In effect both were different persons from the young heiress and the rich English widow of Grace’s genial spring-time; and even if they had not so changed, it is a difficult matter to take up, after years of separation, the thread of a friendship at the precise point where it was dropped, and go on weaving the many-coloured web of intimate association as though nothing had occurred to stop its progress.
Besides this, that which Grace styled “Mrs. Hartley’s magnificence” was not a thing this country-bred maiden could accustom herself to in a moment.
Hers was a model property; small, it is true, but maintained as Grace had never seen any place maintained before, unless indeed it might be a botanical garden. Not half so large as Bayview, a very doll’s house and toy grounds in comparison with those of Woodbrook! but the order which kept the lawns trimmed, the hedges clipped, the walks rolled, the house from garret to cellar a marvel of comfort and luxury, was enough to make a thoughtful and devoted Irishwoman like Grace ask herself a few very awkward questions, and make her feel for the moment angry because she could not avoid a sensation of shame at the contrast suggested.
“I wish I could ever hope to be so admirable a manager in all respects as you are, Mrs. Hartley,” said Grace one day, after she had heard that lady issue some rather peremptory commands to her head gardener.
“One cannot be a handsome young thing like you and a sharp old busybody like myself,” replied Mrs. Hartley, not displeased, however, at the compliment; “and then remember I was born and brought up in a country where order is Heaven’s first law; in a land where it is the fashion to keep the doorsteps white, it is natural that one should like to see one’s own steps presentable. There is a great deal in habit. Although in the abstract no doubt you admire English order and cleanliness, still I have no doubt but that in your heart of hearts you think we are fussy and over-particular.”
Miss Moffat laughed and coloured.
“To be quite frank,” she replied, “I like the result produced, but I do not like the means by which it is produced. Perpetual hearthstoning and rolling, and mowing and cutting and clipping produce marvellous effects, I confess; but still I think the constant recurrence of such days of small things must tend to dwarf the intellect and make life seem a very poor affair.”
“Irish, my dear, very; but these are opinions about which there is no use arguing. I should have considered begging in a town where I knew every man, woman, and child, and where every man, woman, and child knew me, a somewhat monotonous occupation; and I fail to see anything calculated to enlarge the intellect in the acts of planting potatoes all day and eating them for breakfast, dinner, and supper. Still there is a certain amount of truth in what you say, or rather imply. The English are not an imaginative people, and they do not consider it necessary to idealize work. They labour for so much a day, and honestly say so. It is in the nature of a quick, sympathetic nation to be desultory, and the Irish are desultory till they come to England, when they suddenly develope the most marvellous perseverance, and trot up and down ladders with hods on their shoulders in a manner wonderful to behold.”
“Dear Mrs. Hartley, how I wish I could make you like the Irish!” said Grace.
“I like you; is not that sufficient?” was the prompt reply.