Part 7

“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.

“Oh, that’ll never do!” says Phillis. “Tell ye what, you radical, I’ll wring your neck for you as soon as think, if you don’t keep quiet. Please, mum, leave ’un alone—you only makes him wus.”

And off she went with her screeching enemy, leaving me deeply impressed with her own valour, and my incapability.

A man has just called for Mr. Cockatoo, bringing rather a _dry_ note from Miss Burt, saying she was sorry I could not take a kindness as it was meant.

* * * * *

Early as the sun now rises, the nightingale is awake while yet dark, uttering the sweetest melody. Then a profound pause ensues; which, in half-an-hour or less, is broken by some infinitely inferior songsters; and soon, when the glorious sun uprears himself in the east, a full chorus of larks, linnets, thrushes, blackbirds, redbreasts, titmice, redstarts, and other warblers, pour forth their morning hymn of praise; while the rooks caw on the tall tree-tops, and the wood-pigeon and cuckoo are heard in the distant wood.

Yes, I am fond of birds in their own green shades. I am fond, too, of entomology, though not very knowing in it. The change of grubs into butterflies is so striking, that, as Swammerdam says, “We see therein the resurrection painted before our eyes.” Spence and Kirby, in their delightful book, have elicited wondrous facts. How many people see rooks following the plough without knowing why they do so. It is in order to eat the cockchafer grubs which the plough turns up. The cockchafer grub, which remains in its larva state _four years_, preys not only on the roots of grass, but of corn; and will so loosen turf, that it will roll up as if cut with a turfing-spade; so that the rooks do good service in destroying these mischievous little grubs. But insects are not universally mischievous. A fly was once discovered making a lodgment in the principal stem of the early wheat, just above the root, thereby destroying the stem; but the root threw out fresh shoots on every side, and yielded a more abundant crop than in other fields where the insect had not been busy.

This reminds me, while I write, of another instance of compensation, which occurred to my own knowledge. A great many years ago, a good old market-gardener, whom I well knew, and who used to go by the name of “Contented Sam,” lost a fine crop of early green peas he was raising for the spring market, by a violent storm, which literally shelled the pods when they were just ready to gather, and beat them into the earth. He was looking at the devastation somewhat seriously, when some one passing cried out, “Well, master, can you see anything good in _that_ now?” “Yes,” said he, rousing up, “I dare say God has some good purpose in it, somehow or other.” And so it remarkably proved; for the peas, _self-sown_, came up late in the season, when there were none in the market, and sold at a much higher price.

To return to Messrs. Kirby and Spence. The friendship of these two good and eminent men lasted nearly half a century. During the course of that time, the letters that passed between them on entomology were between four and five hundred. These letters were mostly written on sheets of large folio paper, so closely, that each would equal a printed sheet of sixteen pages of ordinary type. These they called their “first-rates,” or “seventy-fours;” the few of ordinary size being “frigates.” But once, Mr. Kirby having even more than usual to say, wrote what he called “The Royal Harry,” alluding to the great ship “Harry,” built in the reign of Henry VIII., of which I have seen a curious print. This _noteworthy note_ was written on a sheet nearly the size of a _Times_ Supplement, and closely filled on three pages! Talk of ladies’ long letters after this!

The correspondence sprang up, and was continued, some months before they ever saw each other. They then spent “ten delightful days together,” at Mr. Kirby’s parsonage, and devoted part of the time to an entomological excursion in the parson’s gig.

At length, the idea occurred to them both of writing a book on entomology together, and in a popular form, which should allure readers by its entertainment, rather than deter them by its dryness. All the world knows how happily they accomplished it; and I have heard one of them say, the partnership was so complete, that in subsequent years neither of them could positively say, “This paragraph was written by myself, and this by my friend.”

* * * * *

This morning, as I was at work, enjoying the soft air through the open window, and listening to the blackbird and cuckoo, I heard a carriage stop at the gate, and soon afterwards, Arbell, carrying a parcel almost half as large as herself, came in, looking very merry, and said—

“Good morning, Mrs. Cheerlove! Mamma thought you would like to see what I have been doing for Mademoiselle; so she set me down here, and will call for me presently.”

And with busy fingers she began to take out sundry pins, and remove divers coverings, till out came a splendid scarlet cushion, elegantly braided in gold.

“How do you like it?” said she, wistfully.

“I think it superb! Will it not be rather too magnificent for Mademoiselle’s _ménage_?”

“Mademoiselle is very fond of bright colours, and means to have everything very gay about her, though she will not have a house to herself, only a flat; so that I feel sure she will like it.”

“Well, then, everybody must, for it is a splendid cushion, indeed! Why, the materials must have quite emptied your purse!”

“Mamma was kind enough to say, that if I did it well, she would not mind paying for the materials; and I am glad to say she is quite satisfied with it. But I particularly want to know what you think of the pattern.”

“It is intricate, and very rich. Where did you get it?”

“In a way you would never guess,” said Arbell, laughing. “One day, mamma took me with her to call on Mrs. Chillingworth; and as they talked of things that did not at all interest me, I sat looking at a great cushion on the opposite sofa, and thinking how bad the yellow braid looked, and how much better the effect would be in gold. The pattern pleased me; so I looked at it till I was sure I could remember it, and when I got home, I drew it on a sheet of paper. Mamma was amused, and said it was very ingenious of me; but I did not think of turning it to account, till it occurred to me that I might work it for Mademoiselle. So I asked mamma, and she approved of it, and said I might.”

“Well, I think it does you great credit in more ways than one.”

“How strange it was, Mrs. Cheerlove, that I should take such interest in doing something for Mademoiselle! I had such pleasant thoughts while working it. Oh, what do you think? I am going to have such a treat! Papa wishes to investigate the iron mines in Piedmont, and is going to take mamma and me with him; and on our return, we are to see everything worth seeing. Will not that be delightful?”

“It will, indeed. Of course you will, meantime, learn to speak French, German, and Italian, as fluently as you can.”

“Oh, yes; I am fagging very hard now; I have such a _motive_, not only for acquiring languages, but for improving in drawing, that I may sketch, and for obtaining information about all the objects in our way. I am making a list of ‘things to be particularly observed.’”

“An excellent plan.”

“You seem to have a good many books, Mrs. Cheerlove. Have you any likely to be of service to me, that you could lend me?”

“I am afraid they are hardly modern enough,” said I, doubtfully. “You are perfectly welcome to any of them.”

She scanned their titles at the back:—“‘Alpine Sketches.’ That’s promising. ‘1814!’ Oh, what years and tens of years ago! ‘_With all my heart, said I, as H. carelessly mentioned the idea._’ What an abrupt beginning!” She laughed, and replaced the volume on the shelf. “Mamma,” said she, “has been reading the Rev. Mr. King’s ‘Italian Valleys of the Alps,’ and is very desirous to see the great St. Bernard and Monte Rosa, and the Breithorn, and Petit Cervin. I am chiefly desirous to see Mont Blanc. There’s such a charming account of it, and of Jacques Balmat, in ‘Fragments du Voyage.’ But Jacques Balmat is dead, though some of his family are guides. Papa has bought us two of Whippy’s portable side-saddles, which fold up into waterproof cases, with spare straps, tethers, whips, and everything one can want; and he has bought guide-books, maps, saddle-bags, telescope and microscope, and air-tight japanned cases to strap on our mules, so that our equipment will be complete.”

“You must take a sketch-book.”

“Oh, yes, mamma has given me one already; and a journal, and a vasculum for dried flowers and ferns.”

“You will see beautiful butterflies, as well as wild flowers, in the valleys.”

“Are butterflies worth studying, Mrs. Cheerlove?”

“Certainly they are.”

“I will recommend papa, then, to take a butterfly-net. Do you think it a good plan to keep a journal?”

“Very, if you put down things worth knowing, while they are fresh in your head; and refrain from such entries as—‘Had very hard beds last night’—‘breakfast poor, and badly set on table’—‘feel languid and dispirited this morning, without exactly knowing why.’”

“Surely nobody could put down such silly things as those,” said Arbell, laughing; “at any rate, I shall not. Ah, the carriage is at the gate. Mamma desired me to give you her love, and say she could not come in to-day. Good-by! Here is a little book-marker, on which I have painted the head of Savonarola, for you, if you will be so kind as to accept it. Oh, and I was particularly desired to tell you that the cocoa-nut biscuits you liked so much, were made of nothing in the world but chopped and pounded cocoa-nut, loaf sugar, and white of egg, baked on wafer-paper. Good-by! good-by!”

* * * * *

The longest day has passed! There is always something sorrowful in the reflection, although the days do not really seem shorter, on account of the moon. It is the same kind of feeling which we experience more strongly, when we feel that we have passed the prime of life, though we are still healthy and vigorous, and our looking-glasses may tell us that our looks are not much impaired. But the early summer, and summer-time of life, are gone!

I went to church to-day; but the heat is now so over-coming, that I must discontinue my out-door exercise, while it lasts, till the cool of the evening. As I passed Mrs. Ringwood’s, there was she at the open window with her baby, and she nodded and smiled, and cried, “How d’ye do, how d’ye do! You did me so much good! More than a glass of wine!”

She was not in low spirits just then, at any rate. And really I don’t believe I could bear her peculiar trials as well as she does—even with a glass of wine!

* * * * *

Cooler weather again. I went to-day, in the donkey-chair, to call on Mrs. Prout in her new house. It is small but cheerful, with everything clean and fresh. A good deal of her old, heavy furniture has been supplied by less expensive but more modern articles, which are more suitable to the papering and fitting-up of the house; and yet I looked with partiality at a few things that had been rescued from the sale—the old bureau, easy-chair, work-table, &c.

When I entered, little Arthur and Alice were the only occupants of the drawing-room, playing, in a corner of it, at “Doctor and Patient.” What imitators children are!—“Well, mum, what is the matter with you, to-day?”—“Oh,” says little, lisping Alice, coughing affectedly, “I have the guitar! (catarrh!)” After shyly exchanging a few words with me, they ran off, just as their mother entered.

She is an excellent little woman; there was no display of grief, but deep affliction beneath the surface; and now and then a tear strayed down her cheek, while yet she thankfully spoke of “many alleviations—many mercies.” “But,” as she truly said—“her loss was irreparable.”

All the while, there was Mr. Prout’s good-tempered countenance looking down on us from the picture-frame, as if he approved of all she said. It almost startled me when I first went in; and I sedulously avoided looking at it, or even towards it, when his widow was in the room; yet she evidently had gazed on it so continually, that she could now do so without shrinking; and I often observed her eyes turning in that direction, as if the portrait afforded her a sad consolation.

She told me, it was quite arranged that Emily should spend the holidays with the Pevenseys; and asked me somewhat anxiously, whether I thought there could be any hopes of its leading to a permanent engagement. As I was not authorized to communicate what Mrs. Pevensey had mentioned in confidence, I only spoke hopefully, and said, I could see no reason why it should not.

“Emily is rather afraid of undertaking Miss Pevensey,” said Mrs. Prout. “She thinks she looks too womanly, and probably knows already more than she does herself. But I, who know what is _in_ Emily, have no fears on that score; only, to be sure, she does look—and _is_—very young.”

“I don’t think looks much signify,” said I, “if there be self-possession, and a temperate manner.”

“And Emily has both,” said Mrs. Prout.

While she was speaking, little Arthur came in, and laid a bunch of radishes, wet with recent washing, and placed in a toy basket, in her lap. I had heard a boy calling radishes along the row. Mrs. Prout smiled, kissed him, and said, “Good boy; we will have them by and by for tea;” and he ran off with them, quite elated.

“He has spent the last half-penny of his allowance on them, I know,” said she, with a motherly smile; “and all for me. That is the way with the generous little fellow—he continually spends his pocket-money on me; whether on a few violets, or radishes, or perhaps a little measure of shrimps—something he trusts in my liking, because he likes it himself.”

“Such a little fellow is lucky to have any pocket-money at all,” said I.

“Oh, they all have their little allowances,” said Mrs. Prout. “Perhaps you think me wrong, in my reduced circumstances, to continue them, and it _was_ a matter of consideration; but their father and I had felt alike on that subject, and I therefore resolved only to diminish them to half the amount, and save in something else, rather than reduce them to absolute penury. I don’t like pinching on a large scale; I cannot, therefore, expect them to do so on a small one. Besides, it teaches children the value of money; gives them habits of calculation, fore-thought, and economy. How can they practise self-denial, charity, or generosity, without something, however trifling, they can call their own? But I never permit them to exceed their allowances, or borrow, or run in debt. If they spend too freely at the beginning of the week, they must suffer for it till the week after. Arthur and Alice had twopence a week each, but now they have only a penny; thus, they too, know something, practically, of ‘reduced circumstances;’ and the stipends of the elder ones have been lowered in proportion. So you see, I am not, after all, very extravagant.”