They mounted one flight of stairs to the door of the front chamber, and knocked. It was opened by Mrs. Purling, once the sentimental Melissa, now a very matronly figure, but still training a few flaxen, maiden-like curls over her temples, and shedding an air of youth and summer from her sky-blue calico robe, with its straw-colored facings. She inherited much of the paternal temperament; and, were it not that her husband’s desponding state of mind had clouded her spirits, she would have shown her customary aspect of cheerful serenity.
“Is the Major awake?”
“O yes! Walk in.”
“Ah! Cecil, my hearty,” exclaimed Pompilard, “how are you getting on?”
“Pretty well, sir. The wound’s healing, I believe. I’m afraid we’re inconveniencing you shockingly, coming here, all of us, bag and baggage.”
“Don’t speak of it, Major. Even if we are inconvenienced (which I deny), what then? Oughtn’t we, too, to do something for our country? If you can afford to contribute an arm, oughtn’t we to contribute a few trifling conveniences? For my part, I never see a maimed or crippled soldier in the street, that I don’t take off my hat to him; and if he is poor, I give him what I can afford. Was he not wounded fighting for the great idea of national honor, integrity, freedom,—fighting for me and my children? The cold-blooded indifference with which people who stay snugly and safely at home pass by these noble relics from the battle-field, and pursue their selfish amusements and occupations while thousands of their countrymen are periling life and health in their behalf, is to me inexplicable. If we can’t give anything else, let us at least give our sympathy and respect, our little word of cheer and of honor, to those who have sacrificed so much in order that we might be undisturbed in our comforts!”
“I’m afraid, sir,” continued the Major, “that your good feelings blind you to the gravity, in a domestic point of view, of this incursion into your household of the whole Purling race. But the truth is, I expected a remittance, about this time, from my Philadelphia publisher. It doesn’t come. I wonder what can be the matter?”
Yes! The insatiable Purling, having exhausted New York, had gone to Philadelphia with his literary wares, and had found another victim whose organ of marvellousness was larger than his bump of caution.
“Don’t bother yourself about remittances, Major,” said Pompilard. “Don’t be under any concern. You mustn’t suppose that because, in an eccentric freak, Mrs. Pompilard has chosen to occupy this little out-of-the-way establishment, the exchequer is therefore exhausted. Some persons might complain of the air of this neighborhood. True, the piny odors of the forest are more agreeable than the exhalations one gets from the desiccating gutters under our noses. True, the song of the thrush is more entrancing than the barbaric yell of that lazy milkman who sits in his cart and shrieks till some one shall come with a pitcher. But in all probability we sha’n’ occupy these quarters longer than the summer months. Why it was that Mrs. Pompilard should select them, more especially for the summer months, has mystified me a little; but the ladies know best. Am sorry we couldn’t welcome you at Redcliff or Thrushwood, or some other of our old country-seats; but—the fact is, we’ve disposed of them all. To what we have, my dear Cecil, consider yourself as welcome as votes to a candidate or a contract to an alderman. So don’t let me hear you utter the word remittances again.”
“Ah! my dear father, we men can make light of these household inconveniences, but they fall heavy on the women.”