 | CHAPTER XXIII. Dollars and cents |  |
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness
Are nobly undergone; and most poor matters
Point to rich ends.
Tempest.
“THEM'S come Miss Kate!” said 'Dency Barrington, as
she entered our kitchen one morning while we were
washing the breakfast things: “them's all come! and
mother said I'd best put right off and tell ye, for likely
you'd want to hear.”
“Thank you 'Dency,” said Kate, “but what is the news?
I did not understand.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Carvill Miss Kate—they all come to the
Lea last night, and forty 'leven servants! And father
went up he did, to see was there anything wanting, and if
they would have some of the new wheat ground; and Mr.
Carvill said he didn't know nor he didn't care—father might
ask Mrs. Carvill if he felt disposed. Father said he
shouldn't do no such a thing,—he says he don't believe Mrs.
Carvill knows where wheat comes from. Don't it beat
all, Miss Kate?”
“Why it's rather a queer way of doing business
'Dency.”
“That's just what father says—he says it beats the
Dutch, he does. There's the most company come!”
“Any ladies?” said I.
“O I couldn't begin to tell you Miss Grace! Father
says it beats him to know where they'll all sleep. Ain't
it wonderful how people goes on?” said 'Dency by way of
summing up, but we ventured no reply save a grave shake
of the head.
A few days after Mrs. Barrington made her appearance.
“Hope you're pretty smart, Mrs. Howard and Miss
Kate and Miss Grace,” said the good woman, who was
really one of the best and kindest of our neighbours.
“Yes we are very well,” said my stepmother smiling
pleasantly; “and how do you do at home?”
“My children's all dreadful well ma'am—they never had
such health. My husband he's dreadful well too, only he's
got a little pain into his shoulder,—I tell him he's getting
old,” said Mrs. Barrington, with a pleased little laugh at
the idea of imputing to Ezra anything but the most absolute
youth and heartiness. “'Taint no particular thanks to
anybody, neither, if he is well—if he was some folks he'd
be laid up as sure as can be.”
“Is he more busy than usual?” said Mrs. Howard.
“Why he don't hardly get time to eat his victuals
ma'am. To be sure as he says, he always was occupied
and always calculated to be, but this beats all. He could
see to the farm well enough he says, but when Mr. Carvill's
got to be seen to at one and the same time, he don't
rightly know which foot to put foremost, he says. And
they can't one on 'em find a bird without he shows
'em.”
“Mr. Carvill is very fond of gunning,” said Kate.
“But don't it beat all Mrs. Howard that he ain't called
Collingwood? he can't be the Farmer's own son, likely.”
“He took his uncle's name,” said my stepmother.
“Do say!” ejaculated Mrs. Barrington—“well of all
things! it don't seem nat'ral like for a person to give his
child to some one beside. He's a very pretty man too,
but it's like nothing else the way they go on up there.
And Mrs. Carvill she don't never do a hand's turn, they
say; and the dinner ain't never ready till the chickens is
going to bed—dear knows when they go! But they say
one of the ladies is the beautifullest singer Miss Kate!
she's got the loudest voice you ever heard.”
“Has she?” said Kate smiling.
“That's what they tell me; and Ezra says he guesses
it's true, for she's always a singin and never leaves off that
he can find out. But my! I think they're all raving crazy
there. He goes up most mornings the first thing after
breakfast—that is after their breakfast—and when Mr.
says—`is the cow mad or has one of the sheep got a fit?'
Why Miss Kate it's as true as can be.”
“I don't doubt it in the least, Mrs. Barrington,” said
Kate, whose gravity had fairly given way, “but I couldn't
help laughing.”
“Well don't it beat all?” said our informant. “One
time he went to see about ploughing the clover meadow,
and there was a set of the gentry out on the lawn with
Mr. Carvill, so they all kinder gathered round to listen,
and Mr. Carvill he said says he, `O plough it up by all
means,' says he, `but I won't have no winter grain on the
farm,' says he—`just plant it with green peas and they'll
be all ready for spring,—I'm going to make my fortune
raising early vegetables. And Mr. Barrington,' says he,
`tell the old grey hen,' says he, `that if she lays in the
wrong nest another day, I'll wring her neck off,' says he.
And they all shouted so, you've no idee!—my husband
said he was a'most mad.”
“It is well Mr. Barrington is good-natured,” said I
laughing.
“That's what I say, Miss Grace: I tell him he's the most
good-naturedest soul alive, or he couldn't stand it. Why it's
just only this morning that Mr. Carvill sent for him up to
the house for nothing at all but to say that he didn't believe
it was good for the horses to plough afore sunrise;
and then says he, `Mr. Barrington,' says he, `what do you feed
the pigs with?' says he. So my husband knew there was
somethin coming, however he says to him, `they've had
milk all summer, Mr. Carvill,' says he, `and now they runs in
the stubble,' says he. `That's just it!' says Mr. Carvill.
`Well don't let 'em run there any longer,' says he, `for I'm
certain it don't agree with them,—last night the little spotted
pig did nothing but squeal,' says he. And Ezra said he
had to laugh, though he felt real crabbed too.”
This being the last specimen of Mr. Carvill's eccentricity,
Mrs. Barrington felt she had no more to communicate, and
therefore took leave; and we sat and smiled at each other
in a very amused state of mind.
“Mamma,” said Kate, “what comes next? ironing,
doesn't it?”
“Not for you dear—I will iron this week, and you and
Grace may take holiday. There is but a handful of clothes.”
“No indeed—it is our work and you're not to touch it
mamma. Please go and sit down and do what you've a
mind to—we don't want your help at all. Gracie won't
you call Andy to bring some wood, and I'll put the irons
down. Now mamma you know we want exercise and you
don't.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Howard, “then I will finish mending
that shirt—perhaps that is as necessary as anything. I'll
tell you what, if your father don't get a piece of cotton the
next time he goes away, he will want new shirts very long
before we can get them made.”
So she goes to her work and we to ours.
Imagine a long wood fire (we eschewed stoves) upon
whose sticks the flame seems to make little impression, as
it curls and twines about them; yet it blazes on, no way
discouraged, cheered by the bed of red coals beneath. And
here, like good soldiers that face the hottest of the fire,
stands a row of irons—cool to the eye, but fast losing their
original temperament beneath the mighty power of assimilation.
One table is before the window, and another before
the dresser; the clothes-basket between, and the clothes-horse
“beyont,” as Caddie would have said. And we make
passes at the window and dresser, and take as much trouble
to smooth a cap and shirt, as if they had been the
daily path of their owners. And the basket grows empty
and the horse grows full,—and the forestick breaks, and we
arrange the fire by turns; and Kate takes her irons from
the left end of the row, and I mine from the right. And
our faces are a little flushed; and an uncomfortable, soreish
feeling in our finger-ends reminds us that hot irons were not
always their playthings. Then enter Purrer-purrer, and
jumping on Kate's table she seats herself on a small pedestal
of warm nicely-ironed pocket-handkerchiefs, and winks
with satisfaction; and being dislodged with sundry gentle
pats, she takes to the clothes-basket, and purrs forth her
eulogium of damp sheets. And I set down my iron, and
straightening myself exclaim,
“O Katie! don't your back ache? and aren't we glad to
have cool ironing days once more?” And she replies,
“Isn't it very strange that the Carvills never came to see
us?”
“Yes, but if they can be so rude they are not worth
caring for.”
“Not worth caring for, to be sure; but still it would be
pleasant to be on other terms with them—seeing who they
are.”
And then the irons being too cool, I seat myself upon the
corner of my table while Kate occupies a like position upon
hers, and gently swinging one foot (for mere variety's sake)
we look at the fire and make little remarks, till Mrs. Howard
calls from the other room,
“Gracie, what if we should have a potatoe-pie for dinner?”
“O I should like it very much; but you had better
make it Kate—you are tired.”
“Not more than you are, I guess.”
“But wouldn't you rather?—”
“Why no child—go off and make it yourself. I'm sure
you have ironed more than I.”
So I make the pie; and while it bakes we iron the last
few pieces, all stamped with the pattern of the basket, and
then set our little table even in the neighbourhood of the
clothes-horse: for `papa is not at home,' and it is `less
trouble' than to carry all the things into another room and
then bring them back. And after dinner we dress, and
Kate sings at her harp “I had ae horse and I had nae
mair,” and then we walk down to the Bird's Nest,—that is
Kate and I, for my stepmother is still busy at the shirts.
“Well,” said Miss Easy with her cheering smile, “and
what have you been tiring yourselves with to-day?”
“Not very much with anything ma'am—we have only
been using that kind of dumb-bells which are denominated
flat-irons.”
“If you would only let me know!” said Miss Easy—
“you could always have Caddie, yes, just as well as not;
but I never can manage to guess the right day. Now why
don't you send for her? yes.”
“Because it isn't necessary at all,” said Kate,—“it don't
do us any harm.”
“Not a bit?” said Miss Easy, who had hold of my
hand: “why this child is trembling now—yes, all over.”
“No ma'am, not all over—only my hands, because the
irons were a little heavy.”
“And she will work so hard at it,” said Kate; “she
irons up all the clothes away from me.”
“But it's good for me, Miss Easy,” I said—“it's quite
good exercise.”
“Not the best, I fear. However there is no doubt a
bright side to it Gracie—yes, if I had not seen you tried I
shouldn't know you half so well.”
“And this is a very gentle trial too,” said Kate,—“only
a little bit of real life—enough to keep us from being butterflies.
You don't suppose Miss Easy, that those same
winged rovers are half so well acquainted with honey
secrets as are the bees?”
Miss Easy smiled, but shook her head.
“It is strange,” she replied, “that we cannot always rest
satisfied with God's dealings—they are so surely the best
that can be! And yet how I have longed to shelter you
two—yes, from every `touch of real life,'—how it has
grieved me to see where the touch has fallen! Dear children!—well,
there cannot any real harm befall you, and
with that I ought to be contented.”
We were all silent for a few minutes, and then wishing
to bring our friend's thoughts from graver subjects, we
detailed Mrs. Barrington's information.
“Just like him!” said Miss Easy, “never was such another
wild, random-headed boy as he always has been, yes
from a child.”
“Have you known him so long!” said Kate.
“Why my dear, yes; I lived here before they came to
the Lea—that was just after their mother's death—and
Mr. Carvill and Mr. Rodney were quite small then;—and
as they grew older they used to come and get nuts off my
great tree, yes, they did indeed. I never liked any so well
as those they knocked down for me, and they always got
mine before they would help themselves.”
“And was Mr. Rodney the same then?” I asked.
“Just the same—yes; always ready to do for everybody
—always gentle and affectionate—yes. And I don't mean
to say that Mr. Carvill wasn't affectionate too, but he was
wild and thoughtless, yes very. Yet so long as he staid at
Miss Easy, “when they went to college Mr. Carvill went
all sorts of ways; and he's never gone straight since.”
“But how could Farmer Collingwood leave the Lea to
him?” I said.
“He didn't my dear; O no, it was not his—that is, it
was his but for life; and then by his uncle's will it was to
go to Mr. Carvill.”
“And that was the uncle Mr. Carvill was named after.”
“To be sure, yes, and they thought all the world of him,
yes. But dear me! the farm won't do Mr. Carvill much
good at this rate.”
“It's well he has an honest man to deal with,” said
Kate.
“He needn't thank himself for it,” said Miss Easy—“no
not one bit; for Mr. Rodney engaged Ezra Barrington as
soon as he knew that your father would not keep him, yes.
I suppose he thought Mr. Carvill would never take the
trouble to turn him out, and that he would not be quite so
likely to ruin himself as if he chose his own farmer. But
he did not say that to me—he very seldom speaks of his
brother's doings, though I believe he's the only person who
can influence them in the least. Indeed Mr. Carvill always
looked up to him, yes; but in a queer sort of way too—as
if he couldn't help it, and they never are on anything but
the best possible terms.”
“Has Mrs. Carvill ever been to see you Miss Easy?”
said Kate.
“Why my dear child! yes, to be sure—several times,
yes. What put that question into your head?”
“Because she has never been to see us.”
“Never at all? never returned your visit?”
“Never—isn't it odd?”
“Very odd, yes, and very rude,” said Miss Easy. “And
yet—I don't know—yes, I think I can understand it, yes.
Well you are better worth going to see than any people I
know, Katie: Mrs. Carvill loses more than you do, dear—
yes, much more.”
“It isn't quite pleasant though.”
“No, not quite; but there are a good many things in
this world that are not quite pleasant, yes, very many; and
you, little Gracie.”
“Even I!” said I laughing,—“why Miss Easy you
wouldn't have other people get the start of me in finding
out things?”
“Ah child!” she said. “But tell me, were you ironing
all day till you came here?”
“No ma'am,” said Kate, “there was breakfast you know,
and Mrs. Barrington; and this afternoon I sang for a while,
and Grace studied German.”
“Most praiseworthy occupations!” said a voice behind
us, and turning round we saw Mr. Ellis—the minister of
our little church. He was rather an old man, though Time's
assistants had done more than the great innovator himself;
but if his head had grown old, so had not his heart, and the
smile that now greeted us was almost childlike in its
brightness.
“Beg your pardon ma'am,” he said, shaking hands with
Miss Easy, “but after knocking three times at your door, I
thought I might venture to let myself in.”
“My dear sir!” said Miss Easy, “knock three times! did
you? I am very sorry indeed, yes sir.”
“No occasion ma'am,” said Mr. Ellis, “since I've got in,
—if I hadn't, we might both have been sorry together. I
needn't ask any questions of you young ladies—I hope the
half of Mr. Howard's family that is at home, is as well as
the half that is here?”
“Papa is away sir,” I said, “but I don't know but half
the family is at home still.”
“Yes, and a large half too—no disparagement to the rest.
And how are you Miss Caffery?—better I should think,—
and when is Miss Bain coming back?”
“I am better to-day, yes sir; and Avarintha expected to
be here this week, yes, but I hear this morning that she has
changed her mind.”
“So, so!—why she seems to like Ashton.”
“O she is not there now, she has gone further west.”
“But I should think you'd want her here,” said Mr. Ellis
knitting his brows a little—“you are not well.”
“O yes—but then she's enjoying herself so much,” said
Miss Easy apologetically; “and besides, yes, I can hardly
— yes, that makes up for everything.”
“And how does Miss Howard like to be called a child?”
said Mr. Ellis turning to Kate with a smile.
“Very much,” said she smiling in turn.
“And are you both learning German?”
“Yes sir, we study it together.”
“Do you know Italian Miss Kate?”
“Only half sir,—I did study it for a time.”
“And why not now? what made you give it up?”
Kate coloured a little—“I thought it would be of no use
to me sir, and I parted with all my Italian books. I have
been very sorry since.”
“Ah that was a mistake!” said the old man gently,—“a
great mistake to suppose that any kind of harmless knowledge
could help being useful. And yet it's the very one
that many people fall into, just when they ought to be most
clear of it,—when they are ranging themselves with those
whom the world calls not only fanatical, but illiterate and
low-bred.”
“And often justly,” said Kate.
“Often justly,—that is, supposing of course that you refer
to my two last adjectives. Strange! that every Christian
should not feel as wrote some old author: `I would acquire
all knowledge, I would do whatever could perfect mind and
character, that I might lay it all at the foot of the cross.' I
may not give the exact words, but that is the idea.”
“It is seldom that you hear a clergyman say that,” said
Miss Easy smiling; “yes, very seldom.”
“Ma'am,” said Mr. Ellis, bringing one hand down emphatically
upon the other, “in my opinion clergymen are
under a delusion that they don't pay more attention to
such things. They should not neglect `the weightier matters
of the law'—God forbid! but manners and education
may be perfected with little more outlay than of care and
attention. Why should a man give people a chance to
pour contempt on his message, by delivering it in bad
English?—or make his presence distasteful by the want of
that nicety of dress and habits, which the world holds in so
great esteem? I say not they are excusable for the sneer
or the contempt, but such things will have their effect—
that humanly speaking, a minister's christian efforts
are greatly furthered by the manners and conversation of
a gentleman.”
“`Lovely and of good report,'” said Miss Easy.
“Exactly ma'am; and lovely as the picture may be in
some respects, it will neither be of so good report nor so
well appreciated, if the glass before it be dull and covered
with dust. Christians should give the world no handle, no
occasion of reproach: and therefore Miss Kate I would set
very wide bounds to the field of knowledge, and go over
it in full career,—being careful always not to encroach upon
higher duties. I would not leave all the breeding and
manners and education in the hands of the world! let the
tide of christian influence be swelled by every harmless
auxiliary.”
“You would have liked Whitefield Mr. Ellis,” said
Kate,—“you know he is said to have been so particular
about everything, that even when dining quite alone, he
would care for the whiteness of the cloth and the line-and-rule
arrangement of the dishes.”
“Was he indeed? I don't remember to have met with
that; thank you Miss Kate for furnishing me with such a
precedent; I am exactly of his mind. But by the way
Miss Caffery, speaking of manners and education, when do
you expect Mr. Collingwood home? coming for the holidays,
isn't he?”
“O yes sir,” said Miss Easy with a smile, “dear me, yes,
to be sure!—before that I hope.”
“Won't stay at the Lea, will he ma'am?”
“I don't believe there'll be any one there to stay with;
but he'll be here, yes sir, the most of the time.”
“Glad of it,” said Mr. Ellis energetically—“I shouldn't
see him once a week if he set himself down among those
monkeys.”
“Monkeys!” said Miss Easy, “why Mr. Ellis, yes sir,
they haven't got monkeys there too?”
“My dear ma'am they've got plenty of two-legged ones
I'm sure: whether any of the real Monboddo progenitors
of our race have yet arrived, I can't say. For my part
I'd rather see Simon Pure than his imitators. You needn't
of the difference between a hounuman and some of
those French servants—not to say their masters—I'll be
obliged to you. And now goodnight Miss Easy, goodnight
young ladies, and success to all learned enterprises. A
woman's mind is far too good and valuable a thing to be
given up to housekeeping. Mind, I say given up,—bread
and butter in its place; but keep a place too for `pictures,
taste, Shakspeare, and the musical glasses.'”
| CHAPTER XXIII. Dollars and cents | |