Part 2

“Bring me the second of those two small volumes, lettered ‘Biographia Literaria.’”

“Oh, it’s in prose!” said Harry, in disappointment.

“Prose by a poet, however—which, by-the-way, was the name of a pretty, though not very shining, little work by James Montgomery, that has now dropped out of sight. Here is the passage: it begins—‘Never pursue literature as a trade. With one exception’ (I think he means Southey) ‘I have never known an individual healthy or happy without some regular employment which does not depend on the will of the moment—’”

“Bah!” muttered Harry.

“‘But can be carried on so far mechanically that an average quantum of health, spirit, and intellectual exertion are requisite for its faithful discharge.’”

“I’m surprised Coleridge should say that.”

“Well, Harry, he was one of the many people who preach better than they practise. Hear me to the end—‘Three hours of leisure, unalloyed by any alien anxiety, and looked forward to with delight as a change and recreation, will suffice to realize in literature a larger product of what is truly _genial_ than weeks of compulsion.’”

“Ay, I never write but when the fit is on me,” murmured Harry.

“‘Money and immediate reputation form only an arbitrary and accidental end of literary labour. The _hope_ of them may often prove a stimulant to industry, but the _necessity_ of acquiring them will, in all works of genius, convert a stimulant into a narcotic.’

“It did in Sir Walter Scott’s case,” I observed.

“‘Motives, by excess, reverse their very nature; and, instead of exciting, stun and stupify the mind. For it is one contradistinction of genius from talent, that its predominant end is always comprised in the means; and this is one of the many points of likeness between genius and virtue.’”

“Then I’ve a genius,” cried Harry, laughing, “for I always write verses for the pleasure of writing, and not for money!”

“Stop, my dear boy, hear him out—‘My dear young friend, I would say to every one who feels the genial power working within him, suppose yourself established in any honourable occupation. From the counting-house, the law-courts, or from visiting your last patient, you return at evening to your family, prepared for its social enjoyments; with the very countenances of your wife and children brightened by the knowledge that, as far as they are concerned, you have satisfied the demands of the day. Then, when you retire into your study—’”

“I wish I had one!” sighed Harry.

“‘You revisit in your books so many venerable friends with whom you can converse. But why should I say _retire_? The habits of active life will tend to give you such self-command that the presence of your family will be no interruption. Nay, the social silence, or undisturbing voices of a wife or sister, will be like a restorative atmosphere, or soft music, which moulds a dream without becoming its object.’”

“What beautiful English he writes,” said Harry.

* * * * *

I was interrupted where I last left off by the entrance of the three young Pevenseys, with their governess, Mademoiselle Foularde, whom I had supposed still at the sea-side. But it appears that an epidemic had broken out at Hardsand, which occasioned their immediate return to the Stone House. I was very glad to see them all; they seemed to bring sunshine into my shady little room; and I had a toy railway-engine for the amusement of my little friends, which delighted the two young ones exceedingly. Arabella, or, as they frightfully abbreviate her name, Arbell, has grown quite tall and womanly, for a girl of fourteen. She has her mother’s good profile, but is dark, like her father, and the expression of her face is rather stern and repelling. Mademoiselle was charming; but I do not think she and her eldest pupil go on comfortably together. Whenever I addressed a remark to Arbell, Mademoiselle answered it, and went on speaking so as to detain my attention; this occurred three times, and I could observe Arbell look annoyed. As for Flora and Rosaline, they had a regular boxing-match, when they thought I was not looking. I caught Rosaline’s hand in mine, with the little fist doubled up, and said, “Why, Rosaline! you quite surprise me! I did not know you were a pugilist!”

She opened her large blue eyes, as if amazed at my interference, and then seemed disposed to laugh; but I said quite gravely—“No, no, we have no fighting here. If it is allowed at the Stone House, I don’t allow it in my parlour.”

“It is not allowed at the Stone House, but they do it for all that!” burst forth Arbell, and then shut herself up again in rigid silence. Mademoiselle Foularde darted an indignant look at her, and then drew Flora towards her, fondling her, and saying—

“_Ah, fi donc, Rosaline! Bonne petite Fleurette! comme je l’aime!_ I never saw her fight before, did I?”

“How _can_ you say so!” muttered Arbell, and then sighed, and began to play with her little dog Shock.

After this, the conversation rather flagged; but I showed the little ones some prints I was meaning to paste into a nursery picture-book; and when I had quite won their good-will, kissed them, and said, “You won’t fight again, will you?” Both said “No” very cordially; and Mademoiselle and I exchanged looks and smiled, and then I said, “I am sure you remember that pretty verse:

“‘But, children, you should never let Such angry passions rise; Your little hands were never made To tear each other’s eyes!’

What _were_ they made for, hey?”

Both gave me a quick look, but seemed at fault.

“Why, to work, and to write, and to draw, and to paint pictures, and hold knives and forks, and spoons, and slices of plum-cake, and to give pence and sixpences to poor people, and a thousand other good and pleasant things. Will you remember?”

Both smiled, and said “Yes;” and then I produced slices of the iced plum-cake Harry Prout had cut up, and told them to hand the plate first to Mademoiselle and Arbell, and then to help themselves. This produced general good humour and sociability, and, after the cake had been duly honoured, Mademoiselle rose to take leave, saying she feared they had stayed too long, but that it was so difficult to get away from _me_, I so charmingly blended instruction with entertainment, &c. &c. &c., which I might have liked better if I had not thought it rather exaggerated and insincere.

I said to Arbell at parting, “I have seen and heard too little of you. What a treat it would be if you would spend a morning with me, and help me to make this picture-book.”

Her face brightened directly, and she exclaimed, “Ah! I only wish I might!” But Mademoiselle interposed with something about Mrs. Pevensey’s wish that the school-room routine should suffer no interruption, with a little smile and shrug to me, as much as to say, “So, of course, we must obey;” and Arbell went away, looking as rigid and uncomfortable as at first, carrying Shock under her arm.

In the afternoon, to my surprise, Mrs. Pevensey’s elegant carriage stopped at my little garden-gate, and Mrs. Pevensey herself came in. She was charming with smiles and good-nature; and, in her delicate silver-grey silk, rich velvet, and blush roses, looked so youthful, that one could hardly suppose her the mother of seven children. She has a well-stored mind, ready wit, or rather, playfulness, good judgment, and everything that contributes to make a delightful companion. As a wife she is admirable, living on the most affectionate terms with a husband who is considered by most people rather hard to please; she has formed extensive plans for ameliorating the condition of the poor, which she is carrying out with great success; and, as a neighbour, she is most thoughtful and kind—as I have good reason to know.

She brought her own entertainment with her; for her conversation was an almost uninterrupted flow of what she had done, whom she had seen, where she had been, interspersed with remarks full of good feeling and good sense. I must say that, to an invalid, this continuous flow is sometimes more fatiguing than if the communications were more reciprocal and broken up. The mind is kept on the full stretch; the eyes gaze on the speaker till they ache, and even the bodily posture becomes wearisome; yet I am sure the kind friend always goes away thinking, in the goodness of her heart, “Well, I have amused her nicely, and given her a good many things to think about,” which is true, too, though they have been purchased rather dearly.

It was only after Mrs. Pevensey had told me a multiplicity of things, and was going away, that I found the opportunity of telling her how glad I had been to see her children quite recovered from the effects of the measles.

“Yes,” said she, with a motherly smile, “they all look well—all, at least, except poor Arbell; and _she_—” (Here she gave a little shrug, like Mademoiselle, as much as to say, “Something is not quite straight in that quarter.”)

“I told Arbell I wished she might be permitted to spend an hour or two with me some morning,” said I. “If I have more than one companion at a time, I can hardly do them or myself justice.”

“I am sure I wish she would come,” said Mrs. Pevensey, smiling sweetly.

“With your permission, I think she will,” said I. “May I claim it?”

“Ah, I shall be too happy,” said she; “but you don’t know Arbell.”

“Suppose, then, we say to-morrow,” said I, pertinaciously.

“To-morrow the hair-cutter is coming. Any other day.”

“The day after to-morrow, then?”

“With all my heart, if—I don’t know what Mademoiselle will say.”

“Mademoiselle seemed to think the same of _you_.”

“Of _me_? Oh, I’ve no voice in the matter! Mademoiselle has unlimited sway in the school-room. Mademoiselle is a most excellent creature. I have unbounded confidence in her. She is quite superior to her position—came to me from the Comtesse de St. Velay—has written an admirable essay on education—her brother is professor of foreign literature at Tarbes.”

“Perhaps Mademoiselle uses your name as a kind of authority.”

“Very likely,” laughing sweetly; “_Mamma’s_ name is probably made free use of, in the school-room and nursery. I remember when, ‘I’ll tell your Mamma!’ was a terror to myself. Oh, we all go through these things in our turn. Poor, dear Arbell! there is excellent promise in her; but at present she is under a cloud. She lives in a world of her own, is proud and stubborn, and Mademoiselle says her spirit must be broken. It may be so, but I don’t wish to stand by and witness the operation.”

“I am sorry to hear you say that,” cried I, anxiously, “for I think the operation so extremely hazardous, that it ought only to take place under the mother’s eye.”

“It would affect me more,” answered she, very seriously, “than a surgical case.”

“I can quite believe it,” replied I, with equal seriousness; “but possibly your sagacity and maternal affection united would enable you to discern that no such painful course was needed. If Arbell were a little more under your eye—”

“My dear friend,” interrupted she, “Arbell is constantly under my eye already. Do you imagine I shut myself up from my children? No, no! that would indeed be neglecting a mother’s first duty. Dry recapitulation of lessons, indeed, and endless practising, fall exclusively to the superintendence of the governess; but Arbell always _learns_ her lessons and writes her exercises in the room with me, for hours every morning.”

“I am heartily glad to hear it,” said I, with a sense of relief.

“We lunch together—that is, they have their early dinner when we lunch,” pursued Mrs. Pevensey; “always except when we have friends. And though my afternoons are generally engaged in drives, and the children of course do not appear at the late dinner, they may always do so at dessert, and the younger ones always _do_. In the evenings, it is very much at Arbell’s option, or, at least, at Mademoiselle’s, whether they appear or not. Sometimes Arbell has lessons to prepare; sometimes she is engaged in her own devices; and really, I think they are more healthful and suitable for a young girl than large mixed parties, when silly people too often say silly things to children, so that frequently I am not sorry to miss her from the drawing-room. And now, good-by! I have paid an unconscionable visit; but there is no getting away from _you_. I am so glad you are—I _think_ you are better?”

“Thank you, yes. Then I shall see Arbell the day after to-morrow?”

“Undoubtedly, if she will come. At what hour? They dine at two.”

“Shall I say eleven?”

“Yes, do; and I will send for her at half-past one, because it is nearly half-an-hour’s walk. Good-by, good-by! I must make peace as I can with Mademoiselle.”

And she left me with an engaging smile.

* * * * *

Arbell has been, and gone. She came in rather before eleven, carrying her little white lap-dog, who had a new scarlet ribbon round his neck. I saw directly that the cloud was gone,—she looked as fresh as a rose, and as cheerful as a lark.

“Good girl, for being so punctual,” said I.

“Punctual!” said she. “Why, I hope I’m more than that, or Shock and I have raced in vain! I would not let old John come with me more than half way, and then we took to our heels and ran—didn’t we, Shock?”

“I feel the compliment,” said I, very sincerely. “Perhaps, though, you would as soon have run in any other direction.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” said she, with a bright look, as she untied the blue strings of her large straw hat, and threw it on the ground. The next minute she picked it up, and put it, with her gloves and visite, on a side-table.

“Why did you do that?” said I, curiously.

“Because you are not Mademoiselle. She says I never can be tidy, but you see I can.”

“What people can be, they ought to be,” said I.

“What people can be at some times they can’t be at others,” said Arbell. “Is it not so, Mrs. Cheerlove?”

“Yes, my love, sometimes.”

“Thank you for calling me ‘my love.’”

“By-the-by, why do they abbreviate your name into Arbell?”

“Because an ugly name is good enough for an ugly girl,” said Arbell, quickly; and then, with a little self-reproach for so captious a speech, “No, the real reason is, because it is the abbreviation by which the celebrated Lady Arabella Stuart was called by her grandmother, the old Countess of Shrewsbury. Mamma read about her in Miss Strickland’s “Queens,” I believe, and so took a fancy to call me Arbell.”

“Though you do not like it.”

“I like whatever mamma likes, almost.”

“I am very glad to hear you say so, my love. Are you hungry?”

She looked at me artlessly, and said, “I should like a slice of bread-and-butter.”

“Or jam?” said I.

“No, bread-and-butter. I should only have dry bread in the school-room—and scarcely that, because Mademoiselle says we ought not to be hungry before an early dinner.”

“But you have had a walk,” said I, ringing the bell; “and persons who have left off growing sometimes forget how hungry they were when they were not full-grown.”

“_You_ don’t.”

“Ah,” said I, “young people only come to me by way of a treat—to me and to themselves. If you were with me much, I’m afraid I should spoil you.”

“What _is_ spoiling, Mrs. Cheerlove?”

“Can you ask?”

“I know what it is in the common acceptation of the word—it is what Mademoiselle does to Flora: she spoils her by letting her have her own way; but she spoils me by _never_ letting me have mine!”

“It is easy to see, Arbell, that you are not very fond of Mademoiselle.”

“How _can_ I be?”

“(Some bread-and-butter, Phillis.) My dear, I cannot reply to your question, except by asking others; and I do not feel it quite right to seek a confidence which you do not repose in your own mother.”

“I wish she would let me,” said Arbell, with filling eyes.

“Why, my dear, you spend your mornings together.”

“But how? Dear mamma is always preoccupied—by papa, by the housekeeper, by the gardener, by the nurses, by her own maid. She must always see poor little Arthur’s spine rubbed herself” (here Phillis brought in the bread-and-butter, and went out), “and baby is cutting her teeth; and she has to give orders about her Italian garden, and dinner, and relief for the poor, and the children’s new dresses and her own, and to send baskets and hampers of things to grandpapa. Then, when all this is over, if I venture to begin with ‘Mamma!’ she says, ‘My dear, I am writing a note.’”

A tear dropped on Shock’s white coat, and she turned her head away. “Nobody has so small a share of her as I,” said she; “and I love her so much!”

“My dear Arbell,” said I, after a pause, “I cannot help thinking what an inestimable advantage it may be to you in after-life, to have had this training, this by-play, this insight, as a bystander, into your mother’s life. You may yourself be placed at the head of an equally large establishment: many girls, so placed, after a life exclusively devoted to their own studies and amusements, are completely at sea. They have no practical knowledge, no taste even, for the daily duties which it is a woman’s greatest honour and pleasure to discharge well; they are complete babies. They meet every emergency with a helpless, ‘Well, I’m sure I can’t tell what is to be done!’ and everything is at a stand-still, or goes the wrong way.”

Arbell seemed struck. “That never occurred to me,” said she.

“In spite of the elegancies by which your mother is surrounded, hers is, in reality, what many would pronounce, and find to be, a very hard life. Her cheerfulness, presence of mind, sound judgment, and love of order, enable her to get through its cares gracefully and successfully; so that those who only see the _face_ of the enamelled watch, and not all its interior works and springs, little guess that her head, and even her hands, have more to do, in their own peculiar department, than those of some of her dependents.”

“That may be true,” said Arbell, reflectively. Then, after a short silence, “What would you do in my place?”

“Ah, my love, I should probably not do better in your place than you do, if as well.”

“Oh, Mrs. Cheerlove!”

“The question is not what I, or any other person might do, but what _should be done_. A very able and excellent author—well known to your mother—John Foster, has said, ‘There is some one state of character, and plan of action, _the very best possible_, under all the circumstances of your age, measure of mental faculties, and means within your reach; the _one plan_ that will please God the most, and that will be the most pleasing to look back upon at the hour of death.’ Now, should not you aspire to ascertain what is that best possible course, and then most zealously devote yourself to its execution? I believe you to be capable of it.”

Arbell looked full of high and generous resolve. “If mamma had said this to me,” exclaimed she, at length, “I should have been capable of it long ago.”

“Perhaps you have never spoken to her on the subject with the openness with which you have now spoken to me.”

“I have never had the opportunity. However, I will not dwell any more on that. What is the one best course now for me?”

“There need be no marked change in outward performances: only in their spirit. Your mother loves you dearly, but she is too busy to attend to all your little troubles. Do you be too busy for them too! Take an intelligent interest in whatever you are about, be it French, or German, or anything else; and if interrupted in it, and your attention distracted by what is being said to nurse, housekeeper, or gardener,—take an intelligent interest in that too! Think, ‘Ha, here is something worth remembering!’ treasure it, note it, commit it to memory, bear it in mind, lay it to heart; and then return with fresh eagerness to the matter in hand.”

“It sounds well,” said Arbell, thoughtfully; “I’ll try.”

“And if you cannot get others to sympathize with you, why, sympathize with _them_. It is easy to say, ‘I can’t; their tastes and feelings are so different.’ So are yours from theirs, and yet you expect them to sympathize with _you_. Don’t get into the way of feeling isolated. Robinson Crusoe really _was_ so, and did not find it very comfortable, in spite of his pretty plantations and snug cave. If you plant yourself on a little island, and break down the bridge to it, you must not expect people to be at the trouble of fetching a boat. Besides, you perhaps seek sympathy at unseasonable times. Your father, in the midst of some profound calculation, would hardly like your mother to come in and claim his attention to some sentimental sorrow: she thought he had looked coldly at her on such and such an occasion; or could hardly have been aware, such another time, that she felt low and unwell.”

“No, indeed,” said Arbell, laughing.

“Nor must you expect Mrs. Pevensey to have leisure or relish for such ill-timed appeals from yourself. Be intent on forming a noble character; and you will be sure to find that character appreciated in after-life.”

“Ha!”

“You will try, will you not?”

“I will! if only Mademoiselle——”

“Ah, let us look on Mademoiselle as some one placed in close relation to you by our heavenly Father for wise purposes of His own, which He does not think it necessary to communicate to her or to you. And now eat your bread and butter.”

She did so, having first given me a hearty kiss.

I am always glad when fine, bright weather on a Sunday morning favours the church-goers, though I am debarred by bodily infirmities from joining the multitude on their way to the house of God, and swelling the voice of praise and thanksgiving among such as keep holy-day. And though my eyes have sometimes swelled with tears, and my heart yearned with vain longings, as I have seen the scattered parties trooping past my gate, yet more often, far more often, I have silently bidden them good speed, and mentally repeated that sweet and soothing sonnet of Mrs. Hemans—

“How many blessed groups this hour are bending Through England’s primrose-meadow paths their way! Toward spire and tower, ’mid shadowy elms ascending, Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day! The halls, from old heroic ages grey, Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play, Send out their inmates in a happy flow, Like a freed vernal stream. _I_ may not tread With them these pathways; to the feverish bed Of sickness bound. Yet, oh my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.”

And, since I have been no longer bound to the sick-bed, but only to the house, my thankfulness has deepened under a cheerful sense of alleviated pains and added blessings; so that I may sincerely say my home-kept Sabbaths have generally been very calm and sweet.

I have made out a little routine for myself, which I adhere to pretty closely. Having early in life acquired the habit of rising betimes, I have no temptation to curtail the Sunday by lying in bed; nor is Phillis so overworked as to need, or even to wish for, an extra hour’s sleep. I therefore hear her stirring as soon as the clock strikes six; and, till she comes to afford me a little assistance at seven, I lie tranquilly cogitating on God’s mercies, lifting up my heart to Him, and almost invariably repeating that hymn of Hugh White’s, which so fitly opens the invalid’s Sunday.

“Let me put on my fair attire, My Sabbath robes of richest dress, And tune my consecrated lyre, Lord of the Sabbath! thee to bless.

“Oh, may no spot of sin to-day My raiment, clean and white, defile! And while I tune my heartfelt lay, Bend down on me thy gracious smile.

“Let holy feelings, heavenly themes, Raise, and refresh, and fill my mind; And earth’s low vanities and schemes No place nor entertainment find!