Rather against the grain, I engaged Phillis. I was too ill to lose time, and too ill to superintend her first start, consequently she fell into her own way of doing things, and will not now adopt any improvement on them without more exertion of authority on my part than I often feel inclined for. I put up with her—and, perhaps, she puts up with me.
After living many of my earlier years neither in town nor country, but in one of the western suburbs of London, I cannot express the pleasure with which I hailed the novelty of a real country life. To exchange a house in a row for a detached dwelling, in the midst of hills, copses, and cow-pastures, was so delightful as to afford some compensation for removing far away from many whom I dearly loved. Seven years my good husband and I shared in tranquil married happiness; and, as he had previously been a busy man in the city, the country was as new to him as to me.
It is a good thing for leisurely people, of whatever age, to acquire the habit of noting down what they observe of interest, in a new position. To such a habit, we owe the rich storehouse of John Evelyn’s “Journal,” and White’s “Natural History of Selborne;” two books which, perhaps, no country but England could have produced. On going to Nutfield, I resolved to observe everything, try many an experiment, keep a note-book, and ask many questions.
We obtained possession of our house at Christmas; but did not go down to it till the middle of February. In that month (as I failed not to enter in my journal) the white wagtail re-appears, the woodlark, thrush, and chaffinch begin to sing, rooks and partridges to pair, and geese to lay. Mr. Cheerlove told me that the clamorous rook, the cheerful cuckoo, the swift-darting marten, and the lively, sociable little red-breast, had been called the birds of the four seasons. We arrived at Nutfield in the rooks’ honeymoon.
The first thing that struck us was the air. How cold, but how fresh it was! How clear and free from smoke the atmosphere! A thin blue mist rose from the ground, but it was but the ghost of a London fog. Then again, as Mr. Cheerlove remarked, the dirt, plentiful as it was, merely consisted of earth and water mixed together, without any abominable additions, and, compared with London mire, might even be called clean dirt. The leafless condition of the trees gave us the opportunity of admiring the forms of their branches—the gradual and beautiful decrease of size and increase of delicacy between the sturdy trunks and the smallest twigs. The landscape was not destitute of green: the grass, though scanty and coarse, still retained its colour, and much of the growing wood was coated with fine moss; while the glossy laurel and cheerful holly contrasted with the sober laurustinus. Here and there, in the garden, we found a snowdrop, a hepatica, a yellow aconite, a Christmas rose, and a few sweet-scented blossoms of the alpine coltsfoot.
When we began to explore the neighbourhood, we found scarcely any wild-flowers, save now and then a daisy or sprig of gorse, or that common-looking nettle that bears the splendid name of white archangel. But we could say “a good time is coming!” and cheerfully await it. Meanwhile the horse-chestnut, hazel, and honeysuckle were budding, and the chickweed was putting forth its small white flowers; while the robin, sparrow, wren, and thrush sang blithely among the bushes, and the lark poured forth a short but lively song over our heads.
Mr. Cheerlove had accumulated a great many books, which, on wet days, it was his delight to arrange. We had two country maids and a boy, who found enough to do, but were not overworked. The first year we made scarcely any acquaintances; but my sister Eugenia, many years younger than myself (now, alas! no more), was frequently with us; and, after our loved mother’s death, lived with us entirely. Before she did so, Mr. Cheerlove and I used frequently to take little journeys in our one-horse carriage, jogging on from one place to another, putting-up, when it suited us, at some neat inn, and there spending a day, half-day, or two or three days, according to the attractions of the neighbourhood. In this way we strayed through many counties, and made acquaintance with many rivers, towns, villages, churches, cathedrals, old castles, and abbeys.
At the end of seven years, my good husband died. He was several years my senior, but I loved him—oh so dearly! and respected him so deeply! He was not what is called a shining man, but with the kindest heart, an equable temper, well-stored mind, a deliberate manner that gave great impression to what he said or read, without being in the least tedious, and a habit of employing himself beyond all praise.
He was gone; and the sunshine of my life was gone too! It seemed to me as though I had never valued him enough while he was alive—might have expressed more demonstrative affection. We never had an unkind word.