My time passed very monotonously. The stock of books I had brought with me was too soon exhausted, and I had no sewing of sufficient importance to interest my attention. The nonsense of Mrs. Pownsey became very tiresome, and the other ladies were mere automatons. The children were taken sick (as children generally are at country lodgings), and fretted and cried all the time. I longed for the society of my friends in the city, and for the unceremonious visits that are so pleasant in summer evenings.
After a trial of two weeks, during which I vainly hoped that custom would reconcile me to much that had annoyed me at first, I determined to return to Philadelphia; in the full persuasion that this would be my last essay at boarding out of town.
On the day before my departure, we were all attracted to the front-garden, to see a company of city volunteers, who were marching to a certain field where they were to practise shooting at a target. While we were lingering to catch the last glimpse of them as long as they remained in sight, the cook came to Mrs. Netherby (who was affectedly smelling the leaves of a dusty geranium), and informed her that though she had collected all the cold meat in the house, there was still not enough to fill the pie that was to be a part of the dinner.[85] "Oh! then," replied Mrs. Netherby, with perfect sang-froid, and in her usual soft voice, "put Phebe on the top of it—put Phebe on the top." "Do you mean," said the cook, "that I am to kill the pigeon to help out with?" "Certainly," rejoined Mrs. Netherby, "put Phebe in the pie."
There was a general exclamation from all present, except from the automaton young lady and her mamma; and the children who were looking out of the front windows were loud in lamentations for the poor pigeon, who, in truth, had constituted their only innocent amusement. For my part, I could not forbear openly expressing my surprise that Mrs. Netherby should think for a moment of devoting her pet pigeon to such a purpose, and I earnestly deprecated its impending fate.
Mrs. Netherby reddened, and forgetting her usual mildness, her eyes assumed a very cat-like expression as she replied to me in a loud sharp voice. "Upon my word, miss, this is very strange. Really, you astonish me. This is something quite new. I am not at all accustomed to having the ladies of my family to meddle in my private affairs. Really, miss, it is excessively odd that you should presume to dictate to me about the disposal of my own property. I have some exquisite veal-cutlets and some delicious calves-feet, but the pie is wanted for a centre dish. I am always, as you know, particular in giving my table a handsome set-out."
In vain we protested our willingness to dine without the centre dish, rather than the pigeon, whom we regarded in the light of an intimate acquaintance, should be killed to furnish it, all declaring that nothing could induce us to taste a mouthful of poor Phebe. Mrs. Netherby, obstinately bent on carrying her point (as is generally the case with women who profess an extra portion of sweetness), heard us unmoved, only replying, "Certainly, miss, you cannot deny that the bird is mine, and that I have a right to do as I please with my own property. Phillis, put Phebe in the pie!"
The cook grinned, and stood irresolute; when suddenly Bingham the waiter stepped up with Phebe in his hands, and calling to a black boy of his acquaintance, who lived in the neighbourhood, and was passing at the moment: "Here, Harrison," said he, "are you going to town?" "Yes," replied the boy, "I am going there of an errand." "Then take this here pigeon with you," said Bingham, "and give it as a gift from me to your sister Louisa. You need not tell her to take good care of it. I know she'll affection it for my sake. There, take it, and run." So saying, he handed the pigeon over the fence to the boy, who ran off with it immediately, and Bingham coolly returned to the kitchen, whistling as he went.
"Well, if I ever saw the like!" exclaimed Mrs. Netherby. "But Bingham will always have his way; he's really a strange fellow." Then, looking foolish and subdued, she walked into the house. I could not help laughing, and was glad that the life of the poor pigeon had been saved on any terms, though sorry to find that Mrs. Netherby, after all, had not the redeeming quality I ascribed to her.
To conclude,—I have no doubt that summer establishments may be found which are in many respects more agreeable than the one I have attempted to describe. But it has not been my good fortune, or that of my friends who have adopted this plan of getting through the warm weather, to meet with any country lodgings (of course, I have no reference to decided farm-houses), in which the comparison was not decidedly in favour of the superior advantages of remaining in a commodious mansion in the city, surrounded with the comforts of home, and "with all the appliances, and means to boot," which only a large town can furnish.