Part 4

Poor Mr. Prout is dead! the father of eight children. Yesterday morning, while it was yet dark, the turnpike-man heard a horse galloping furiously down the hill. On going down, he found the horse stopping at the gate, with Mr. Prout’s foot dangling in the stirrup, and his bleeding body on the ground. His skull was fractured, and he was quite dead. He was praising his new, showy, chestnut horse to me only a few days ago, and saying it was well worth a hundred guineas. It would have been worth a good many hundred guineas to his family had he not bought it. Poor Mr. Prout!

The turnpike-man’s wife, it seems, immediately got up, assisted her husband to carry him in and lay him on their bed, and then washed his wounds; while the man, leading the vicious creature he was afraid to mount, came into the town to tell the news and get assistance. Poor Mrs. Prout and Harry were soon on the spot; Mr. Cecil soon followed. He and Mr. Prout were rivals, and rather cool to one another; but he looked very sorry as he hastened up the hill.

I cannot help constantly thinking of them all. Last night, I dreamt I saw Mr. Prout galloping up the hill, all in the dark, along the edge of that frightful chalk-pit, to the poor woman for whom he had been sent; and then coming home, thinking of his snug house and warm bed, when—off dashed the horse!

I have lost a kind doctor and friend; rich and poor deplore him, for he was sociable, kind, and humane. Often in money difficulties, poor man; though I believe his good wife made every shilling go twice as far as most could. She always kept up appearances, too, so nicely! No finery, no waste; but everything (whatever poor Harry might think) suitable and appropriate.

Every one I have yet seen—not many, to be sure, but every one I _have_ seen—expresses regret, and is eager to show sympathy, and wonders what the widow and children will do. Something for themselves, that is certain—except the little ones, who cannot. Mrs. Prout is hardly capable, I am afraid, of undertaking a school; or that would keep them all nicely together. Therefore, Emily and Margaret must go out as governesses or teachers; Harry must get a place in some office; something must be found for James; Edward must be put to school; and Fanny must make herself her mamma’s little factotum, and look after the two youngest.

Easy to _say_ “must” to all this!

What a change a few hours have made!

* * * * *

Harry has spent more than an hour with me this evening. I never saw a poor lad so overwhelmed with grief. He, the rosy-cheeked fellow! who would have you believe—in his verses—that his tears were his meat day and night, is now positively ashamed of crying bitterly over an irreparable loss. I honour him for so deeply lamenting a good father; it raises him in the scale of human being—as genuine, well-placed affection always does. He will now have to exchange imaginary woes for stern realities.

He came quite at dusk. I did not think, at first, it was his voice, asking if he might come in, it was so subdued. I said, “Ah, Harry!” and held out my hand. He grasped it in his, and then sat down and sobbed. I waited a little while in silence; then, when his emotion had somewhat spent itself, I said—

“I thank you very much for coming—it is very kind of you, for I was longing to hear many things that no one else could so well tell.”

“Oh!” said he, drying his eyes, “the kindness is to myself—I could not stand it at home any longer!”

“How does your dear mother bear up?”

“Wonderfully!”—crying again. “But she quite broke down this evening: so my sisters persuaded her to go to bed; and as they are sitting with her, I was quite alone, and thought I would steal out to you for a little while. What a shocking thing it is!”

I knew to what he referred, and said, “It is indeed, my dear Harry. For your comfort, you must reflect that our heavenly Father is _peculiarly_ the God of the widow and orphan. He makes them his _special_ charge.”

“I can’t think what we shall do!”

“Do your best, my dear boy, and you will be sure to do well.”

“Uncle John will come to the funeral. And Uncle John will very likely provide for James, and take him into his business, which is that of a wholesale druggist; but what is to become of _me_, I can’t think!”

“Should you be glad if your uncle took you instead of James?”

“Why no, not glad; because it is not a line of business that suits my taste. You know, Mrs. Cheerlove,” said the poor boy, faltering, “I always aspired to be something of a gentleman.”

“And is not your uncle one?”

“Hardly. But I would be anything just now, to be of service to mamma—my _mother_!”

“That’s right. Perhaps you would like to be in a surveyor’s office.”

“That would be better—only, who is to place me in one?”

“Or should you like to be a medical man, like your father?”

“Ah, Mrs. Cheerlove, his was a hard life! And those hospitals! But have you heard of Mr. Pevensey’s kindness?” cried he, suddenly brightening.

“No!—in what?”

“Directly he heard of what had happened, he sent my mother a note, to say how sorry he was; and that as he was sure she would be glad to part with the horse that had occasioned such a terrible calamity, and he heard my father valued it at a hundred guineas, he inclosed a cheque for that amount, and would take it off her hands.”

“Excellent!” said I. “So opportune! so kindly thought of! And this is the man whom so many think churlish!”

“Ah, he’s anything but that,” said Harry; “and quite the gentleman. Of course mamma—my mother, I mean—was glad to get rid of the brute, and would have been so for half the money. How strange it seems! Only three days ago, my father was patting and praising that animal, and calling him ‘Hotspur,’ little thinking he should so soon be laid low! What an awful thing sudden death is, Mrs. Cheerlove!—_here_ one minute, and the next in the presence of God!”

“Are we not in His presence _now_, Harry? We cannot see Him, but He sees and hears us. If a person is well prepared, a sudden death is, in my opinion, a great mercy.”

“Oh, how _can_ you think so!”

“Well, I do. The shock is very great, doubtless, to the survivors; but the sufferer is mercifully spared a great deal of painful discipline: and if he be but about his Master’s work, ‘Blessed is that servant whom his Lord, when He cometh, shall find so doing.’”

“My father was about his Master’s work, Mrs. Cheerlove.”

“Certainly he was. He was visiting the sick and needy, in the exercise of his profession. It could never have been without self-denial that he turned out of his bed into the dark, cold night, on such an errand, whether to rich or poor.”

Harry seemed to dwell on the reflection with comfort; and I rang for tea, and gave him a cup that was both hot and strong, which I knew to be good for his poor aching head. We had a long talk afterwards, and he left me in a composed and chastened frame of mind. Certainly, a sudden death, like Mr. Prout’s, may be called a leap in the dark; but the believer _leaps into his Saviour’s arms_.

* * * * *

This morning, to my great surprise and pleasure, Mrs. Pevensey came in, bright with smiles, and said, “The weather is most lovely! and you know you always promised that I should take you your first drive. It shall be as short as you like; but, if you feel equal to the effort, you cannot have a better opportunity. And as I am just going on to inquire after poor Mrs. Prout, I will take you up on my return, which will give you time to get ready without hurry.”

I felt quite bewildered, for I had not been out for more than two years! If I had had time, I believe I should have said “No,” but as I had not, I said “Yes,” and very thankfully too. All my nervous misgivings about over-exertion and painful consequences were lost sight of in the thought, how delightful it would be to breathe once more the sweet, sweet open air!

Phillis _did_ stare when she heard of the projected attempt. I think her surprise vented itself in the ejaculation—

“Well, I’m sure!——”

But there was no time to say more, for there was a grand hunt to make for carriage-boots, and warm shawls, and gloves, and a certain bonnet that would unquestionably require all Mrs. Pevensey’s self-command not to laugh at—it was so sadly out of date. She _did_ give it one amused look, but that was all; for she is kindness itself, and has too much real wit to depend for it on personal ridicules. She knew she had taken me by surprise, and must make allowances. So, having triumphantly got me into her most easy of close carriages—

“Where shall we go?” said she.

“Oh,” said I, “the turnpike will be _quite_ far enough.”

“Very well. Then, to the turnpike, George,” said she, as the footman shut us in. But the roguish woman must have glanced, I am sure, to the left instead of to the right, as she spoke; for the coachman, doubtless taking his instructions from George, drove us to the farthest turnpike instead of the nearest.

Well, it was very pleasant! I had been so long pent up, that

“The common air, the earth, the skies, To me were opening Paradise.”

We are nearly through April; and the hedges are quite green, though the oaks, ashes, and beeches are still leafless, and the meadows are not yet sprinkled with buttercups. But the blackthorn is in full flower. Besides, a great many alterations had been effected since I was last out, which I noticed with surprise and interest; for though hearing of alterations is one thing, seeing them is quite another. My old favourite promenade, the elm-tree walk (sometimes called the Queen’s Walk, though the queen’s name I never could ascertain), was as yet unharmed amid the rage for letting ground on building leases to freehold-land societies; but, beyond it, new houses had sprung up in various directions. When I first came to live in the neighbourhood of Elmsford, there were only four houses between me and the town; and having for some few years been accustomed to live in a street, I used occasionally, on dark nights, to feel rather unprotected. If a dog barked at the moon, I used to think of thieves, and remember that some suspicious-looking man had begged at the door; or I thought of fire, and ruefully considered the scarcity of water. Besides, where were we to get help?—Why, in _heaven_, where I may ask for it at once, thought I, and for freedom from all disquieting alarms. So I used to seek it, and then yield to the quiet, dreamless sleep that was _sent_.

Now, in place of four houses, I saw a dozen, with stone porticoes to the doors and heavy architraves to the windows, and very little green about them higher than three-foot laurels, which the cows had evidently nibbled, as they do mine, on their way to and from milking.

At one of these houses we stopped, while the footman carried a beautiful basket of hothouse flowers to the door, and delivered a message. While we waited, I heard the sound of a harp, and listened to it with pleasure.

“How pretty!” said I.

“Ah, you may well say so,” said Mrs. Pevensey, with a sigh. “The player is soothing a much afflicted father, who, in his day, was an accomplished musician, and a man of fine intellectual taste. I shall take her a drive to-morrow; it will make a little change for her, which is better than none. ‘He that contemneth small things shall fall by little and little.’”[1]

A door or two off, we left a little flat round basket, containing about two dozen large hothouse strawberries—scarlet, ripe, and tempting, as they peered out of their coverlet of dark green leaves. Several such little baskets had, during two or three springs, found their way to _me_.

“That is for poor Miss Peach, who is dying of consumption,” said Mrs. Pevensey. “Arbell set them out so nicely. My dear Mrs. Cheerlove, whatever you said to Arbell the other day, has had magic effect! She has been quite a different girl ever since!”

“That is more to her praise than mine,” said I. “What I said was very little.”

“All the better, perhaps, since it was to the purpose. She is now brisk, pleasant, and active—has found her way out of dreamland into the affairs of daily life. Mademoiselle is highly satisfied with her; and Mr. Pevensey, finding she was writing a little summary of Italian middle-age history for her own amusement, was so pleased at it, that he told her he would give her five sovereigns, if she did it well by Christmas. So she is carrying it on with double spirit, ransacking the library for materials about the Guelfs and Ghibelins, the Neri and Bianchi, instead of moping; and is glad to refresh herself afterwards with a good wholesome game of play with Rosaline and Floretta.”

“Ah, a golden spur sometimes pricks the best,” said I. “Small premiums for small achievements are better than competitions for a prize, which _must_ disappoint one or many. A rivalry with one’s self is the only safe rivalry.”

“I think so too. And five pounds is nothing, you know, to Mr. Pevensey.”

“No, but a hundred pounds may be more so. Harry Prout gratefully told me of his buying the horse.”

“Mr. Prout had over-estimated it,” said she, quietly smiling.

“I guessed as much.”

“In fact, if it cannot be thoroughly broken, by Rarey’s means or others, Mr. Pevensey will have it shot; for he says it is better a showy horse should be killed, than another father of a family.”

“Surely.”

“And the money, you see, won’t be wasted, because it was useful where it was sent. There is some thought of quietly getting up a subscription, under the name of a testimonial. Mr. Secker, the suggestor, will acquaint Mrs. Prout with it, and ask whether she would like a silver cup or the money; and of course she will prefer the latter. Only half-sovereigns will be asked, but those who like to give more may do so unknown to all but Mr. Secker, as there will be no published subscription list.”

“All the better,” said I. “There are too few who—

“‘Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.’”

“More than you think, though, perhaps. There!—now you get a glimpse of the church. Your next wish will be to be in it; but you must not attempt too much at first. In a little while, I hope you may manage it.”

Having nearly reached the turnpike, we turned about on our homeward course. And thus ended my pleasant drive. Had I had my choice, my frame of mind would have been serious; as it was, it was cheerful. I felt tired and shaken, but less so than I expected. On saying so to Phillis, she remarked—

“Said so—didn’t I? My ’pinion is, if you’d gone afore, it never would have hurted ye.”

Kind words cost little: and I had _had_ a good many. I could not help thinking, had Eugenia been alive, how she would have sped me forth with fond solicitude, and tenderly hailed my return!—with some word of thankfulness, too, to Him in whose hand are the issues of life and death—some cheery gratulation that we were to be spared yet a little longer to each other.

But I called to mind the substance of a nice little tract called “The Scales Adjusted.” Things are often equalized by roughs and smooths being set against one another. And, though snubbed by my maid, I felt that in this instance my good things predominated.

* * * * *

“So you’ve been and seen them big stone houses at last!” said Phillis, as she wheeled my little tea-table up to my easy-chair. “They _do_ make ours look small, don’t they?”

Now this was a very disagreeable view of the subject. Of course, a little house _does_ look smaller than a large one, turn it which way you will; but mine—Whiterose Cottage—was quite large enough for me, and could not be turned in a prettier direction. As we lost sight of the tall, shapeless stone houses, and came first to the graceful elm avenue, and then to—

“Where my cottage-chimney smokes, Fast between two aged oaks,”

I could not help thinking how snug and suitable for its mistress it looked.

True, it has only one sitting-room, save a little snuggery eight feet by ten; true, it is all built on one floor, and that on the ground: every room in it, but the first and last, opening into a narrow matted passage, or gallery. But to me this seems the very prettiest, most convenient plan, for a single woman with one servant, that could possibly be desired; and my only wonder is, that instead of there not being such another, perhaps, in England, there are not dozens, or hundreds. How many a rich man, now, might run up a little place like this, on some corner of his estate, for a widowed aunt, or old maiden sister or cousin, where she might be as happy as the day is long, and live on next to nothing, quite respectably; and, when she dropped off, like a ripe acorn from the oak, and almost as noiselessly, the “Old Maid’s Home” might revert in perpetuity to a succession of decayed gentlewomen, whose simple, yet genteel tastes would thereby be met by their modest means.

Not that I would have them _called_ old maids’ homes, for that would stamp them at once, like a workhouse woollen waistcoat, or a charity cloth cloak. No; they should be Sweet Homes, or have other such pretty significatives; giving them rank with the best Rose Cottages, Myrtle Cottages, and Laurel Cottages, in the land. They might prettily be called after their fair owners—Julia’s Cottage, Maria’s Cottage, Helen’s Cottage, and so forth. Mine is Whiterose Cottage. It has not an exterior like a long, narrow knife-tray, or candle-box: on the contrary, though its rooms lie parallel, they are not of an uniform width or length; consequently, the walls have what Mary Russell Mitford called “a charming in-and-outness;” and there is not a straight line or “coign of vantage,” that is not draped by some gay or graceful climbing plant—rose, jessamine, lophospermum scandens, morandia Barclayana, ecremocarpus, nasturtium, and callistegia, or Romeo’s ladder.

The dwelling was built by a retired tradesman of good taste, and some originality as well as education. He was a widower, without children, determined to have everything comfortable for his old housekeeper as well as himself—consequently, the kitchen, though small, is as complete in all its appointments, as can possibly be wished; with water laid on, and a little oven in the kitchen-range—in which, as the furnishing ironmonger triumphantly says, you may bake a pie, a pudding, and a pig. Phillis, I believe, enjoys her kitchen quite as much as I do my parlour. Kitchen and parlour stand sentries, as it were, at each end of the house. There is hardly a hall worth speaking of—only a little vestibule built on, that will just hold a mat, a flower-stand, a hall-chair, and an umbrella-stand. Over the threshold, the quaint old man has carved “PARVA, SED APTA,” which, I am sure, is true enough. And on one of the panes of the high lattice-window, with its eight compartments, in the parlour, is written with a diamond ring—

“True happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy to pomp and noise.”

On another, “Know Thyself.” The good man, though much respected, was accounted rather crotchety—and, perhaps, I am so too; for, certainly, I no sooner saw these little whimseys, than I took a fancy to the place, and was quite thankful to find the rent within my means. It was not till I had taken it, that I remembered (towards night) the possibility of alarms from thieves and sturdy beggars. A kind friend suggested a fierce dog; but, to confess the truth, I am also much afraid of fierce dogs. So then, the same kind friend suggested a kennel without the dog, a man’s hat hung up in the hall, and a large bell—adding, that, with these defences, I must be safe. I trusted I might be so, even without them. So here I am thus far in safety. And often, as I lean back to rest towards sunset, letting harmless fancies have their course, I picture to myself the old recluse, seated, like brave Miles Standish, with his Cæsar’s “Commentaries,” at the lattice, poring over some huge old book—Bunyan’s “Holy War,” suppose—

“Turning the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks, thick on the margin, Like the trample of feet, proclaimed where the battle was hottest.”

* * * * *

“As well be out of the world as out of the fashion,” said our amusing friend Captain Pinkney; and, accordingly, I sent this morning for little Miss Campanelle, to hold counsel with her about a new bonnet. Mrs. Pevensey took me by surprise, and therefore made allowances; but she will not take me by surprise next time, and therefore I must not expect her to make allowances again. We owe it to our richer friends not to neglect appearances consistent with our means; on the other hand, the rich do us more harm than they perhaps are aware of, when they avow a contempt for such moderate efforts to keep pace with the times as we ought not to exceed.

My bonnet was decidedly behind the times.

“Dear me, ma’am,” said Miss Campanelle, primming up her little rosebud mouth, which showed a strong inclination to expand into a laugh, “there is enough in this bonnet for _two_. Only, the shape is so completely out of date, that it won’t bear altering: otherwise the materials are quite fresh.”

“They may well be,” said I, “for they were nearly new when I put them away two years ago. However, I mean to have a new bonnet; and I dare say I shall find some one who will be glad to have this.”

“Dear me, yes, ma’am; it will be quite a nice present,” said Miss Campanelle, hastily. “There are many people who would be glad to modernize it for themselves.”

Then, thought I to myself, why could not you modernize it for _me_? Perhaps she read my thought in my face, for she added—

“There are some people who do not at all mind style, if they are but respectable. Now, respectability depends upon the material; but style on the making it up. And it’s style that shows the lady.”

“Yes,” said I; “one style shows the old lady, and one the young lady; one the fashionable lady, and one the lady who does not care for the fashion. It does not seem to me so very many years ago since bonnets were worn so large that it was considered a very severe, but not extravagant, remark, when some one said of another,

“‘And all her soul is in her hat— Quite large enough to hold it.’”

“Ah,” said Miss Campanelle, “that must have been before my time.” And, as she still seemed inclined to ruminate on the future of my bonnet, I nearly committed the unpardonable folly of asking her whether she could make any use of it herself. Instead of which, I very fortunately began by asking her whether she knew of any one who would be glad of it.

“Why, since you are kind enough to ask me, ma’am,” said she, quickly, “I _do_ happen to know of some one for whom it would be the very thing. Some one _very_ respectable, and very poorly off,—a widow, but no longer wearing widow’s mourning; only black, ma’am, like you,—who seems quite overlooked, because she’s below the genteel, and yet no one can class her among the poor—her manners are above that; but yet I do assure you, she often dines on bread-and-butter.”

It appeared she was the widow of a pianoforte-tuner, who lodged with Miss Campanelle; and as I feared it might hurt her to receive the bonnet from myself, I gave it to Miss Campanelle to give it in her own person to her, which she was quite pleased to do. And she went away with the _Illustrated News_ and some black-currant jam for herself.

* * * * *