occurred to them both of writing a book on entomology
together, and in a popular form, which should allure readers by its
entertainment, rather than deter them by its dryness. All the world knows
how happily they accomplished it; and I have heard one of them say, the
partnership was so complete, that in subsequent years neither of them
could positively say, “This paragraph was written by myself, and this by
my friend.”
* * * * *
This morning, as I was at work, enjoying the soft air through the open
window, and listening to the blackbird and cuckoo, I heard a carriage
stop at the gate, and soon afterwards, Arbell, carrying a parcel almost
half as large as herself, came in, looking very merry, and said—
“Good morning, Mrs. Cheerlove! Mamma thought you would like to see what
I have been doing for Mademoiselle; so she set me down here, and will
call for me presently.”
And with busy fingers she began to take out sundry pins, and remove
divers coverings, till out came a splendid scarlet cushion, elegantly
braided in gold.
“How do you like it?” said she, wistfully.
“I think it superb! Will it not be rather too magnificent for
Mademoiselle’s _ménage_?”
“Mademoiselle is very fond of bright colours, and means to have
everything very gay about her, though she will not have a house to
herself, only a flat; so that I feel sure she will like it.”
“Well, then, everybody must, for it is a splendid cushion, indeed! Why,
the materials must have quite emptied your purse!”
“Mamma was kind enough to say, that if I did it well, she would not mind
paying for the materials; and I am glad to say she is quite satisfied
with it. But I particularly want to know what you think of the pattern.”
“It is intricate, and very rich. Where did you get it?”
“In a way you would never guess,” said Arbell, laughing. “One day, mamma
took me with her to call on Mrs. Chillingworth; and as they talked of
things that did not at all interest me, I sat looking at a great cushion
on the opposite sofa, and thinking how bad the yellow braid looked, and
how much better the effect would be in gold. The pattern pleased me; so
I looked at it till I was sure I could remember it, and when I got home,
I drew it on a sheet of paper. Mamma was amused, and said it was very
ingenious of me; but I did not think of turning it to account, till it
occurred to me that I might work it for Mademoiselle. So I asked mamma,
and she approved of it, and said I might.”
“Well, I think it does you great credit in more ways than one.”
“How strange it was, Mrs. Cheerlove, that I should take such interest
in doing something for Mademoiselle! I had such pleasant thoughts while
working it. Oh, what do you think? I am going to have such a treat! Papa
wishes to investigate the iron mines in Piedmont, and is going to take
mamma and me with him; and on our return, we are to see everything worth
seeing. Will not that be delightful?”
“It will, indeed. Of course you will, meantime, learn to speak French,
German, and Italian, as fluently as you can.”
“Oh, yes; I am fagging very hard now; I have such a _motive_, not only
for acquiring languages, but for improving in drawing, that I may sketch,
and for obtaining information about all the objects in our way. I am
making a list of ‘things to be particularly observed.’”
“An excellent plan.”
“You seem to have a good many books, Mrs. Cheerlove. Have you any likely
to be of service to me, that you could lend me?”
“I am afraid they are hardly modern enough,” said I, doubtfully. “You are
perfectly welcome to any of them.”
She scanned their titles at the back:—“‘Alpine Sketches.’ That’s
promising. ‘1814!’ Oh, what years and tens of years ago! ‘_With all my
heart, said I, as H. carelessly mentioned the idea._’ What an abrupt
beginning!” She laughed, and replaced the volume on the shelf. “Mamma,”
said she, “has been reading the Rev. Mr. King’s ‘Italian Valleys of
the Alps,’ and is very desirous to see the great St. Bernard and Monte
Rosa, and the Breithorn, and Petit Cervin. I am chiefly desirous to
see Mont Blanc. There’s such a charming account of it, and of Jacques
Balmat, in ‘Fragments du Voyage.’ But Jacques Balmat is dead, though
some of his family are guides. Papa has bought us two of Whippy’s
portable side-saddles, which fold up into waterproof cases, with spare
straps, tethers, whips, and everything one can want; and he has bought
guide-books, maps, saddle-bags, telescope and microscope, and air-tight
japanned cases to strap on our mules, so that our equipment will be
complete.”
“You must take a sketch-book.”
“Oh, yes, mamma has given me one already; and a journal, and a vasculum
for dried flowers and ferns.”
“You will see beautiful butterflies, as well as wild flowers, in the
valleys.”
“Are butterflies worth studying, Mrs. Cheerlove?”
“Certainly they are.”
“I will recommend papa, then, to take a butterfly-net. Do you think it a
good plan to keep a journal?”
“Very, if you put down things worth knowing, while they are fresh in
your head; and refrain from such entries as—‘Had very hard beds last
night’—‘breakfast poor, and badly set on table’—‘feel languid and
dispirited this morning, without exactly knowing why.’”
“Surely nobody could put down such silly things as those,” said Arbell,
laughing; “at any rate, I shall not. Ah, the carriage is at the gate.
Mamma desired me to give you her love, and say she could not come in
to-day. Good-by! Here is a little book-marker, on which I have painted
the head of Savonarola, for you, if you will be so kind as to accept
it. Oh, and I was particularly desired to tell you that the cocoa-nut
biscuits you liked so much, were made of nothing in the world but
chopped and pounded cocoa-nut, loaf sugar, and white of egg, baked on
wafer-paper. Good-by! good-by!”
* * * * *
The longest day has passed! There is always something sorrowful in the
reflection, although the days do not really seem shorter, on account
of the moon. It is the same kind of feeling which we experience more
strongly, when we feel that we have passed the prime of life, though we
are still healthy and vigorous, and our looking-glasses may tell us that
our looks are not much impaired. But the early summer, and summer-time of
life, are gone!
I went to church to-day; but the heat is now so over-coming, that I must
discontinue my out-door exercise, while it lasts, till the cool of the
evening. As I passed Mrs. Ringwood’s, there was she at the open window
with her baby, and she nodded and smiled, and cried, “How d’ye do, how
d’ye do! You did me so much good! More than a glass of wine!”
She was not in low spirits just then, at any rate. And really I don’t
believe I could bear her peculiar trials as well as she does—even with a
glass of wine!
* * * * *
Cooler weather again. I went to-day, in the donkey-chair, to call on Mrs.
Prout in her new house. It is small but cheerful, with everything clean
and fresh. A good deal of her old, heavy furniture has been supplied by
less expensive but more modern articles, which are more suitable to the
papering and fitting-up of the house; and yet I looked with partiality
at a few things that had been rescued from the sale—the old bureau,
easy-chair, work-table, &c.
When I entered, little Arthur and Alice were the only occupants of the
drawing-room, playing, in a corner of it, at “Doctor and Patient.”
What imitators children are!—“Well, mum, what is the matter with you,
to-day?”—“Oh,” says little, lisping Alice, coughing affectedly, “I have
the guitar! (catarrh!)” After shyly exchanging a few words with me, they
ran off, just as their mother entered.
She is an excellent little woman; there was no display of grief, but deep
affliction beneath the surface; and now and then a tear strayed down
her cheek, while yet she thankfully spoke of “many alleviations—many
mercies.” “But,” as she truly said—“her loss was irreparable.”
All the while, there was Mr. Prout’s good-tempered countenance looking
down on us from the picture-frame, as if he approved of all she said.
It almost startled me when I first went in; and I sedulously avoided
looking at it, or even towards it, when his widow was in the room; yet
she evidently had gazed on it so continually, that she could now do
so without shrinking; and I often observed her eyes turning in that
direction, as if the portrait afforded her a sad consolation.
She told me, it was quite arranged that Emily should spend the holidays
with the Pevenseys; and asked me somewhat anxiously, whether I thought
there could be any hopes of its leading to a permanent engagement. As I
was not authorized to communicate what Mrs. Pevensey had mentioned in
confidence, I only spoke hopefully, and said, I could see no reason why
it should not.
“Emily is rather afraid of undertaking Miss Pevensey,” said Mrs. Prout.
“She thinks she looks too womanly, and probably knows already more than
she does herself. But I, who know what is _in_ Emily, have no fears on
that score; only, to be sure, she does look—and _is_—very young.”
“I don’t think looks much signify,” said I, “if there be self-possession,
and a temperate manner.”
“And Emily has both,” said Mrs. Prout.
While she was speaking, little Arthur came in, and laid a bunch of
radishes, wet with recent washing, and placed in a toy basket, in her
lap. I had heard a boy calling radishes along the row. Mrs. Prout smiled,
kissed him, and said, “Good boy; we will have them by and by for tea;”
and he ran off with them, quite elated.
“He has spent the last half-penny of his allowance on them, I know,”
said she, with a motherly smile; “and all for me. That is the way with
the generous little fellow—he continually spends his pocket-money on me;
whether on a few violets, or radishes, or perhaps a little measure of
shrimps—something he trusts in my liking, because he likes it himself.”
“Such a little fellow is lucky to have any pocket-money at all,” said I.
“Oh, they all have their little allowances,” said Mrs. Prout. “Perhaps
you think me wrong, in my reduced circumstances, to continue them, and it
_was_ a matter of consideration; but their father and I had felt alike on
that subject, and I therefore resolved only to diminish them to half the
amount, and save in something else, rather than reduce them to absolute
penury. I don’t like pinching on a large scale; I cannot, therefore,
expect them to do so on a small one. Besides, it teaches children the
value of money; gives them habits of calculation, fore-thought, and
economy. How can they practise self-denial, charity, or generosity,
without something, however trifling, they can call their own? But I never
permit them to exceed their allowances, or borrow, or run in debt. If
they spend too freely at the beginning of the week, they must suffer for
it till the week after. Arthur and Alice had twopence a week each, but
now they have only a penny; thus, they too, know something, practically,
of ‘reduced circumstances;’ and the stipends of the elder ones have been
lowered in proportion. So you see, I am not, after all, very extravagant.”
I thought, afterwards, how much sense there was in what she had said; and
regretted her rule was not oftener acted on in families. Mrs. Pevensey,
for instance, not unfrequently makes Arbell handsome presents, but gives
her no regular allowance; consequently, not knowing what she has to
expect, Arbell is sometimes improvident—sometimes pinched. Consequently,
also, she knows little of the shop-prices of articles in common request,
and does not regularly keep private accounts. I know it is not my
province to interfere on the subject; but, should an opening unexpectedly
occur, I will just direct Mrs. Pevensey’s thoughts to it, by alluding to
the plan pursued by Mrs. Prout.
Every one of these young Prouts has left off drinking sugar in their tea,
to lighten their mother’s bills; and at their own instance. How well it
speaks for them!
* * * * *
Priamond, Diamond, and Triamond, says Spenser, were three brothers in
Fairy-land:—
“These three did love each other dearly well;
And with so firm affection were allied,
As if but one soul in them all did dwell,
Which did her power into three parts divide.”
In the course of their story, a deadly quarrel ensued between the
youngest of these three brothers and Camball, brother of the Princess
Canace, which was assuaged by the goddess Concord, who gave them Nepenthe
to drink. And what is Nepenthe?—
“Nepenthe is a drink of sovereign grace
Devised by the gods, for to assuage
Heart’s grief, and bitter gall away to chase,
Which stirs up anger and contentious rage.
Instead thereof, sweet peace and quietage
It doth establish in the troubled mind;
Few men, but such as sober are and sage,
Are by the gods to drink of it assigned—
_But such as drink, eternal happiness do find_.”
I can well believe it, good Mr. Spenser. Where can it be found? Did you
ever drink of it yourself? or did you write thus feelingly because you
sought and found it not? Oh! by what name shall we pray for it? “_The
grace of God?_”
* * * * *
Here we are in the dog-days! and every one is complaining of the heat.
Last night we had a thunder-storm, and Phillis was afraid to go to bed,
till I told her that feathers were non-conductors. So then she thought,
the sooner she was on her feather-bed, the better.
Mr. Cheerlove used to be very fond of watching the lightning—of enjoying
what Sir Humphrey Davy called “the sublime pleasure of _understanding_
what others _fear_, and of making friends even of inanimate objects.” I
own I can never help starting at a very vivid flash. But I admire those
who are superior to vain alarms.
My garden is all-glorious with roses, from the China, Japan, Macartney,
and Alice Grey, that embower the house and cluster the green palings with
their crimson, pink, cream-coloured, and white blossoms, to the rarer
yellow rose, and far more beautiful moss-rose, “queen of flowers!” I
literally tread on roses as I walk from room to room, for every breath of
air wafts the loose leaves through the windows, and scatters them about
the carpets, making them, as Phillis says, “dreadful untidy.”
The hay is pretty well carried, and I am glad to say that the hay-turning
machine has not yet superseded hand-labour in this neighbourhood. The
poor woman who, with her husband and baby, found nightly shelter in
Cut-throat Barn, brought me some fine water-cresses at breakfast-time
this morning:—a grateful return for some old linen and broken victuals.
The young Prouts came in just now, bringing in yellow bed-straw,
harebells, three different sorts of heath, and a bunch of flowering
grasses that will make a graceful winter nosegay.
While Arthur turned over the contents of my curiosity drawer, and Alice
examined my collection of “pieces,” with permission to select three of
the prettiest for pincushions, Margaret read me Emily’s first letter from
Hardsand. All goes on satisfactorily. She finds herself quite equal to
the charge of the children, and Mrs. Pevensey tells her she more than
equals her expectations, and that she shall leave her at the head of the
school-room department with perfect confidence. Emily says, that so many
things, common to the Pevenseys, are new and delightful to her—their
polished manners and delightful conversation, the numerous little
elegances about them, the well-conducted servants, luxuriously-furnished
rooms, abundance of nice books, &c., all add something to her enjoyment.
As for her position among them, she does not mind it at all; in fact, she
is flattered by the confidence Mrs. Pevensey places in her, the obedience
of the children, and the respect of the servants. She admires the sea,
and the fine rough coast, and enjoys the daily walks on the sands. Arbell
seems to like her, and she likes Arbell. “When the children are gone to
bed,” she writes, “and Arbell is in the drawing-room, you cannot imagine
how I enjoy lying on the sofa and reading ‘Tremaine.’ But sometimes Mrs.
Pevensey looks in, and says, ‘Miss Prout, do come and join us—unless you
are tired.’ Then I spring up immediately, for I think it would neither
show good manners nor good feeling to hang back; and the result is that I
get a cheerful evening, and am made to feel completely one of themselves.”
The Pevenseys were to cross the Channel the next morning: they were all
in excellent spirits.
* * * * *
August is the month when the fields are ripe to harvest, and when, to use
David’s joyous imagery, “The little valleys stand so thick with corn that
they laugh and sing.” That is a beautiful line in a Scotch song, which,
describing a graceful, pretty young girl, says—
“Like waving corn her mien.”
Nothing can be more graceful than the motion of corn, stirred by the
light summer air—not even the dancing, in his boyish days, of one of
our greatest civil engineers—now, alas! dead. Light as feather-down,
and as if it were the pleasure of his existence to float on his
native element—the air—the next moment you might see him deep in some
abstruse question with his father, grave as if he had never known a
smile. (“_Ut in vitâ, sic in studiis, pulcherrimum et humanissimum
existimo, severitatem comitatemque misure, ne illa in tristitiam, hæc
in petulantiam procedat._” Be that his epitaph, from his old and early
friend.)
Sir Isambard Brunel once showed us a stone perforated by an insect, which
had suggested to him the horse-shoe form of the Thames Tunnel. On how
many of us would such a hint have been utterly wasted! Southey tells us
that when Sir Humphrey Davy first ascended Skiddaw with him, he cast
his eyes on the fragments of slate with which the ground was strewn,
and, stooping to pick one up as he spoke, observed, “I dare say I shall
find something here.” The next moment he exclaimed with delight, “I
_have_ found something indeed! Here is a substance which has been lately
discovered in Saxony, and has not been recognised elsewhere till now!” It
was the _chiastolite_.
* * * * *
I can scarcely form a pleasanter mental picture, than of a young girl,
healthy, talented, energetic, sweet-tempered, and with no burthen of
self-consciousness or morbid feeling, tired, but not too tired, after her
day’s toil as governess to a tolerably docile set of young pupils (and
all children may be _trained_ to docility), and resting body and mind on
a comfortable sofa in a cheerful room, with an entertaining book which
interests her; or now and then drawn off from it by pleasing thoughts of
home, and of the appreciation which there overpays her labours. And such
a picture do I form of Emily Prout.
Before Mrs. Pevensey sailed, she engaged Emily permanently, at a salary
of eighty guineas, to be raised to a hundred if she prove equal to her
situation.
* * * * *
This morning, on my way to church, I saw Mrs. Ringwood looking over her
blind with rather a long face, and she bowed to me somewhat piteously.
Now, I cannot say that I had forgotten her request that I would look
in on her again, for it had occurred to me almost every time I passed
her door; but, somehow, something had said within me, “No, I will not.”
There was no need, I told myself; and there certainly was no inclination;
therefore my conscience was not at all uneasy—especially when I did not
see her looking over the blind.
But now, it struck me, she might be specially looking out after me, and
thinking it very cross and unneighbourly of me not to call; she might
even seriously wish to have a little talk with me; and it might do her
more good than a glass of wine.
So I resolved to call as I returned: and I did as I resolved. A rather
slatternly maid, for whom I would on no account have exchanged Phillis,
said “Missis was at home;” and showed me straightway into the parlour,
where was—not Mrs., but Mr. Ringwood.
I suppose some people think him good-looking, but he is too much
be-ringed and be-whiskered for my taste. Mr. Cheerlove wore no whiskers;
nor any rings. My taste, therefore, is plain. Mr. Ringwood is not
plain—but rather showily good-looking.
He said—“Bless my soul, Mrs. Cheerlove! This is a great compliment,
ma’am—I—(Jemima, tell your mistress)—I know how little you visit, and
how greatly your visits are prized. You could not have paid me a more
flattering compliment, ma’am, than in calling on my little wife.”
Dear me, thought I, I shall not like this man at all—how oppressive he
is! I am sure I never thought of paying him a compliment, and wish he
would not pay me any.
“I hope Mrs. Ringwood is well,” said I.
“Well,” said he, running his fingers through his hair, in the Italian
way, or in imitation of it, “Emma is well enough, if she would but think
herself so;—she wants to go to the sea-side.”
“A nice time of year,” said I.
“Ah, ha,” said he; “but perhaps you are enough of a classical scholar,
Mrs. Cheerlove, to have heard something of ‘_res augusta domi_.’”
“I have heard the expression,” said I.
“Ah,—you don’t deceive me in that way,” said he; “I’ve heard of Mrs.
Cheerlove’s acquirements. You read by stealth, and blush to find it fame.”
“I thought fame was acquired by writing rather than by reading,” said I.
The absurd man bowed, as if I had meant to compliment him; for editing
the _County Advertiser_, I suppose! Oh dear!
Luckily for me, Mrs. Ringwood came in, wearing the very smart cap I had
seen her manufacturing on a previous occasion.
“Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” said she, hastening towards me, all smiles.
“I take it so kind of you!”
Then I asked how the baby was, and she told me he was cutting his teeth,
and went into long details, naturally interesting to her, and very well
to tell to me; but that might as well have been spared, I thought, in the
presence of Mr. Ringwood. I wondered he did not walk off to his office.
Instead of which, he stood, shifting from one foot to the other, running
over the paper, and making it crackle prodigiously as he unfolded and
refolded it; and at length he said, somewhat abruptly—
“My love, all this cannot be very entertaining to Mrs. Cheerlove.”
“That is true, Alfred,” said she, with a little flutter which I could not
account for. “I was to blame for forgetting Mrs. Cheerlove had no family.
How have you been, ma’am, lately? Don’t you think a little sea-air would
do you a great deal of good?”