Though the vineyard was small, she hoped to derive an additional benefit from it for her father, by planting a few useful vegetables, which might perhaps interest him in his favourite occupation of gardening. But when she tried to rouse his mind to this, he only wept at the loss of their former pretty garden, for which they had both done so much.
The group of walnut-trees still remained; and, fortunately, they bore remarkably well. The gathering of the fruit and the pressure of the oil is one of the most important occupations of the Savoyards, and Madeleine was again assisted by her kind neighbours. The walnut harvest commences about September; the fruit is beaten off the trees with long poles, and the green husks are taken off as soon as they begin to decay; the walnuts are then laid in a chamber to dry, where they remain till the end of Autumn, when the process of making the oil commences. The first operation is of course to take out the kernel, and for this the neighbouring peasantry collect. They are usually placed round a long table; a man at each end of it cracks the nuts with a mallet, by hitting them on the point; and as fast as they are cracked they are distributed to the persons round the table, who take out the kernels and remove the inner part. The Savoyards are so lively, that this employment is in general accompanied by songs and various amusements. The day that Bertram, their English friend, returned, Madeleine was thus occupied; while her poor old father, placed in a chair beside her, was gazing vacantly at what they were doing.
Though changed so much in circumstances, she did not appear dejected—she had not sunk into despair, and though her countenance, as he told my aunt, no longer expressed gaiety, yet even in her tears she had the smile of hope and cheerfulness. He had always esteemed her, and was now so charmed by her various merits, and so anxious to assist and protect her, that he persuaded her to accept his hand. He wrote to his father, who is a clergyman in Wales; he obtained his consent, and for a few years lived happily with Madeleine in her cottage, enjoying those pleasures that follow laborious industry, and taking part in all the tender cares she bestowed on her poor father. His half-pay added to their comforts, but still he was obliged to work—to labour sometimes for the pleasure of making Madeleine’s father comfortable at the close of his life, and he was rewarded by the success of their exertions.
But the severity of the climate in winter and his laborious life were too much for his constitution, which had never recovered the effect of his wounds. He felt that his strength was declining; and the poor old father having died, last spring, Bertram became anxious to return to his own country. They had no longer any tie to Savoy, and Madeleine willingly acquiesced in his wishes and sold her little property; yet it gave her many a pang to part for ever with the place where she had been so happy with her father—a place so endeared to her by years of cheerful industry, and by the sympathy and kindness she had received from all the inhabitants.
Unfortunately, Bertram became so much worse on his journey, that they were frequently obliged to rest, and by the time they arrived in Gloucestershire they found their expenses had been so great that they should not have sufficient means to accomplish the remainder of their journey. Thus stopped by want of money as well as by illness, poor Madeleine was looking for some humble lodging, when that kind-hearted creature Mrs. Ando, prevailed on them to come to her house. He has repeatedly written to request his father would come to him, but till last Monday he received no answer. It appears that the old gentleman had been also very ill, and all his letters remained unopened. He is now expected every day—and a sad meeting it will be, for my aunt fears that his son is too ill to recover.
Mrs. Ando sent a messenger yesterday to tell my aunt that her poor patient very much wished to see her again. She instantly went, and they had a long conversation on religious subjects, which gave her heartfelt pleasure, his sentiments were so pious. He spoke in the most affecting manner of Madeleine’s cheerful and tender care; and added that having been separated from his father when very young, he had become careless and indifferent about religion;—for a soldier’s life is rather unfavourable to religious improvement; but that his excellent wife had perceived this, and with prudent caution had gently led him to think; her good sense and admirable example awakened his mind, and while he taught her the English language, she taught him in return the principles, the humility, and the practice of Christianity.
Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts meantime
Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.
To her he came to die, and every day
She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she prayed, to him her Bible read,
Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head;
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart she sighed; alone, she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
5th.—I was rather naughty yesterday, I did not walk out; and my uncle reproached me for it this morning. “If you shut yourself up every cold day, Bertha, you will never become more hardy than the stove plants from your own country, which would certainly be more ornamental, and more valuable, if they could be reconciled to our climate, and made to grow here in the open ground. And you, too, would be happier as well as stronger, if you were able to enjoy the out of door pleasures of winter as well as those of the fire-side.”
“Yes, uncle, I wish to do so, but I delayed till the day changed in hopes of having Caroline with me; the straight beech-walk is comfortably sheltered from the north-east wind, but then the high ditch prevents one from seeing any thing, and makes it a dull place without a companion.”
My uncle laughed at my wanting to have a view from my walk, and said, “Certainly it would have been pleasant to have had a companion; but for my own part, I often enjoy a solitary walk: it is, I think, a great advantage to accustom the mind to submit sometimes to solitude, and to look for pleasure from within. Suppose there be nothing to see, why should you be dull? Have you not memory and reflection for companions? Do not your various pursuits furnish you with matter for consideration? Study is absolutely useless, if you do not, by daily recalling what you have read, endeavour to class and arrange it in your mind; can you feel alone and dull when thus engaged, and is not that retired walk exactly suited for such employment? But, come with me, my dear,” he added, “and I will shew you sufficient to occupy both eyes and mind even in that dull place.”