And yet maybe that's a foolish wish. For we did what we thought to be right at the time, and nobody can do more. It's no manner of use to judge, after things have happened, by what couldn't be guessed beforehand. Besides, what did happen don't show that we were wrong to go. Trouble don't always mean punishment. It's often sent just to do us good, like medicine given to a sick child, and it may be the very best thing that could happen. And if we hadn't gone to Ermespoint that day, but had stayed at home, who's to say that something quite as bad mightn't have come to us some other way?
Jervis had no difficulty in getting a day off from work, though it wasn't a Bank holiday. He asked it so seldom, that the masters said "Yes" at once. We had a fine day too. Right glad we were to see the sun go down, with red streaks across the sky. Jervis said, "Red at night is the shepherd's delight;" and then he told us there were other good signs too, most likely meaning fine weather. The air was dry; and the swallows had been flying high; and there wasn't too clear a view of the distance.
He was in the right too. We woke up to a beautiful July day— all sunshine and blue sky. I'm sure I didn't sleep much the night before, and the children said they hadn't either; and we were all ready for an early breakfast, so as to get off by the eight o'clock train.
Jervis had on his Sunday coat, and he did look so nice in it, you can't think. I always felt proud of my husband in that coat. Not that I didn't feel proud of him in his working clothes too; but then I suppose I was proud of him for what he was inside; and in his Sunday coat I was proud of him for what he was outside. A woman does like her husband to look nice, you know, and I'm pretty sure a husband likes his wife to look nice. And though one may say folks don't love each other for their looks, yet it is wonderful what a lot of difference looks make in one's feelings. Anyhow, I know I liked to see Jervis in his Sunday coat; and I know he liked to see me in my Sunday bonnet, which was quiet but pretty. He wasn't too busy that very morning to tell me how nice I looked in it. And I was proud, of course; why shouldn't I be? What's the woman made of, I wonder, who doesn't like her husband to tell her she looks nice?
We had to wait a while on the platform, because the train was late; and Rosie and Bessie each held one of his hands, and Louey kept watch over the lunch-basket, and Miles never left my side. That was always the way. Louey had always been a quiet sort of independent child; and the two little girls, but most of all our pretty Bessie, were my husband's great pets; and Miles would do anything for me. If we had any favourites among the children, I suppose Bessie was her father's favourite, and Miles was mine; yet it isn't fair to talk of favourites, when we loved them all so dearly. Miles was fourteen and Louey twelve, and Rosie and Bessie were nine and seven. Nobody could call Louey or Rosie pretty, but little Bessie was lovely.
Miles had just done with his schooling, and Jervis hoped soon to get him into the building trade. The worst of the matter was, that Miles didn't care to be a builder. He was a quiet boy, fond of books, and fond of writing; and he'd always had a hankering after something different. But Jervis said that was nonsense, and of course the boy must do as he had done. So there was just a little difficulty between the two, and I suppose that was why Miles turned more than ever to me. He knew I felt with him always, whether or no I could help him.
Miles had such a pleasant face. I don't think it was only because I was his mother that I thought so. He wasn't handsome, and handsomeness don't matter much, but he had such a bright look, and he was so true, and he never was rude or rough; and if a gentleman or lady spoke to him, his cap was off in a moment. To be sure, I'd been particular about my boy's manners, which is more than some mothers can say, and he's thanked me for it since. I've never had no notion of letting my children grow up like a set of young bears, without a thought of how to behave themselves.
The train came puffing up, and we all got into a third-class compartment, where nobody else was. The children were delighted, because they could move about and chatter without disturbing folks. Presently Miles said to me,—"That's the life I should like, mother," as we passed a farm house, standing all by itself in the country.
"Perhaps you wouldn't if you tried it," said I; for I knew there wasn't a chance of any such life for him.
"I should, though," said he. "I know what I like."