'Some wishes crossed my mind and dimly cheered it,
And one or two poor melancholy pleasures,
Each in the pale unwarming light of hope,
Silvering its flimsy wing, flew silent by--
Moths in the moonbeam!'
COLERIDGE.
The next morning brought Margaret a letter from Edith. It was
affectionate and inconsequent like the writer. But the affection
was charming to Margaret's own affectionate nature; and she had
grown up with the inconsequence, so she did not perceive it. It
was as follows:-
'Oh, Margaret, it is worth a journey from England to see my boy!
He is a superb little fellow, especially in his caps, and most
especially in the one you sent him, you good, dainty-fingered,
persevering little lady! Having made all the mothers here
envious, I want to show him to somebody new, and hear a fresh set
of admiring expressions; perhaps, that's all the reason; perhaps
it is not--nay, possibly, there is just a little cousinly love
mixed with it; but I do want you so much to come here, Margaret!
I'm sure it would be the very best thing for Aunt Hale's health;
everybody here is young and well, and our skies are always blue,
and our sun always shines, and the band plays deliciously from
morning till night; and, to come back to the burden of my ditty,
my baby always smiles.
I am constantly wanting you to draw him
for me, Margaret. It does not signify what he is doing; that very
thing is prettiest, gracefulest, best. I think I love him a great
deal better than my husband, who is getting stout, and
grumpy,--what he calls "busy." No! he is not. He has just come in
with news of such a charming pic-nic, given by the officers of
the Hazard, at anchor in the bay below. Because he has brought in
such a pleasant piece of news, I retract all I said just now. Did
not somebody burn his hand for having said or done something he
was sorry for? Well, I can't burn mine, because it would hurt me,
and the scar would be ugly; but I'll retract all I said as fast
as I can.
Cosmo is quite as great a darling as baby, and not a
bit stout, and as un-grumpy as ever husband was; only, sometimes
he is very, very busy. I may say that without love--wifely
duty--where was I?--I had something very particular to say, I
know, once. Oh, it is this--Dearest Margaret!--you must come and
see me; it would do Aunt Hale good, as I said before. Get the
doctor to order it for her. Tell him that it's the smoke of
Milton that does her harm. I have no doubt it is that, really.
Three months (you must not come for less) of this delicious
climate--all sunshine, and grapes as common as blackberries,
would quite cure her. I don't ask my uncle'--(Here the letter
became more constrained, and better written; Mr. Hale was in the
corner, like a naughty child, for having given up his
living.)--'because, I dare say, he disapproves of war, and
soldiers, and bands of music; at least, I know that many
Dissenters are members of the Peace Society, and I am afraid he
would not like to come; but, if he would, dear, pray say that
Cosmo and I will do our best to make him happy; and I'll hide up
Cosmo's red coat and sword, and make the band play all sorts of
grave, solemn things; or, if they do play pomps and vanities, it
shall be in double slow time.