“Indeed they are,” cried Josephine, laughing. “You shall visit my poultry-yard this morning, Ellen, and see what a collection I have. Dorking, Bucks County, Polish, Chinese, Java, etc., to say nothing of native hens to the manor born. And such broods of chickens—pretty little creatures!”
And breakfast passed very pleasantly, Mr. Bettyman making himself agreeable without being useful, until Josephine was ready to give her orders for the morning and show me her pretty place. To the poultry-yard we were going, sun-bonnets in hand, when Edwin mounted the steps, wearing a most unhappy look, and holding in the tips of his fingers, a something that seemed a conglomeration of mud, mire, and cloth.
“My dear Josy, do look at this! One of those excellent cup-towels in the ground—buried actually in the ground! This is really too bad! You should see to your servants—you seem to take no interest in any thing about your domestic affairs. Just see this towel!” and Mr. Bettyman contemplated it with a look of sorrow, as though it had been a deceased friend instead of the skeleton of a bit of crash. Isabel descended the steps and taking it from him, examined it in the four corners. At length she looked up, and the wonder is to me how she could preserve her gravity.
“Was your mother’s maiden name Brown?” asked she with such an innocent look!
“Why surely not, Isabel,” replied he, surprised. “Why you must know—what did you ask for?”
“Because this towel is marked Brown, printed in large letters, and as your name is Bettyman and Josy’s was Singleton, I cannot imagine to whom it belongs.”
“Oh! it must have fallen over the wall, Miss Isabel, and belongs next door. Mrs. Brown lives in there, and I expect it blew over with the wind and rain lately. I’ll wash it out and carry it home,” said the servant, as she took it from Isabel, who turned smilingly to Josephine, while Mr. Bettyman walked away a little disconcerted.
As for myself, I opened my eyes to twice their usual size, and pulled my long bonnet over them, to hide my wonder. While we were admiring Josy’s beautiful poultry, her husband came running toward us, and I dreaded some other muddy discovery; but it was to bid us good morning, and kiss his wife before he drove off to the city. As I remarked his sincere look of affection when he pressed his lips to her blooming cheek, I could not help sighing as I remembered how grieved she was at his reproach, “you take no interest in your domestic affairs.” He might speak kindly now, but he had spoiled her pleasure for the hour, and seemed to feel no extra gratitude for her perfect freedom from every thing like resentment. Her smile was so sweet and winning, that I felt like reminding him how little he deserved it, after his bêtises. She left us to get a basket for the eggs that were scattered in great profusion about the nice nests ranged along the side of the coop; and where the cackling and clucking of a hundred hens was a safe preventive against overhearing, I exclaimed to my companion,
“Isabel! what sort of a lusus naturæ is your Cousin Edwin? If it would not be considered offensive, I should offer him a petticoat, and make one long enough to cover his pantaloons and boots.”
“And he would do honor to it, Ellen,” was the reply. “This Miss Molly-mania of Edwin’s is the one spot that has risen on Josephine’s otherwise happy union. She is the loveliest woman I ever knew, so sweet and patient; and I feel so provoked at her husband that I often am afraid to do mischief by interfering. But I cannot help it! As ridiculous as it is—as it helps to make him—we cannot laugh at it, because it is an evil—a source of serious unhappiness in any household. And Josy bears it so nobly! And never smiles when at times I cannot contain my amusement even before him. I am afraid he is incurable, for if he is not content with her neatness and order, an angel’s efforts could not please him. I wish you would think of some cure for his disease.”