CHAPTER XIII.
So impulsive, kind-hearted, and honest was Mrs. Huxtable, that we couldalways tell what was the next thing she was going to say or do. Even ather meals she contrived to be in a bustle, except on Sundays; but shegot through a great deal of work. On Sundays she put on, with her bestgown, an air of calm dignity which made her unhappy until it was off,which it was directly after the evening service. She seemed a verysensible woman, and whatever the merits of the case she sided alwayswith the weakest. The next morning we asked how it was she appeared notto expect us, as I had written and posted the letter myself on theprevious Saturday.
"For sure now," she replied, "and the papper scrawl coom'd on Monday;but us bain't girt scholards, and Varmer said most like 'twas theQueen's taxes, for there was her head upon it; so us put un in the bigmortar till Beany Dawe should come over, or us should go to church nextZunday, and passon would discoorse it for us. But"--and off sheran--"But her belongs to you now, Miss Clerer, seeing as how you've coomafter un."
So they had only a general idea that we were coming, and knew not whenit would be. The following day, Thomas Henwood arrived, bringing ourboxes in a vehicle called a "butt," which is a short and rudely madecart, used chiefly for carrying lime.
After unpacking our few embellishments, we set up a clumsy butcomfortable sofa for my mother, and tried to divert her sadness a littleby many a shift and device to garnish our narrow realm. We removed thehorrible print of "Death and the Lady," which was hung above thechimneypiece, and sundry daubs of our Lord and the Apostles, and a womanof Samaria with a French parasol, and Eli falling from a turnpike gateover the Great Western steamer. But these alterations were not madewithout some wistful glances from poor Mrs. Huxtable. At last, when Ibegan to nail up a simple sketch of the church at Vaughan St. Maryinstead of a noble representation of the Prodigal Son, wearing a whitehat with a pipe stuck under the riband, and weeping into a handkerchiefwith some horse upon it, the good dame could no longer repress herfeelings.
"Whai, Miss Clerer, Miss, dear art alaive, cheel, what be 'bout? Them'sthe smartest picters anywhere this saide of Coorn. Varmer gied a pan ofhogs' puddens for they, and a Chainey taypot and a Zunday pair ofcorderahoys. Why them'll shaine with the zun on 'um, laike a vield ofpoppies and charlock. But thic smarl pokey papper of yourn ha'ant nomore colour nor the track of a marly scrarly. A massy on us if Icouldn't walk a better picter than thic, with my pattens on in the zidersquash."
To argue with such a connoisseur would have been worse than useless; soI pacified her by hanging the rejected gems in her own little summerroom by the dairy. Our parlour began before long to look neat and evencomfortable. Of course the furniture was rough, but I care not much forupholstery, and am quite rude of French polish. My only fear was lestthe damp from the lime-ash floor should strike to my dear mother's feet,through the scanty drugget which covered it. The fire-place was brightand quaint, lined with old Dutch tiles, and the grey-washed walls wereless offensive to the eye than would have been a paper chosen by goodMrs. Huxtable. The pretty lattice window, budding even now withwoodbine, and impudent to the winds with myrtle, would have made amendsfor the meanest room in England. Before it lay a simple garden withsparry walks and bright-thatched hives, and down a dingle rich withtrees and a crystal stream, it caught a glimpse of the Bristol Channel.
Clara Vaughan, Volume 1 (of 3) Page 13
