This was a blow at myself, a bachelor whom the lady had never persuaded to dream of relinquishing his freedom.
‘My dear, I am coming,’ said the vicar.
‘Then, come at once, or I shall think you idiotic,’ the wife retorted.
‘I have been endeavouring,’ the vicar now addressed me, ‘to prove by a practical demonstration that women are capable of as much philosophy as men, under any sudden and afflicting revolution of circumstances.’
‘And if you get a sunstroke, you will be rightly punished, and I shall not be sorry, Mr. Amble.’
‘I am coming, my dear Jane. Pray run into the house and change your things.’
‘Not till I see you out of the water, sir.’
‘You are losing your temper, my love.’
‘You would make a saint lose his temper, Mr. Amble.’
‘There were female saints, my dear,’ the vicar mildly responded; and addressed me further: ‘Up to this point, I assure you, Pollingray, no conduct could have been more exemplary than Mrs. Amble’s. I had got her into the boat—a good boat, a capital boat—but getting in myself, we overturned. The first impulse of an ordinary woman would have been to reproach and scold; but Mrs. Amble succumbed only to the first impulse. Discovering that all effort unaided to climb the bank was fruitless, she agreed to wait patiently and make the best of circumstances; and she did; and she learnt to enjoy it. There is marrow in every bone. My dear. Jane, I have never admired you so much. I tried her, Pollingray, in metaphysics. I talked to her of the opera we last heard, I think fifty years ago. And as it is less endurable for a woman to be patient in tribulation—the honour is greater, when she overcomes the fleshy trial. Insomuch,’ the vicar put on a bland air of abnegation of honour, ‘that I am disposed to consider any male philosopher our superior; when you’ve found one, ha, ha—when you’ve found one. O sol pulcher! I am ready to sing that the day has been glorious, so far. Pulcher ille dies.’