“Lecture or preach, it’s all one; only the parson takes his text from the Bible to hold forth upon, and these agents, employed by the Canada Company, say what they can out of their own heads. The object in both is to make money. I thought the Leaftenant had been too long in a colony to be caught by chaff.”
“My husband can judge for himself, Captain Kitson. He does not need the advice, or the interference of a third person,” said Flora, colouring again. And this time she felt really angry; but there was no shaking the old man off.
“To be sure—to be sure,” said her tormentor, without taking the smallest notice of her displeasure; “people are all wise in their own eyes. But what is Canada to you, my dear? A fine settler’s wife you will make; nervous and delicate, half the time confined to your bed with some complaint or other. And then, when you are well, the whole blessed day is wasted in reading and writing, and coddling up the babby. I tell you that sort of business will not answer in a rough country like Canada. I was there often enough during the American war, and I know that the country won’t suit you,—no, nor you won’t suit the country.”
Finding that Mrs. Lyndsay made no answer to this burst of eloquence, he continued, in a coaxing tone—
“Now, just for once in your life, my dear, be guided by older and wiser heads than your own, and give up this foolish project altogether. Let well alone. You are happy and comfortable where you are. This is a nice cottage, quite large enough for your small family. Fine view of the sea from these front windows, and all ready furnished to your hand,—nothing to find of your own but plate and linen; a pump, wood-house and coal-bin, and other conveniences,—all under one roof. An oven—”
“Stop,” cried the old lady, “you need say nothing about that, Kitson. The oven is good for nothing. It has no draught; and you cannot put a fire into it without filling the house with smoke.”
“Pshaw!” muttered the old man. “A little contrivance would soon put that to rights.”
“I tried my best,” retorted the wife, “and I could never bake a loaf of bread in it, fit to eat.”
“We all know what bad bread you make, Mrs. Kitson,” said the captain. “I know that it can be baked in; so hold your tongue, Madam! and don’t contradict me again. At any rate, there’s not a smoky chimney in the house, which after all is a less evil than a cross wife. The house, I say, is complete from the cellar to the garret. And then, the rent—why, what is it? A mere trifle—too cheap by one half,—only twenty-five pounds per annum. I don’t know what possessed me, to let it so low; and then, my dear, the privilege you enjoy in my beautiful flower-garden and lawn. There is not many lodging-houses in the town could offer such advantages, and all for the paltry consideration of twenty-five pounds a-year.”
“The cottage is pretty, and the rent moderate, Captain,” said Flora. “We have no fault to find, and you have not found us difficult to please.”