So then ensued some baby-talk, which seemed to make us much better acquainted.
“He must be a great resource to you,” said I.
“Well, children are plagues as well as pleasures, sometimes,” said Mrs. Ringwood. “I often think people who have no families have no idea of what mothers go through.”
“That is true enough, I dare say,” said I. “But the maternal instinct is implanted to make us insensible to those troubles—or, at least, indifferent to them.”
“Oh, nobody can be indifferent to them, Mrs. Cheerlove! Duty is duty, and pleasure is pleasure; but they don’t amount to the same thing, for all that.”
This was said with an asperity which seemed to place us miles apart again. The next moment she added, “At least, time was—when I was very young, you know, and fresh married—when I believe I really did think them one and the same thing.” She gave a little laugh, to hide a tear.
“I don’t know how it may be with you,” said I, twining the baby’s little fingers round mine, “but I think in most people’s lives there are times when, all at once, they seem to break down under their burthens, and to need a friendly arm to set them up again.”
“Some have not that friendly arm,” said she, her mouth twitching. “I only wish I had. Oh my goodness, Mrs. Cheerlove!”—suddenly becoming familiar and voluble—“you’ve no idea what a life mine is! These four walls, if they had tongues, could tell strange stories!”
“Ah! what walls could not?” said I, hastening from particulars to generals. “We were not sent into this world to be happy——”
“Well, I think we were,” interrupted she; “and yours must be a strange, gloomy religion if it makes you think otherwise.”