"And Mr. Reddy had excellent prospects," said Eliza, "although perhaps nothing very tangible at present. Then there was Albert Gore, to whom, one must admit, Maud gave every encouragement, and we had begun to think it quite hopeful; but just at the end she discovered that she could not care for any one called Albert, which was too silly."
"She might have called him Bertie," I suggested.
"Yes," said Eliza eagerly; "and you see, none of us hope or expect to marry a man who has not some of these little drawbacks, so I really do not see why Maud should expect it."
Five matrimonial alliances in one house are, perhaps, not easily arranged in a quiet country neighbourhood, yet there is always a hopeful tone about these family discussions, and it is very common to hear the Miss Jamiesons relate at length what they intend to do when they are married.
And there is yet another maiden to be arranged for in the little house; Mettie is the Jamiesons' cousin who lives with them, and I believe that what appeals to me most strongly in this unknown provincial family is their kindness to the little shrunken, tiresome cousin who shares their home. Mettie is like some strange little bright bird, utterly devoid of intelligence, and yet with the alertness of a sparrow. Her beady eyes are a-twinkle in a restless sort of way all day long, and her large thin nose has always the appearance of having the skin stretched unpleasantly tightly across it. The good Jamiesons never seem to be ruffled by her presence among them, and this forbearance certainly commands one's respect. Mettie travesties the Jamiesons in every particular. She has adopted their matrimonial views with interest, and she utters little platitudes upon the subject with quite a surprising air of sapience. One avoids being left alone with Mettie whenever it is possible to do so, for, gentle creature though she is, her remarks are so singularly devoid of interest that one is often puzzled to understand why they are made. Yet I see one or other of the Jamiesons walk to the village with her every day—her little steps pattering beside their giant strides, while the bird-like tongue chirps gaily all the way.
Every one in our little neighbourhood walks into the village every day; it is our daily dissipation; and frivolous persons have been known to go twice or three times. On days when Palestrina thinks that I am getting moped she steals the contents of my tobacco-jar, and then says, without blushing, that she has discovered that my tobacco is all finished, and that we had better walk into the village together and get some more. When I am in a grumpy mood, I reply: "It's all right, thank you; I have plenty upstairs." But it generally ends in my taking the walk with my sister.
Our house is pleasantly situated where, by peeping through a tangle of shrubs and trees, we can see the lazy traffic of the highroad that leads to the village. Strangers pause outside the screen of evergreens sometimes and peep between the branches to see the quaint gables of the old house. Its walls have turned to a soft yellow colour with old age, and its beams are of oak, gray with exposure to the storms of many winters.
"This old hall of yours is much too dark," Mrs. Fielden said, when she came to call the other day muffled up in velvet and fur. She lighted the dull afternoon by something that is radiant and holiday-like about her, and left us envying her for being so pretty and so young and gay. "Oh, I know," she said in her whimsical way, "that it is Jacobean and early Tudor and all sorts of delightful things, but it isn't very cheerful, you know. I'm so glad it is near the road; I think if I built a house I should like it to be in Mansion House Square, or inside a railway station. Don't you love spending a night at a station hotel? I always ask for a room overlooking the platform, for I like the feeling of having the trains running past me all night. I love your house really," she said, "only I'm afraid it preaches peace and resignation and all those things which I consider so wrong."
Since I have been laid up I have been recommended to carve wood, to beat brass, to stuff sofa-cushions, and to play the zither; but these things do not amuse me much. It was Mrs. Fielden who suggested that I should write a diary.
"You must grumble," she said, raising her pretty eyebrows in the affected way she has. "It wouldn't be human if you didn't; so why not write a diary, and have a real good grumble on paper every night before you go to bed. Of course, if I were in your place I should grumble all day instead, and go to sleep at night. But I'm not the least bit a resigned person. If anything hurts me I scream at once; and if there is anything I don't like doing I leave it alone. Palestrina," she said to my sister, "don't let him be patient; it's so bad for him."