COTTAGE LIFE.
Vincent was much too weary that night to notice whether his bed were
soft, and slept in luxurious repose till the morning light awoke him.
Dressing quickly, he entered the little parlour where Clemence was
preparing the breakfast. She greeted him with a cheerful smile. “We have
not the fatigue of stairs here,” she observed.
“And we’ve the advantage of hearing at one end of the house everything
that passes at the other,” said Vincent;—“while I was dressing I did not
lose a note of the song that Martha was singing in the kitchen. I think
that there was an earthquake last night, or else I dreamed that I felt
one.”
“It was a train passing,” said Clemence; “it was too dark yesterday when
we arrived for us to notice how close to our house the line runs.”
“So half-a-dozen times a day we’ll have the earthquake of Lisbon,
without paying our shilling—so much to treat the ear; and as for the
eye—is there anything in the Royal Academy brighter than that famous
patch-work table-cover, which I see displayed in all its glory? I’m sure
that you are determined to make our cottage gay with every colour of the
rainbow!”
The mind of Clemence was wandering to graver subjects. How the anxious
wife pined for a letter with the foreign post-mark! It came not, and her
heart was full of uneasy forebodings, which she struggled, however, to
hide from her young companion. Clemence even chatted merrily with the
boy, as, after herself putting up the dinner which he was to carry with
him to M——, she accompanied him to the town, to introduce him to his new
master. Clemence was not aware that an entrance fee had been required,
still less that it had been already paid from the slender purse of her
friend, Mr. Gray.
In quiet routine sped the lives of Clemence and Vincent; the simple
meal, the social prayer, the reading the Word of consolation, ever
preceding hours of busy study to the one—to the other a long day of
quiet occupation and anxious thought. The evening was always cheerful;
Vincent returned home full of all that had happened either to himself or
his companions, and made his step-mother laugh at his tales out of
school. She knew all the fun that the boys had had at football, and the
hopes of a famous cricket-match to come off between M—— and B——. With
pleasant converse and plenty of occupation, no wonder that Vincent cared
not that the evening meal was but a basin of porridge. The pressure of
poverty, indeed, fell far more heavily on the lady, whose health had
been much shaken by sorrows, and who required the comforts which a rigid
sense of duty induced her to deny herself. All her ingenuity was taxed
to prevent Vincent from feeling its weight. Little did he dream that the
fire which blazed so merrily in the evening was never kept in during the
day, that the small stock of fuel might be husbanded; and that when the
chill of the parlour was no more to be endured, Mrs. Effingham carried
her work to the kitchen for the sake of its kindly warmth. Little did he
dream how different the meal which was packed up so neatly for him every
morning, was from that which his kind provider reserved for herself in
the cottage, till one day Vincent unexpectedly made his appearance in
the parlour two or three hours earlier than usual.
“The academy’s broken up!” he cried, as he entered, “and when we shall
meet again no one can say. There are three cases of scarlet fever
amongst the boys!”
“Not alarming ones, I trust?” said Clemence.
Vincent went on without appearing to notice the question. “So I’d better
begin the profession of gardener at once, and learn about English roots
instead of Greek ones. As I knew I’d be back in time for dinner, I gave
my sandwiches away to a beggar—I prefer something hot in such weather as
this! But how’s this?” he continued, seating himself at the table:
“you’ve come to your cheese-course already!”
“Did you consider meat as a matter of course?” said Mrs. Effingham
playfully, as she cut a slice of bread for her unexpected guest.
“You don’t mean to say that you are going to dine upon nothing but bread
and cheese?”
Clemence only smiled in reply.
“And what was your dinner yesterday?”
“Nay, I am not going to let you into the secrets of my establishment,”
Mrs. Effingham gaily answered.
“And the fire’s out!”
“We shall try your skill in re-lighting it, dear Vincent,” said his
mother.
The boy gazed thoughtfully into her pale thin face, and for the first
time since he had come to Willow Cottage, Vincent heaved a sigh.
“Poverty is a trial—a great trial,” was his silent reflection; “but when
I am old enough to earn my own living and hers, she shall never know its
bitterness more.”
Clemence regretted less the pause in her step-son’s attendance at
school, as the weather had become unusually severe. Winter, who for a
few days had seemed on the point of yielding up his empire to his
smiling successor, now with fiercer fury than ever resumed his iron
sway. Standing-water froze even within the cottage, the windows were dim
with frost, the little garden was one sheet of snow, and even the
postman made his way with difficulty along the road. It was seldom that
he stopped at the gate of Willow Cottage, and he never did so without
sending a thrill of hope, not unmingled with fear, through the bosom of
Clemence Effingham. The morning after the breaking up of the academy he
brought a letter for Vincent.
“It is Louisa’s hand,” called out the boy, as he tramped back through
the snow to the cottage door, at which Clemence was impatiently waiting;
“I’m glad that she has answered my note at last. She is such a lazy girl
with her pen!”
“Come and read it comfortably by the fire,” said his step-mother,
concealing her own disappointment.
“_Pro bono publico_, I suppose, you and I being all the public at hand.”
Vincent threw himself down in front of the cheerful blaze. “Now for a
young lady’s epistle—written on dainty pink paper and perfumed—to be
given with sundry notes and annotations by the learned Vincent
Effingham:—
“MY DEAR VINCENT,
“You ask me how I like our new house. What a question!
Beaumont Street after Belgrave Square! I feel as if I were
imprisoned in a band-box! [I wish she could see our cottage!]
Our grand piano blocks up half our sitting-room—a miserable
relic of grandeur, which only serves to incommode us, since none
of us have the heart to touch it. The furniture of the house is
wretched—fancy chintz-covered chairs and a horse-hair sofa!
[Fancy rush-bottomed chairs, and no sofa at all!] Aunt Selina is
in shocking spirits [_alias_ temper], has not appetite for food
[while we have not food for our appetite], and is always
painfully recurring to the past. Our horse—you know we have now
only one—has fallen lame [a misfortune which can’t happen to
us]; and, as Arabella says that she detests walking, I am quite
shut up in the house. It is dull work looking out of the window,
with nothing for view but the brick houses on the opposite side
of the street, scarce anything passing but those wretched
grinding organs which murder my favourite opera airs! It is
strange how our friends seem to have forgotten us: we have
hardly a visitor here. I suppose that this is caused by the
change in our position—which gives one a very bad opinion of the
world. But I hope that things may look brighter when this long,
miserable winter is past, and the London season commences.
“Pray give my love to dear Mrs. Effingham. I miss both her and
you very much. I am sure that she will let me know if she
receives any tidings of papa.”
* * * * *
“Well!” exclaimed Vincent, as he folded up the note, and replaced it in
its rose-tinted envelope, “I would rather leave the world as we have
done, than find out that the world was leaving me!”
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