“SOWING THE WIND.”
The cottage where the Geralds lived was almost the entire inheritance that had fallen to Miss Pembroke from those large estates which, it seemed, should have been hers; but her wishes were submitted to her circumstances with a calmness that looked very like contentment. Mother Chevreuse called it Christian resignation, and she may have been at least partly right. But it was contrary to Miss Pembroke’s disposition to fret over irreparable misfortunes, or even to exert herself very much to overcome difficulties. She liked the easy path, and always chose it when conscience did not forbid. She made the best of her circumstances, therefore, and lived a quiet and pleasant, if not a very delightful, life. Mrs. Gerald was friendly; their little household was sufficiently well arranged and perfectly homelike; they had agreeable visitors, and plenty of outside gaiety. On the whole, there seemed to be no reason why anything but marriage should separate the owner from her tenants.
Of marriage there was no present prospect. Several gentlemen had made those preliminary advances which are supposed to have this end in view, but had been discouraged by the cool friendliness with which they were received. The wide-open eyes, surprised and inquiring, had nipped their little sentimental speeches in the bud, and quite abashed their killing glances. Miss Pembroke had no taste for this small skirmishing, in which so many men and women fritter away first what little refinement of feeling nature may have gifted them with, and afterward their belief in the refinement of others; and not one true and brave wooer had come yet.
People had various explanations to give for this insensibility, some fancying that the young woman was ambitious, and desirous to find one who would be able to give her such a position as that once occupied by Mrs. Carpenter; others that she had a vocation for a religious life; but she gave no account of her private motives and feelings, and perhaps could not have explained them to herself. She certainly could not have told precisely what she did want, though her mind was quite clear as to what she did not want. Mr. Lawrence Gerald’s real or imaginary love for her did not, after the first few months, cause her the slightest embarrassment, as it did not inspire her with the least respect. The only strong and faithful attachment of which he was capable was one for himself, and his superficial affections were so numerous as to be worthy of very little compassion, however they might be slighted.
Sweet-brier Cottage, as it was called, might, then, be called rather a happy little nest.
Nothing could be prettier than the apartment occupied by the owner of the house, though, since she had her own peculiar notions regarding the relative importance of things, many might have found the mingling of simplicity and costliness in her furnishing rather odd. An upholsterer would have pronounced the different articles in the rooms to be “out of keeping” with each other, just as he would have criticised a picture where the artist had purposely slighted the inferior parts. The deal floors were bare, save for two or three strips of carpeting in summer, and sealskin mats in winter; the prim curtains that hung in straight flutings, without a superfluous fold, over the windows, around the bed, and before the book-case, just clearing the floor, were of plain, thin muslin, plainly hemmed, and had no more luxurious fastenings than brass knobs and blue worsted cords to loop them back; but a connoisseur would have prized the few engravings on the walls, the candlesticks of pure silver in the shrine before the prie-dieu, and the statuette of our Lady that stood there, a work of art. In cleanliness, too, Miss Pembroke was lavish, and one poor woman was nearly supported by what she received for keeping the draperies snowy white and crisp, and wiping away every speck of dust from the immaculate bower. No broom nor brush was allowed to enter there.
“It is such a pleasure to come here,” Mother Chevreuse said one day when she came to visit Honora; “everything is so pure and fresh.”
“It is such a pleasure to have you come!” was the response; and the young woman seated her visitor in the one blue chintz arm-chair the chamber contained, kissed her softly on the cheek, removed her bonnet and shawl, placed a palm-leaf fan in her hand, then, seated lowly beside her, looked so pretty and so pleased that it was charming to see her. These two women were very fond of each other, and in their private intercourse quite like mother and daughter. Theirs was one of those sweet affections to which the mere being together is delightful, though there may be nothing of importance said; as two flames united burn more brightly, though no fuel be added. It might have been said that it was the blending of two harmonious spheres; and probably the idea could not be better expressed. The sense of satisfying companionship, of entire sympathy and confidence, the gentle warmth produced in the heart by that presence—these are enough without words, be they never so wise and witty. Yet one must feel that wit and wisdom of some kind are there. There is all the difference in the world between a full and an empty silence, between a trifling that covers depth, and a trifling that betrays shallowness.
Our two friends talked together, then, quite contentedly about very small matters, touching now and then on matters not so insignificant. And it chanced that their talk drifted in such a direction that, after a grave momentary pause, Miss Honora lifted her eyes to her friend’s face, and, following out their subject, said seriously: “Mother, I am troubled about men.”
But for the gravity that had fallen on both, Mother Chevreuse would have smiled at this naïve speech; as it was, she asked quietly: “In what way, my dear?”