Chapter III: Part 3

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.

I must just note down something else that he said to me.

“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.”

This was the note:—

“5, Chickweed Place, Elmsford, June 10.

“My dear Mrs. Cheerlove,

“I’m off this afternoon to Canterbury, to spend a month; and,
meanwhile, have sent you my cockatoo to amuse you. Perhaps
you did not know I had one. It only arrived yesterday, as a
present from Lady Almeria Fitzhenry. So you see it is quite
an aristocratic bird; and it will look extremely well on your
lawn in fine weather, and, on wet days, afford you company.
Mrs. Grove is dying to have one, so you may consider yourself
favoured. If you get attached to it, you shall have it all the
winter. I am sure it will be a pet with Phillis.

“Your affectionate friend,

“CORNELIA BURT.”

“P.S. Please send me back the directions for making the magic
ruff.”

“Phillis,” said I, “Miss Burt thinks you will make the cockatoo quite a pet.”

“It’s a great deal more likely to put me into a pet,” said she. (Screech, screech, went the cockatoo.)

“He knows you are talking of him,” said I, “and does not like to be spoken ill of behind his back.”

“Then he’ll hear no good of himself from me,” says Phillis.

“The donkey-boy is waiting to be paid,” said I, “and Miss Burt wants something sent back. I will send it by him, and write her a line about the bird.”

“Suppose he takes it back,” cried Phillis.

“No, that would hardly do.”

“Well, ’twould look queer-like, that big stand in the donkey-chair!” and she went off laughing.

I hastily wrote:—

“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.