“Oh, but it braces one so,” said she. “It would strengthen ME, I know,
more than all the wine and porter in the world!”
“Why should not you try to let your house?” said I. “Many people do.”
“’Pon my honour, Mrs. Cheerlove, that’s a capital thought of yours!”
burst in Mr. Ringwood. “I wonder it never occurred to me. I’ll tell
you what, Emma, if you can let the house for the autumn, you may go to
Hardsand the very next day! Put up a ticket to-morrow.”
“Oh, thank you, Alfred!” cried she. “I’m sure I’d no idea you would have
consented to such a thing, or I would have proposed it before.”
(“Don’t believe such a thought ever entered your head,” muttered he).
“I wonder, though,” she continued doubtfully, looking round the room as
she spoke, “who would take such a house as this?”
“Did you never hear Cowper’s line,” said he, quickly—
“‘We never shall know, if we never do try?’”
“I’m sure I’ve not the least objection to trying—nay, I’m much obliged
to you for letting me—”
“Not with the house,” put in he, quite smartly.
“Of course not—how funny you are! But I haven’t the least idea about
these things.”
“Your kind friend, Mrs. Cheerlove, can doubtless supply you with an idea
or two—she has plenty of her own.”
“Oh, yes. Well then, Mrs. Cheerlove, what steps should you recommend?”
“Oh, it is a very simple affair. Tell Mr. Norris, the house-agent, that
you want to let your house, furnished, for the autumn, at such a price;
and that it can be seen at such and such hours. Or, if you prefer it, you
can put up a bill.”
“Dear me, yes! I think I’ll do both! How clever you are! So practical!”
“Ah, Mrs. Cheerlove,” said Mr. Ringwood, with a shrug and a smile, “it’s
we literary people who are the practical ones after all!”
Then she began to consider how many beds she could make up, and what she
should leave, what she should take, and what she should lock up; whether
she should allow the use of the piano, and whether the pictures should be
covered; till her husband impatiently cried—
“Oh, hang the pictures!” and then laughed at his ridiculous exclamation.
“But really, Emma,” continued he, “you need not give Mrs. Cheerlove a
list of all the cracked wine-glasses.”
“I haven’t a list to give,” said she with simplicity. “Perhaps it would
be well if I kept one.”
“You must make an inventory now, at any rate. Set about it this
morning—it will keep you amused for a week.”
“My dear Alfred, you are always finding things for _me_ to do, instead of
yourself. You forget the baby.”
“You take good care, my dear, I shall not do that. Mrs. Cheerlove, how I
do wish we could enlist you amongst us!”
“As what?” said I, amazed.
“As a contributor. Oh, you need not look so conscious!—murder _will out_.
I know you write. Now, do give me—poor, toil-worn editor as I am—some
little assistance. On public and local affairs, of course, I want no aid;
what I desire is historical anecdote, biographical sketches, traits of
character and experience—all that sort of _materiel_ for thought which
may or may not be used, according to the will of the reader—pleased with
the thing as it stands, but not always disposed to carry it on.”
He spoke earnestly and well.
“You do me great honour,” said I, “but, I assure you, you are quite
mistaken in me. I could not afford you the help you need.”
“Why—they said you wrote throughout your long illness!”
“Whoever _they_ may he, I can assure you, I only used my pen in hours of
solitude, as a companion; nothing more.”
“But its results!——”
“Will never appear before the public. Oh no, I am no authoress. And I
must confess to a prejudice against _female_ assistants in our leading
periodicals. I think it a province out of our sphere.”
“Well, you compliment us,” said he, bowing; “but I own you have not
satisfied me. I am convinced you _could_, if you _would_. Dear me! how
time runs away, to be sure! I must run off this moment; but one takes no
count of time in _your_ presence, Mrs. Cheerlove.”
And, presenting his hand to me in a very affable manner, and bowing over
mine, he flourished off.
“Delightful!” cried Mrs. Ringwood, taking a deep breath; “how you’ve
drawn him out! Oh, I do so enjoy good conversation! But I’m no
converser—never was. Always such a simple little thing!”
I knew not what to say; and she almost immediately went on in a dreamy
sort of way—
“He used to tell me before marriage, he loved simplicity; so I wasn’t
afraid, you know. But now he likes intellect better.”
“But why should you despair of pleasing him, even then?”
“Oh, he knocks me down so! I don’t mean literally,” cried she, seeing
my look of dismay; “but he has a way of _setting_ people down, as the
saying is, whenever they talk in a way that does not please him; and if
I am chatting a little, and he wants to cut it short, he says, ‘My dear,
I beg your pardon,’ quite politely; and takes the lead, and keeps it—‘My
_dear_,’ not ‘My love.’ It was so pleasant to hear him say, ‘My love!’
to-day.”
“Well,” said I, “you will be busy now, and I hope soon to hear of
your having let your house.” And so I talked a little about various
watering-places, as if she might pick and choose where she liked; though,
after all, very probably, she will have no choice but Hardsand. And I
told her what a cheerful, bracing place Hardsand was considered.
But, as I rode home, I thought that, perhaps I had done the little woman
no kindness, after all; for her efforts to let her house might only end
in disappointment. And the more I thought of blinds, scrapers, &c.,
wanting repair, crumb-cloths wanting washing, and wine-glasses wanting
replacing, the less chance there appeared to me of anybody’s being
attracted by the house.
“A pennyworth of putty and a pennyworth of paint,” said a nobleman, in
the last century, “would make my countess as handsome as any at court.”
Certes, a pennyworth of putty and a pennyworth of paint, or something
equivalent, will often go far towards making a house look tidy and
respectable. But, in Mrs. Ringwood’s domain, _il poco piú_ is sadly
wanting. A man may laugh at an Irish waiter who confidentially whispers
to him, as he hands him his venison, that “there is no currant jelly on
the sideboard, but plenty of lobster-sauce,” but he will not endure it
from his wife.
* * * * *
——What luck some people have! The Ringwoods have let their house the
very first day! Just now, I was very much surprised by a call from Mr.
Ringwood, who looked much more gentlemanlike than he did yesterday, and
said, with a very pleased look, “Mrs. Cheerlove, I am sure you will be
glad to hear the good news, and therefore intrude to tell you of it
myself. I called on Norris just now, and found the Hawkers are wanting a
ready-furnished house, while their own is painting—that is to say, for
six weeks; so I’ve seen Mr. Hawker, and we came to terms immediately;
supposing, of course, that the ladies make it out together. But I am sure
Emma will be glad to make every concession to Mrs. Hawker, so I look on
it as a done thing. Don’t you wish me joy?”