"Man-size in marble (1893) by E_ Nesbit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nesbit Edith)

glorious, and settled down into work sooner than we ourselves expected. I was
never tired of sketching the view and the wonderful cloud effects from the open
lattice, and Laura would sit at the table and write verses about them, in which
I mostly played the part of foreground.
We got a tall old peasant woman to do for us. Her face and figure were good,
though her cooking was of the homeliest; but she understood all about gardening,
and told us all the old names of the coppices and cornfields, and the stories of
the smugglers and highwaymen, and, better still, of the "things that walked,"
and of the "sights" which met one in lonely glens of a starlight night. She was
a great comfort to us, because Laura hated housekeeping as much as I loved
folklore, and we soon came to leave all the domestic business to Mrs. Dorman,
and to use her legends in little magazine stories which brought in the jingling
guinea.
We had three months of married happiness, and did not have a single quarrel.
One October evening I had been down to smoke a pipe with the doctor — our only
neighbour — a pleasant young Irishman. Laura had stayed at home to finish a
comic sketch of a village episode for the Monthly Marplot. I left her laughing
over her own jokes, and came in to find her a crumpled heap of pale muslin
weeping on the window seat.
"Good heavens, my darling, what's the matter?" I cried, taking her in my arms.
She leaned her little dark head against my shoulder and went on crying. I had
never seen her cry before — we had always been so happy, you see — and I felt
sure some frightful misfortune had happened.
"What is the matter? Do speak."
"It's Mrs. Dorman," she sobbed.
"What has she done?" I inquired, immensely relieved.
"She says she must go before the end of the month, and she says her niece is
ill; she's gone down to see her now, but I don't believe that's the reason,
because her niece is always ill. I believe someone has been setting her against
us. Her manner was so queer ——"
"Never mind, Pussy," I said; "whatever you do, don't cry, or I shall have to
cry too, to keep you in countenance, and then you'll never respect your man
again!"
She dried her eyes obediently on my handkerchief, and even smiled faintly.
"But you see," she went on, "it is really serious, because these village
people are so sheepy, and if one won't do a thing you may be quite sure none of
the others will. And I shall have to cook the dinners, and wash up the hateful
greasy plates; and you'll have to carry cans of water about, and clean the boots
and knives — and we shall never have any time for work, or earn any money, or
anything. We shall have to work all day, and only be able to rest when we are
waiting for the kettle to boil!"
I represented to her that even if we had to perform these duties, the day
would still present some margin for other toils and recreations. But she refused
to see the matter in any but the greyest light. She was very unreasonable, my
Laura, but I could not have loved her any more if she had been as reasonable as
Whately.
"I'll speak to Mrs. Dorman when she comes back, and see if I can't come to
terms with her," I said. "Perhaps she wants a rise in her screw. It will be all
right. Let's walk up to the church."
The church was a large and lonely one, and we loved to go there, especially