“He used to tell me before marriage, he loved simplicity; so I wasn’t afraid, you know. But now he likes intellect better.”
“But why should you despair of pleasing him, even then?”
“Oh, he knocks me down so! I don’t mean literally,” cried she, seeing my look of dismay; “but he has a way of setting people down, as the saying is, whenever they talk in a way that does not please him; and if I am chatting a little, and he wants to cut it short, he says, ‘My dear, I beg your pardon,’ quite politely; and takes the lead, and keeps it—‘My dear,’ not ‘My love.’ It was so pleasant to hear him say, ‘My love!’ to-day.”
“Well,” said I, “you will be busy now, and I hope soon to hear of your having let your house.” And so I talked a little about various watering-places, as if she might pick and choose where she liked; though, after all, very probably, she will have no choice but Hardsand. And I told her what a cheerful, bracing place Hardsand was considered.
But, as I rode home, I thought that, perhaps I had done the little woman no kindness, after all; for her efforts to let her house might only end in disappointment. And the more I thought of blinds, scrapers, &c., wanting repair, crumb-cloths wanting washing, and wine-glasses wanting replacing, the less chance there appeared to me of anybody’s being attracted by the house.
“A pennyworth of putty and a pennyworth of paint,” said a nobleman, in the last century, “would make my countess as handsome as any at court.” Certes, a pennyworth of putty and a pennyworth of paint, or something equivalent, will often go far towards making a house look tidy and respectable. But, in Mrs. Ringwood’s domain, il poco piú is sadly wanting. A man may laugh at an Irish waiter who confidentially whispers to him, as he hands him his venison, that “there is no currant jelly on the sideboard, but plenty of lobster-sauce,” but he will not endure it from his wife.
——What luck some people have! The Ringwoods have let their house the very first day! Just now, I was very much surprised by a call from Mr. Ringwood, who looked much more gentlemanlike than he did yesterday, and said, with a very pleased look, “Mrs. Cheerlove, I am sure you will be glad to hear the good news, and therefore intrude to tell you of it myself. I called on Norris just now, and found the Hawkers are wanting a ready-furnished house, while their own is painting—that is to say, for six weeks; so I’ve seen Mr. Hawker, and we came to terms immediately; supposing, of course, that the ladies make it out together. But I am sure Emma will be glad to make every concession to Mrs. Hawker, so I look on it as a done thing. Don’t you wish me joy?”
I told him I did, very sincerely.