FOOTNOTES

“The schoolboy days, when, in the falling leavesI saw, with eager hope, the pleasant signOf coming Christmas; when at morn I tookMy wooden calendar, and counting upOnce more its often-told account, smoothed offEach day, with more delight, the daily notch.”

“The schoolboy days, when, in the falling leaves

I saw, with eager hope, the pleasant sign

Of coming Christmas; when at morn I took

My wooden calendar, and counting up

Once more its often-told account, smoothed off

Each day, with more delight, the daily notch.”

Dearly do schoolboys love a hard winter, because it brings sliding, and skating, and snowballing in its train. Is not December, then, amerry month? Well, there is a reverse to the picture. In the first place, we poor, creaky invalids feel his cold touch in every joint, and at every shortening breath drawn from our wheezing chests, and very early in the month get shut up by the peremptory doctor; unless, indeed, we are too poor to be laid aside from the active toil that wins daily bread. Let the invalid with every comfort around her, think of those who have neither warm fires, nor warm clothing, nor warm bedding, nor warm food. See their sad, pinched faces, shrinking forms, chilblained hands, and ill-protected feet; think of their desolate dwellings, where the rain drips through the roof, where the broken pane is stuffed with rags, and where, for many hours daily, no fire burns on the hearth; and then refuse them sympathy and aid if you are not of the same flesh and blood, children of the same Creator! Oh, the time is drawing near when we may indeed warm our own hearts by warming the bodies of others! by putting shoes with warm stockings on bare feet, thick tweed on shoulders, and flannel on chests, coals in thegrate, and wholesome, nourishing food on the table! Here is our encouragement—“And thou shalt be blessed; for they cannot recompense thee, but thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.”

As I look up from my writing on this 4th of December, I see a blue, cloudless sky shining above steep, chalky hills that are clothed with the short, sweet turf loved by sheep, below which are green meadows, cut with dykes, to drain them during the winter; leafless hedges and scattered clumps of trees, principally oaks, still clad in a good many yellow leaves. The tiled roofs of many scattered cottages in the lanes are now visible, that cannot be seen in the summer: all looks bright and cheerful. Such is hardly a scene to remind one of the real severity of winter:—

“When all abroad the wind doth blow,And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,And birds sit brooding in the snow,And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,When nightly sings the staring owl,‘Tu-whit! tu-whoo!’ a dismal note,While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.”

“When all abroad the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,

And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

When nightly sings the staring owl,

‘Tu-whit! tu-whoo!’ a dismal note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.”

For my part, I like hearing the owl; perhaps because Shakspere has linked it with immortal verse. Dismal it is, I suppose—something like the forlorn cry of a belated traveller for assistance: its association with darkness and horror makes more vivid the contrast of the light twinkling through the casement, the crab-apples roasting and sputtering as they are popped, scalding hot, into the wassail-bowl, and Mrs. Joan’s assurance to the hospitable host that she has had “quite enough,” and has quite emptied her mug, to verity which, she turns it topsy-turvy—top-side t’other way.

Down comes the rain!—and enters Miss Burt with dripping umbrella, and dress hooked in festoons above her ancles, to tell me the Pevenseysreach home to-day. She is full of the news, and has carried it on to the Seckers.

What a cheerless, wretched afternoon! Rain, rain, go to Spain! What matter? Home is home, be it ever so homely,—and the Stone House is anything but that, I am told—for I have never been within it. Mrs. Pevensey’s first call was during my illness. How fresh and blooming she looked! I had heard of her numerous family, but not of her personal appearance—she did not visit any one I then knew, and I was unprepared for her sweet face and charming manners. She seemed to enter like a stream of sunshine, or like Una into the dark cottage of Abbessa. How kind, how good she was!—she thought she could never do enough for me.

And now she is ill herself—crippled, shattered perhaps for life, though comparatively restored; as motionless, I am told, as a figure on an altar-tomb. Sad, sad!

But she is not in pain, and her mind is as cheerful and alert as ever; and the little girlswill hang over her with warm kisses; and the baby, whom she cannot take in her arms, will leap and crow, and be held to her; and the faithful family servants will receive her in a flutter of sympathy, and hover about her with tender concern.

——I feel very lonely to-night. How quickly the day closed in! and how cheerless the rain sounds against the window-panes! The fire lights up with fitful gleams the picture on the opposite wall, and the footstool worked by Eugenia.

I remember, when we first went to Nutfield, Eugenia and I sallied out, one bright morning, with a basket, trowel, and old kitchen knife, to take up some of the pretty purple heath on the common for our flower-borders. We had not counted the cost. Snap went the thin old knife! Then we tugged and tugged at the tough stems with our hands, to the great injury of our gloves, and plunged at the roots with the trowel. But there seemed no end to those fibres and their ramifications underground—they spread interlacedand interwove in every direction:—and so, I think, must Mrs. Pevensey’s social affections:—while I am like a flower in a pot.

Here is Christmas close at hand, and Emily Prout is looking forward to the speedy arrival of the holidays. Harry is expected to-morrow. He will return to a humble, but happy home,—all the better able to value it for having been away from his family for some months.

Ihave no prospect of any other than a lonely, and perhaps a dull Christmas; and I am shut up, I fear me, for the winter. I cannot walk; the donkey-chair is unsafe for me, now that the weather is so cold; and I cannot afford a close carriage. But I will endeavour to raise my thoughts from things terrestrial to things celestial—from Christmas feasting to Him whose birthday feast it is:—

“Not more than others I deserve,Yet God hath given me more.”

“Not more than others I deserve,

Yet God hath given me more.”

Phillis has been very contrary lately. She is completely out of humour; does everything badly, and resents the least word of reproof. Instead of her waiting at table, it isIwhowait, while she does not answer the bell. If coals are wanted, it is so long before she brings them, that the fire is nearly out; then she comes in, throws on half a scuttle-full, which, of course, extinguishes it completely; and, to finish all, upsets the remainder on the carpet. Then she goes off in a towering rage, comes back with dust-pan and brush, repairs the damage to the carpet in a very slovenly way, and then fetches an armful of chips and paper, which make a great blaze for a few minutes, and soon burn completely out. Is it not singular that persons will sometimes appear to forget how to do a thing that they have done, and done properly, for years?

This morning, though I was suffering from neuralgia, and a drizzling rain was falling, she scoured my bed-room all over, and set the windows wide open, whereby everything in the room is as damp and limp as possible. On my tellingher that I would rather have had the cleaning deferred till a drier day, especially when I was suffering from a cold, she replied that Friday was the day for doing it, and she would do it on a Friday, or not at all. On my rejoining—“Nay, is that a question for mistress or maid to settle?” she replied, she never knew such a mistress; nothing she could do gave satisfaction; and, as she saw it was no use trying to please me, she hoped I should suit myself with another servant by that day month; and then went off, banging the door after her, yet leaving it ajar.

I felt resentment. I knew I had been a kind mistress to her; had studied her comforts, allowed her many indulgences, and overlooked many faults; and this was the way I was repaid! I felt it very hard. True, I had given her much trouble during my long and painful illness; but she had been engaged on purpose to assist in nursing me through it, and undertake the whole general work of the little house; had said, again and again, the work was nothing, and, in fact, was always sittingdown to needle-work at five o’clock in the afternoon.

I was aggrieved: I thought, if she would go, she might: if there were no attachment on one side, why need there be any on the other? And as to getting another servant, why Icouldbut have a tiresome one, and Phillis was that already.

In writing all this down I perceive some bad logic, but I felt very forlorn and depressed. When she came in to lay the cloth for dinner, she said not a word, nor did I; but her face declared war. The dinner could hardly have been worse cooked.

After dinner Mrs. Prout called. She seemed sorry to see me not looking well, and made such kind inquiries that a tear rolled down my cheek, and I told her all my trouble. She was very indignant at Phillis’s conduct, which she called abominable; and she said she would look out for a better servant for me—a woman who could behave like that was not worth her wages. I softened a little, and said she was not always sobad, of course; and when I had been so very ill, was really very attentive to me.

Mrs. Prout said yes, she remembered poor Mr. Prout saying I had a rough sort of creature to wait up me, but that she seemed kind-hearted.

“And, after all,” said she, “when we consider how little training such women get before they go into service, and what indistinct notions they have of their relative duties, we must make great excuses for them.”

“O yes,” said I, “we must; and, perhaps, I have been too exacting.”

“Well, it is possible you may have been a little so without intending it,” said she. “We are all so apt to see things only from our own point of view, and not to make sufficient allowances for others. Still, I don’t see how you can go on comfortably together, since she makes no allowances foryou.”

“Not unless shewouldmake allowances,” said I, doubtfully.

“Do you wish her to stay?”

“Why, yes, if she would go on comfortably;for I can’t bear strange faces, and we shall never find any one who is perfect.”

“Then, shall I say a few words to her, when she lets me out?”

“My dear friend,” said I, “I shall beverymuch obliged to you!”

So the kind little woman arose, after telling me that Mrs. Pevensey had reached home, and had borne the journey better than had been expected; and that Emily was to come home on Saturday. And after she had taken leave of me, I could hear her quiet voice for some time in the passage. I could also hear an indistinct grumble, grumble, grumble, from Phillis, and wondered what bad case she was making out against me. Then I heard Mrs. Prout’s quiet voice again; but the only words that reached me were, “You really should not;” and, “You really should.”

Then the door closed after her, and I heard a tremendous cleaning of fire-irons going on in the kitchen, and quantities of coals shovelled up, and quantities of water pumped up; after which ensued a lull. I lay back on the sofa, and stayedmy troubled mind with; “O Lord! undertake for me!”

Just as it was getting quite dusk, I was startled from a little nap by a smart ring at the back-door. A distant grumbling of voices ensued; and as some suspicious-looking tramps had lately been hanging about the neighbourhood, I became nervous, and rang the bell, to desire Phillis not to parley with any people of the kind, but to shut and bolt the door. She answered the bell, looking very glum.

“Who is that, Phillis?”

“Some one as has come aftermysituation. I should’t ha’ thought there’d been such a hurry!”

“Why, you yourself gave warning; and you have never said a word since of being sorry for it, and wishing to stay.”

“You’ve never given me time!”

“To settle the matter at once—doyou wish to say so now?”

“Why, dear me, how can one settle a question like that in a minute?”

“Send the person in.”

“Then youdowant me to go?”

“Phillis, haveyouever said you wanted to stay?”

“Why, you knows as well as I do, that I can’t abear change.”

“There are other things, though, you must bear, Phillis, if you can’t bear that. Let a family be large or little, it can never be a happy one where the great law of obedience is broken, and where the mistress is obliged to follow the lead of the servant. I do not mean to follow that course; and, therefore, if you wish to remain here, you must obeyme.”

“Why, don’t I?”

“Certainly you don’t.”

“Then you want to see this gal?”

“Of course, it is the least I can do, since Mrs. Prout, no doubt, has been kind enough to send her down.”

Phillis put the corner of her apron to her eye.

“Then ’tis you wants to change, not I,” saidshe, in a stifled voice; “for I’m very well content to rub on as I am.”

I took no notice. The next minute, she showed a tall young person into the room, who stood close to the door.

“You may go, Phillis.”

Phillis shut the door, and went.

“Good evening; will you come a little nearer?” said I.

The stranger obeyed, and I suddenly became frightened; for the stride and awkward gait convinced me it was a man in woman’s clothes. Thoughts of robbery and murder rushed through my head as the figure advanced towards me; but just then, the fire, which had been burning dimly, sent up a bright tongue of flame, which lighted up the room, and shone on a face that I thought was not altogether unknown to me.

“Where do you come from?” said I.

“Little Coram Street, London, ma’am,” in a voice of studied softness.

“Hum! then I fear a country place won’t suit you.”

“O yes, it will, ma’am! I likes the country best.”

“I am afraid you are not used to hard work. Did you ever scour a room?”

“I can work harder than people think, ma’am.”

“Well, but,didyou ever?”

“O ma’am, there’snothingI mind setting my hand to.”

“Or clean a saucepan?”

“Surely, ma’am, every servant can do that!”

“Who will recommend you?”

“Mrs. Prout knows me very well, ma’am.”

“And so does Mrs. Cheerlove!” said I, laughing. “Oh, Harry! you impostor! I found you out directly!”

“Did you though?” said he, bursting into a fit of laughter, and throwing his disguises right and left, till he stood before me in his original dress. “Phillis didn’t; and a good fright I’ve given her. Served her right, too! Listeners never hear any good of themselves, Mrs. Phillis,”added he, as she put her head a little way into the room.

“Why, I thought I heard a man’s voice, and it gave me quite a turn,” said she, advancing in a hesitating way towards us; “and so I did,—for, whoever would have thought of its beingyou, Master Prout!”

“Youdidn’t, it’s certain,” said he, rolling his things up into a bundle, “or you wouldn’t have tried to set me against the place!—so there I have you! Recollect, I’m a lawyer, and can take advantage of you at any time.”

She was, for once, without one word to say.

“Yes, yes,” added he, “I’ve had a grudge against you this long while for calling meMasterProut, when all the world knows I’ve beenMr.Prout ever so long. One would think I took my meals in the nursery. So, mind you, Phillis, if ever you are uncivil to your mistress again, or ever more call memaster, I’ll show you Iamyour master, in one way or another. And, as for your not having answered the bell when Mrs. Cheerlove wanted you, because you were makinga cap, why, sooner than keep her waiting for that, I’d have worn a brown-paper cap like a carpenter. So now go and make the kettle boil—very boiling, indeed, for I’m come to drink tea with Mrs. Cheerlove; and we Londoners don’t admire tea made with lukewarm water, I assure you.”

Off she went, with “Well, I’m sure!” on her lips, but with by no means a displeased look on her face; and I could not help thinking, “Some people may steal a horse, while others dare not look over a hedge. She has taken a good deal more from ‘Master Prout’ than she would from Mrs. Cheerlove.”

The Stone House, December 27.

When will wonders cease! I can hardly believe I am awake and in my senses,—yet so it is:—yes, here I am, spending the Christmas holidays with the Pevenseys:—

“And nothing meets my eye but sights of bliss.”

They had only been at home a few days when Arbell came in, all smiles, to ask how I was, and to say that her mamma had thought a great deal about me; and that it had occurred to her that asIwas an invalid, andshewas an invalid, we should suit one another much better than if our positions were more dissimilar; and that though we were not equal to a merry Christmas, she did not see why we might not have a pleasant one. So she had resolved on my occupying a certain bow-windowed blue room, with dressing-room attached, during the holidays, and I should keep my own hours, and choose my own companions, and dine early, and see as much or as little of the family as I liked. She would not take no for an answer, and she would send the close carriage for me the very next day.

Well, as she would not take “No,” for an answer, whatcouldI say but “Yes?” and “very much obliged,” too. It put me quite in a flutter, but a flutter of pleasurable excitement; for I have come to think the Pevenseys one of the most interesting families in the whole world. It wasvery satisfactory to think that my wardrobe was in fine order; that my best caps, handkerchiefs, &c., were all beautifully got up, and ready for immediate packing; that my new black silk dress had not even been worn; and that I had got rid of the neuralgia just long enough not to be afraid even of changing my bed.

I am sure the real danger will be in returning to my own house! I have always considered it sufficiently snug; but the walls are so thin, compared with these; and there are many chinks and fissures we are obliged to stop up by ingenious contrivances, similar to what sailors effect by means ofshakings. Whereas here, if you want to open a window, you may, indeed, do so with ease; but if you want it shut, it reallywillshut, without admitting a current of air strong enough to blow out a candle! or making a noise like the roaring of a lion, through some undetected orifice, as mine occasionally does at home, when least expected or wished. I determined Phillis should enjoy herself in my absence, and therefore permitted her to invite her widowed sister with her small baby, tostay with her till my return, which she took very pleasantly.

And here I am, in the snuggest of dressing-rooms, on the first floor of the Stone House, overlooking a charming Italian garden, something in the Haddon Hall style, that is beautiful even in winter, with bright masses of evergreens forming backgrounds to its “storied urns and animated busts.” And this dressing-room opens into a delightful bed-room, and also into a warm, thickly carpeted gallery, into which, also, open three other spare bed-rooms, one of which is at present occupied by Miss Pevensey, another by Arbell; chiefly, I believe, that I may not fancy myself lonely, as a door at the end of the gallery shuts off this wing from the rest of the house.

Lonely!—in a house with eight children and sixteen servants! A likely thing! Here, however, I may be as solitary, if I like, as a nun in her cell; but as it is now ascertained that I enjoy the family ways, I am continually having little visits from one and another. Firstly, Mrs. Kentpeeps in before I am up, to see whether the under-housemaid has lighted my fire, and to inquire how I have slept; and to ask whether I will have tea, coffee, or chocolate, in bed or out of it. Then, the aforesaid housemaid (Mary, her name is) helps me to dress, as nicely as Mrs. Kent could do. Then I step into the dressing-room, where I find a clear fire, and breakfast for one awaiting me; chocolate and rusks, may-be, or milk-coffee and French roll; or tea, toast, and a new-laid egg. After this I commence my little prayer-service and Bible-reading, as at home, while a prayer-bell, in some far-off quarter, which they tell me is much too cold for me, summons the household to prayers.

Immediately after this, the three little ones steal in from the nursery, saying,—“Will oo like to—to—hear our texts?” Of course I say “Yes;” and then one little creature says, “God is love;” and another reverently repeats, “Little children, love one another;” and another, “Live peaceably with all men.” They learn something fresh every day. Then Arbell comes in, and wehave long, delightful talks, till Mrs. Pevensey, who sleeps late, is ready to hear her read a portion of Scripture: I think they talk it over a good deal together afterwards. Meanwhile, cheerful “Aunt Kate” looks in on me; brings meThe Times, or “Pinelli’s Etchings,” or something by the Etching Club, or Dickens’ last number, or anything she thinks I shall like; makes up the fire, and has a cheerful chat; but she does not stay long.

After this, I see no one till the one o’clock dinner, except Rosaline and Flora, who are happy to give me as much of their company as they may, till called off for their walk. At one, we all assemble to a very bountiful meal, presided over by Miss Pevensey and Arbell, who, I am happy to see, already carves neatly and quickly. Then they generally carry me off to the conservatory, music-room, or library, the weather not inviting the delicate to indulge even in carriage exercise. Towards dusk, comes the grand treat of all: Miss Pevensey, Arbell, and I, repair to Mrs. Pevensey’s dressing-room, where we find her lying like astatue, perfectly still and colourless, but with her active mind ready to enter on any subject, gay, or grave, that may be started. These conversations are truly enjoyable. They insist on my occupying a couch opposite Mrs. Pevensey’s; Miss Pevensey establishes herself between us, in her brother’s easy-chair, and Arbell sits on a cushion at her mother’s feet. By the uncertain light of the fire, we harmoniously discuss all sorts of subjects, in a style not quite equal to that of “Friends in Council,” but that suits our requirements equally well.

The Swiss tour affords inexhaustible subjects of interest and entertainment. Sometimes Arbell tells what profound astonishment her tooth-brush excited among the country girls; at other times, they speak of the wonders of Mont Blanc, and Monte Rosa; and describe their arrival at the hospice of the Great St. Bernard—the hospitable reception of the good monks—their cheerful chat round the fire after supper—their attendance at morning prayers, before dawn, in the chapel—and afterwards witnessing the substantial breakfastgiven to the peasants who had received a night’s shelter, before they descended the pass.

Sometimes Mr. Pevensey comes in while they are thus talking, and exclaims—

“What! still among the mountains? Mrs. Cheerlove must be quite bored!”

“Oh no!” they boldly reply, “she is such a good sympathizer!”

Then he, his sister, and Arbell, go down to their two hours’ dinner, which I privately think it a privilege to escape. Mrs. Pevensey and I have ice, fruit, cakes, and coffee. And then I see her no more, for Mr. Pevensey spends the rest of the evening with her; and I say good-night, and retreat to my own room, though not always to bed, if I have an interesting book.

Though Mrs. Pevensey is not well enough to receive visitors (except such a quiet one as myself), it has been very interesting to witness the benefactions to the poor, the Christmas-tree loaded with presents for the children and servants, the school-children’s treat, the servants’ feast, &c., which ushered in Christmas in this hospitablehouse. In connection with these, something very mysterious was to take place on Christmas Eve, in the largest drawing-room, which was known only to Mr. Pevensey, Arbell, and a few assistants. Great expectations were raised, and most absurd guesses made, as to what could be going on,—much peeping, prying, and tittering outside the carefully-locked door, and many conjectures hazarded on the occupations of those who passed in and out. A good deal of hammering added excitement to the scene; and Mrs. Pevensey said, with some anxiety, she hoped they were not hurting the new white and gold paper; a tinkling bell was also heard.

At length, the longed-for hour arrived; the school-children had had their prizes and buns, the servants’ friends had had tea and plum-cake, the Christmas-tree had displayed its glories, when, at the eventful hour of eight, the public were admitted, and Mrs. Pevensey was carried into the drawing-room. All were surprised, and rather disappointed, to find it so dark; and when Arbell had marshalled every one to their places,it became darkness itself, for every light was extinguished. A laugh, a whispered remark, alone broke the silence, though all the household were present, and the general feeling was of awe.

At length, on the ringing ofa small bell, the solemn, distant sounds of an organ were heard (a very good barrel-organ in the nursery, that played hymn-tunes), and a curtain, slowly rising, revealed the hospice of St. Bernard!—or, at any rate, so good a transparency of it as to give a very vivid impression of the place itself. There was the old monastic pile, shut in among craggy, snow-clad rocks—the adjacent church, themorgue—the gloomy little lake—the tiny patches of garden, in which the monks grow a few cabbages and lettuces. To add to the illusion, a twinkling light was seen in one of the distant windows; a dog’s short, sharp bark was heard afar off, and the tones of the organ conveyed the impression of a midnight mass.

It was very impressively, capitally got up; and at small amount, as we afterwards learnt, oftrouble and cost. Ingenuity had been the prime artificer; and Mr. Pevensey was much pleased at the cleverness with which Arbell had seconded him. Altogether, the entertainment was well thought of, and gave unmingled satisfaction.

——I have come to the last page of my little note-book. Oh that the last page of my life’s story may end as happily!

THE END.

FOOTNOTES[1]Ecclesiasticus xix. 1.[2]These hymns have been inserted by the kind permission of the publisher of “The Invalid’s Hymn-book.”[3]These golden words were once spoken by a wiser tongue than Mrs. Cheerlove’s.[4]Jane Taylor.[5]Isaiah xlvi. 1.[6]The Rev. F. Close’s Sermon, addressed to the Female Chartists.

[1]Ecclesiasticus xix. 1.

[2]These hymns have been inserted by the kind permission of the publisher of “The Invalid’s Hymn-book.”

[3]These golden words were once spoken by a wiser tongue than Mrs. Cheerlove’s.

[4]Jane Taylor.

[5]Isaiah xlvi. 1.

[6]The Rev. F. Close’s Sermon, addressed to the Female Chartists.

J. S. VIRTUE, PRINTER, CITY ROAD, LONDON.

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