result of the water-party.
he only person in the boat, who was left for the boatman to save, was mistress glossop, the widow of a cheapside hairdresser in a much larger way of business than my father, with whom we were on very intimate terms. she was a woman of about forty-five, tall, bulky, and with a very heated face, which was the result of intemperance, not in drinking, but eating, as i have often heard her acknowledge. she was fond of everything nice, and had a habit of saying, “oh, i can’t resist this!” “i never can resist 37that!” which used to disgust me with her; and make me ready to say, “more shame for you if you cannot.” she and her husband had always been well to do; and now she was mistress of a large business, with court-patronage, such as it was, and a foreman and three ’prentices under her; besides keeping a professed cook, housemaid, and scullion. and whereas she and master glossop had always been companions and gossips of my father and mother, whose ages were suitable to them, yet, now she had cast off her weeds, she went mighty fine; and mark, who thought her sufficiently unagreeable, though he often went on errands to her, said he was sure she was casting about for a second. to a woman of her habit, the ducking she got was unlikely to be of much good; and as for her flame-coloured mantua, and pea-green 38mantle, they were ruined outright: however, she was very merry about it, and as we were all engaged to sup with her, would hear of no excuse. howbeit, my mother was too wet for doing anything but going home and to bed: my father would not leave her; hugh braidfoot said he would join us, but did not; and the end was, that mark and i, when we had dressed ourselves afresh and kept our engagement, found nobody to meet us but some cheapside shop-keepers who had not been on the water. and though they made very merry, and though there were lobsters, and pound-cake, and ducks, and green peas, and fried plum-pudding, and gooseberry pie, and other delicacies too numerous to mention, i had no mind to eat, but sat shivering, and scorching, and thinking of the water closing over me; and at length, before any one else was 39ready to leave, begged mistress glossop to let me wish her good-night.
mark, though he was in high spirits, came away with me, and very kindly said he feared i was the worse for the accident. and though he had been very talkative at the supper-table, yet as soon as we got into the open air we became as quiet as two judges, and walked home scarcely speaking a word, till we came to that last one, “good-night.”
i had taken cold, which, with a good deal of fever attending it, made me very poorly for some days; and my dear mother, who did not show it so much at first, had in fact taken her death-chill, though we knew it not till long afterwards. meantime, she kept about; i seeming at first the worst of the two, and sitting by the fire in a cloke, very chilly, though ’twas close upon the dog-days. 40violet armytage came over the way to see me; and saith she, “dear cherry, how well mark behaved! i shall think the better of him for it as long as i live!”
i felt i should do so too, but had no mind to speak much about it; and, my cold being heavy, and making me indisposed to talk, she soon went away. almost daily, however, she came across; and, when she did not, mark went at her desire to tell her how i was.
and so i got well; and just as i was fit for going out again, my dear mother’s illness became so apparent that i kept wholly to the house. at first we thought it troublesome rather than dangerous, and were not frightened; and, though i sat by her bed almost all day long, she would sometimes send me down to work below and keep an eye to the house. her illness 41subdued me a good deal; and mark was become unwontedly gentle and silent; so that, though we scarce saw each other save at meals, we said little; and yet i never felt him to be better company.
violet sent me word that unusual press of business in the shop kept her from coming over, but begged i would never let a day pass without sending her word how my mother was; which i did, though thinking, now and then, she might have just run over, if but for a minute.
one sultry evening, my mother being ready to compose herself to sleep, bade me sit below till she rang for me, as she was sure the room must be warm and close. it was so, in fact, and i was feeling a little faint, therefore was glad to sit at the open casement of our parlour behind the shop. the business of the day was done; my father was gossiping with 42hugh braidfoot next door; there was a pleasing confusion of distant sounds from the city and along the water; boatmen calling “yo, heave ho,” and singing snatches of boat-songs; the water trembling and murmuring among the arches, and the evening air feeling soft and reviving.
while i was thus sitting, all alone save 43for dolly in the kitchen, and master blower on the first story, mark comes in and gives me a posy, saying, “violet sends you these flowers:” and then remained, with his hand resting on the back of my chair.
i know not how long we thus remained, quite silent, and i conscious of great pleasure in his presence; till at last, for want of anything more important to say, i observed, “how pleasant the evening air is coming over the water!”
“very,” said he, without seeming to be thinking much about it: and again we were both quiet.
“cousin,” said he at length, in a very gentle voice,—which was not his usual way of addressing me, for in common he called me cherry,—
—“dear cousin, i have something to say to you”—and stopped.
44“what is it, mark?” said i, softly.
“we have lived long together,” began he again, faintly laughing, “and i never felt afraid of speaking to you, before—how odd it is that i should feel so, now!”
“what have you to be afraid about?” said i, looking up at him: on which he coloured and looked away; and i did the same, without knowing why.
“you have always been my friend,” resumed he, taking courage; “you will not be angry with me?”
“why should i?” said i. “is there anything to be angry about?”
“perhaps you may think so,” said he, “when you come to know all. dear cherry, i’m in love!” and laughed, and then was silent.
i never felt so perplexed what to say next. “i don’t see that is any matter of mine,” said i at length.
45“don’t you, though? but that depends upon whom i’m in love with!” said he, smiling. “if it were with anybody a hundred miles off, that you had never seen or heard of, you might say it was no matter of yours; but, cherry, she’s not one mile off! she’s the prettiest girl on the bridge!”
“then,” said i, turning scarlet as i spoke, “it must certainly be violet armytage!”
“it is!” cried he rapturously. “what a guesser you are!—dear cherry!”
oh! what a bound my heart gave; and then seemed to stop! for,—i’m only speaking to myself; to myself i may own the truth—i had not thought he meant violet!
“ah,” said he, after a long silence, which i was as unable as he was disinclined to break, “i dare say you’ve seen 46it all along—i may have told you no news—you are such a good secret-keeper, cherry!”
i could not yet say a word—he had taken my hand and wrung it; and i gently pressed his in sign of sympathy; it was all i could do, but it was quite enough.
“how kind you are!” said he. “what do you think my uncle will say?”
“what do you think her father will say?” said i faintly.
“we are not going to tell him just yet,” returned he, “nor yet her mother.”
“that sounds bad, mark——”
“nay, cherry, you know how crazy the old lady is to have braidfoot for her son-in-law; she’ll find in time he won’t come forward, and violet will take care he shall not, for she will give him no encouragement; but, till her mother 47finds it won’t do, there’s no use in my speaking, for you know i have nothing to marry upon, yet.”
“when shall you have?” said i.
“when?” repeated he, looking a little annoyed. “why, some of these days, as the saying is. you know i am thorough master of my business now, have served my time, receive good wages, and am very useful to your father. who knows but that, as time goes on, he’ll take me for a partner, and finally retire from business?”
“ah, mark, so little comes in now, that he will have nothing to retire upon. we can but just go on as we do.”
“well,” said he, laughing, with a little embarrassment, “perhaps mistress glossop will take me into partnership. i’m a favourite in that quarter.”
48“mistress glossop! oh, mark!”
“nay, cherry, don’t you see, if old master armytage takes a fancy to me, he may make it worth her while to do so, for the sake of his ‘sweet wi-let’?”
“ah, mark, master armytage is himself in a very small way of business—nothing at all to compare with mistress glossop’s. we love and esteem them for old acquaintance sake, but she looks quite down upon them. there are so many small haberdashers on the bridge!”
“well, the smaller he is, the less reason he will have to look down upon me. i suppose you don’t mean to say, cherry, that no young man thinks of marriage unless he is better off than i am?”
“so far from it, mark, that i cannot 49see what right the armytages have to expect a better match for their daughter; and therefore i think it a pity there should be any concealment.”
“marry come up!” cries he, “i would rather draw a double-tooth for a fiery dragon than tell master armytage i was suitor for his sweet wi-let!”
“why, you will have to tell him sooner or later,” said i.
“not ... not if we wait till he dies,” said mark.
“dies! oh, mark!”——
“it’s ill, reckoning on dead men’s shoes, i own,” said he, looking rather ashamed.
“it’s unfeeling and indelicate in the highest degree,” said i. “why should not violet tell her father?”
“ah, cherry, she will not; and what’s more, she has made me solemnly promise 50that i will not, at present; so you see there’s no more to be said. we must just go on, hoping and waiting, as many young couples have done before us; knowing that we love one another—and is not that, for a while at least, enough?”
i faintly said, “yes.”
“you don’t speak so heartily, though, as i thought you would,” said he. “don’t you sympathize with us, cherry?”
i looked up at him with a smile, though my lip quivered, and said fervently, “oh, yes!”
“that’s right!” said he gladly. “now i shall feel that, whether things go rough or smooth with me, you take cordial part in them. god bless you, cherry! and if ever i’m in any little difficulty with violet, i shall come to you for advice and help, rely upon 51it!—hark, there is your mother’s bell.”
i ran off, glad to leave him; and found my mother coughing, and in want of some water. when she had recovered herself, and composed herself again to sleep, i sat by her casement, looking out on the same scene i had been gazing on an hour before; but oh! with what different feelings!
the trouble of my soul taught me how much i had cared for him, what expectations i had nourished of him, what disappointment i felt in him. all was changed, all was shivered: never to be built up again! and yet no one knew what hopes were wrecked within me.—the world was going on just the same!
i thought how kind my father and mother had been to him, and how likely it was they had hoped he would marry 52me, and how certainly, in that case, my father would have shared his business with him.
i thought how dull and forlorn a place the world would now seem to me, but resolved they should never know it. i would go on, in all respects, just the same.
large tears were flowing unrestrained down my cheeks, when master blower’s bell, having been once rung already, was now pulled again with some impatience; and as dolly had stepped out, i answered it myself, and found he wanted his supper, which he took at no particular time, but just whenever he was inclined to lay aside his reading or writing. i might have spread the table for him nineteen times out of twenty, without his ever looking at me; however, on this occasion he happened to have nothing 53better to do, and observed i was in trouble.
“child,” said he, “is thy mother worse?”
“no, sir, i humbly thank you.”
“then,” says he, “something else has happened to grieve thee, for thine eyes are red with weeping. what is it?”
but i could not tell him.
“well,” said he, after a pause, “young girls may have their griefs that they don’t care to tell about.—man is born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward. and sometimes those griefs we show least, we feel most. but remember, my good girl, (for a good girl, cherry, thou art!) that there is one to whom we may always carry our burthens; one who can ease them, too, either by giving us strength to bear them, or by 54removing them altogether.—go pray, my child, go pray!”
and i did as he bade me, and found balm for a bleeding heart. he was a good and wise man, was master blower.
when my mother awoke, she said, “cherry, i don’t know what has come over me, but i feel a peace and a quiet past expressing ... i should not wonder if you have been praying for me, my child.”
i pressed her hand and said, “yes, mother, i have ... and for myself too.”
“this illness of mine may be a blessing in disguise to us both,” said she after a pause—“it has taught me your value, cherry.”
“what a funny story,” resumed she presently, quietly smiling, “might be written by a clever hand about a person who 55always fancied herself undervalued! ‘the undervalued woman!’—there are a good many such in the world, i fancy; poor things, it seems no joke to them. people who have that impression of themselves generally take such silly methods to prevent their being overlooked! they had better make themselves of real importance, by being useful and thoughtful for others. they had better take pattern by you, cherry!”
how dear, a mother’s praise! especially when so seldom bestowed!
