SUSPICIONS.
Lottie had proceeded more than half of her way to Axe before her mind
could realize her strange position, and the difficulties in which it must
involve her. Her first thought had been of her father, her next of her
young mistress; but every step that Lottie now took seemed to open to her
a new complication of troubles. She had lost her place, and how could
she expect to find a new one while she was utterly unable to explain why
she had so suddenly left the last? What should she say to Mr. Eardley,
who had taken such fatherly care to provide for her welfare? Poor Lottie
became so utterly perplexed by her troubles, her first secret weighed
on her frank honest nature as such an intolerable chain, that she could
hardly think of physical weariness or discomfort, though the distance to
Axe was long to be traversed by a fasting girl; and ere Lottie came in
sight of the quaint little town, a shower which wet her clothes through
and through.
The world was beginning to show signs of being astir as Lottie entered
the High Street of Axe; tradesmen’s boys were taking down their shutters,
the milkmaid was passing with her pails; the rain had ceased, and the
clear morning sun was gleaming on the windows of the houses.
“Why, Lottie Stone, what ever brings you here at this ’ere hour of the
day?” exclaimed Mrs. Green, the cobbler’s stout wife, over whose little
shop Deborah had her lodging.
Lottie muttered something, she knew not what, as she hurried through the
shop. She ran up the steep dark staircase, and entered the room of her
mother, whom she found in bonnet and shawl, with an old carpet-bag in
her hand, as if about to set out on a journey. Deborah started at the
unexpected entrance of her daughter, all wet with the rain, and flushed
with excitement and the fatigue of a long, weary walk.
“O mother, here, here’s for father!” exclaimed Lottie, eagerly holding
out the five sovereigns which Mr. Gritton had given her.
“It is from God!” cried Deborah; “He has sent it—praise be to His
goodness! Lottie, I’ve scarce a minute to tell you of it, for I must be
off to catch the train, but I’m a-going to Southampton myself.”
“To Southampton!” echoed Lottie in surprise.
“Yes; there was another letter yesterday, not from my poor Abner,
but from his landlord: your father’s worse again—very ill; I’ve been
a-borrowing, and begging, and scraping, and I’ve just got money enough
for the journey; but these here five pounds have come as a blessing from
Heaven! Mrs. Green has promised to do the ironing, and to tidy up things
while I’m away—”
“She need do nothing; I’m here, I’ve left my place,” said Lottie.
“Left your place!” exclaimed Deborah, dropping on the table the five gold
pieces which her daughter had brought.
“Left your place!” repeated Mrs. Green, who had followed Lottie up the
stairs, and who now turned a very inquisitive look on the money which had
so unexpectedly and unaccountably been added to her neighbour’s little
store.
Mrs. Stone had no time for questioning, though Lottie’s few words had
laid a fresh burden of care on her grief-worn spirit. On Mrs. Green’s
informing her that “she’d better be off sharp, or she’d miss the train,”
Deborah caught up her money and her carpet-bag, bade a hurried good-bye
to her daughter and her son, and hastened off to the station. Mrs. Green
remained in the little room, determined, as she said to herself, “to get
to the bottom of the business.”
“I say, Lottie,” she observed to the weary girl, who was taking off her
wet bonnet and cloak, “was it you as brought them ’ere sovereigns to your
mother?”
“Yes,” said the unsuspicious Lottie, wishing heartily that the stout
landlady would go and leave her to rest and collect her thoughts.
“You’ve hardly earned ’em yet as wages, I take it.” The shrewd, sharp,
questioning look of the woman put the young girl on her guard.
“How did you manage to get them, eh?” pursued Mrs. Green, peering into
the face of Lottie with an expression of suspicion which covered that
face in a moment with a scarlet flush of indignation.
“I can’t tell you—what is it to you?—I got them honestly, you may be sure
of that,” stammered forth Lottie, as she pushed back the black hair from
her heated cheeks.
“Did your master give ’em to you? he’s not the kind of man for that sort
of thing, or the world does him injustice.”
“Mrs. Green, would you be so kind as to leave us for a little,” said
Lottie desperately; “I am very, very, very tired, and—;” she knew not how
to finish her sentence.
The cobbler’s wife did not seem in the least inclined to go. She shook
her head gravely, looked hard at the girl, and then shook her head again.
“Better be open at once, Lottie Stone, you know I’m your friend; I know
all about your father, poor man! If you’ve been a bit tempted, and—”
[Illustration: LOTTIE AND MRS. GREEN.]
“The money is honestly mine—every penny of it—how dare you say such
things?” exclaimed the indignant girl.
“Well, then, you’ve only to tell the simple truth how you came by it;
there’s nothing to flare up about,” said Mrs. Green, putting her stout
arms akimbo.
“I’m not going to tell nothing; I want to be left quiet,” cried Lottie,
who felt much inclined to burst into a passion of tears; while her simple
brother looked on in surprise, rubbing his shock of hair, as he was wont
to do when perplexed.
A third time Mrs. Green shook her head; solemnly, ominously she shook
it. “Well,” she muttered, “if girls will behave like that, after all the
schooling, and praying, and preaching, and—;” the rest of the observation
was unheard by the Stones, as their landlady had left the room as she
uttered it, slamming the door behind her. Lottie knew by her manner that
the cobbler’s wife was offended; and was convinced that within an hour
the story of the five sovereigns would be spread all over Axe, as was
already that of Abner’s arrival at Southampton, Deborah, in her efforts
to procure money for her journey, having found it impossible to obey her
husband’s injunction of secrecy.
“Lottie, how _did_ you get all that money?” asked her brother, as soon as
Mrs. Green’s heavy clumping step was heard descending the stair.
“Oh, don’t you be a-worritting me too, Steady!” exclaimed Lottie, calling
the lad by a name which Arthur Madden had given to him in the class, and
which had clung to him, from its appropriateness, till it had almost
superseded his own.
Steady was not wont to “worrit” any one, and least of all the sister
to whose brighter intelligence he had habitually looked up through his
clouded boyhood, and whom he heartily loved. He was easily silenced, but
not easily relieved. He sat down by the casement to his usual occupation
of cutting pegs, but ever and anon a heavy sigh came from the poor
youth’s breast.
“You’re troubled about father?” asked Lottie, who was laying out the
rough-dried linen which she was about to iron for her mother.
“I warn’t a-thinking of father, but of that money,” replied the lad, in
his slow, measured drawl: he had difficulty in putting even the most
simple thought into words.
“Steady, surely _you_ know me, _you_ can trust me!” cried Lottie, with a
swelling heart.
“I does trust you,” said the lad emphatically, “but other folk won’t;”
and with another sigh he relapsed into silence.
Very sadly Lottie pursued her occupation of ironing. “Oh,” thought she,
“I wish that I could smooth away all these difficulties, as I press
down the creases out of this linen! Father ill—Mr. Arthur dying—mother
away—and then this dreadful, dreadful promise! Oh, that I never had made
it!”
“Here’s Mr. Eardley a-coming,” said young Stone, looking out of the
window.
For the first time the sound of her pastor’s name was unwelcome to
Lottie, for the first time in her life she dreaded an interview with
the clergyman. What could she say to him, how explain to him what must
appear so mysterious and strange?
Mr. Eardley crossed the road, and did not, as Lottie earnestly hoped,
pass the door of the cobbler’s shop. She heard his foot on the stair, his
tap at the door of the room. Lottie laid down her iron, courtesied on
the entrance of the clergyman, and remained with her eyes fixed on the
ground, her fingers nervously twitching the linen which lay on the table
beside her. She was not sufficiently collected to think of offering her
pastor a chair.
“Lottie, I am sorry to hear that you have left your place,” said Mr.
Eardley. “You seemed to be so happy and contented when I spoke to you
last Sunday, that I hoped that you would remain for many years at the
Lodge, and become in time a valuable servant.” Mr. Eardley’s address was
fatherly and kind, but Lottie’s only reply was in the big tears which
rolled slowly down her flushed cheeks.
“Come, my child, speak frankly to one who has your true welfare at heart.
Did you displease your lady? or had you some little difference with your
fellow-servant?”
Mr. Eardley paused for an answer, but no answer came.
“O Lottie, speak out!” cried her brother, who had a child-like faith in
the wisdom as well as the kindness of their pastor.
Mr. Eardley was both perplexed and distressed by the strange reserve
shown by one whose disposition he had hitherto found clear as daylight.
He had heard in an exaggerated form the story of the money which Lottie
had brought from Wildwaste, and very painful suspicions began to arise
in his mind. Yet the clergyman shrank at first from saying a word that
might appear like a charge of dishonesty against one whose character had
hitherto been without a stain.
“What did your lady say to your leaving her?”
“Nothing,” was trembling upon the lips of the girl, but Lottie pressed
them together, and kept silent. She was aware that if by answering
questions she were led into telling anything, she would gradually be
drawn into telling all; it was only by preserving silence that she could
possibly preserve the secret which she had solemnly promised to keep.
“Lottie, why don’t you speak?” cried Steady in real distress.
“Miss Gritton appears to be so gentle and kind,” pursued the clergyman.
“She’s an angel! I’d die for her!” interrupted Lottie, fairly breaking
down, and bursting into a fit of loud sobbing.
“Do you not think that, if you have displeased her, she might be
persuaded to overlook a fault, and take you back?” suggested Mr. Eardley,
glad that at least the girl’s obstinate silence was broken.
“I can’t go back!” sobbed Lottie.
“And wherefore not?” inquired Mr. Eardley.
“Lottie, do, do speak,” pleaded her brother.
The poor girl was in bitter distress. A false idea of honour has led many
a duellist to face the fire of an enemy, but never did the most nervous
spirit more shrink from such an ordeal than did that of the little
servant-maid from that which she now had to pass through. Influenced by
the highest sense of honour—conscientious respect for a promise—Lottie
stood the mark of questions, each of which seemed to strike her in the
tenderest part. She had more than filial reverence for her pastor: to
stand well in his favour, to do credit to his care, had been one of the
highest objects of her ambition; to grieve, displease, disappoint him,
was misery to which she could hardly have believed it possible that she
should ever be exposed. Mr. Eardley, on his part, found the interview
very painful. He had regarded Lottie Stone as one of the most promising
girls under his pastoral charge; she was so simple-minded, affectionate,
and pious; he could have trusted her with money uncounted; were she to
prove ungrateful and unworthy, in whom could he henceforth trust? The
clergyman was very patient and tender, but he was also very faithful.
For more than an hour he stood in that little room, plying the silent,
miserable girl with questions that put her to the torture, appealing
to her reason, her affections, her conscience; exhorting, reproving,
entreating—doing all that lay in his power to overcome her inexplicable
reserve. Mr Eardley saw that Lottie’s character, that most precious
of earthly possessions, was at stake; that if she continued silent, a
merciless world would believe the worst. He explained this again and
again; and Lottie, in anguish of soul, felt how true was every word
which he uttered. And yet, had she not promised before God? was it not
better to endure suspicions than to incur sin? Not all the efforts of her
pastor, backed by the entreaties of her simple-hearted brother, could
force the poor girl from the position to which conscience had fastened
her, like a baited creature fixed to the stake.
At length, disappointed and disheartened, Mr. Eardley took his leave,
promising, however, soon to return. Lottie wrung her hands in silent
misery as she heard the door close behind him. “There,” she thought,
“goes the kindest, most generous of friends, wearied out at last, and
thinking me an ungrateful and wicked girl. Oh, I could have borne
anything better than this!”
Lottie was not to have even a breathing-space of relief. Not five minutes
after the departure of Mr. Eardley, the baronet’s carriage drove up to
the door of the cobbler’s shop, with Isa and her cousin within. Its
approach was announced to Lottie by her brother’s exclamation, “Here
comes your mistress a-looking arter ye now!”
“I think all this will drive me mad!” cried Lottie, pressing both her
hands to her burning temples.
Isa had been much surprised, and even alarmed, on being informed by
Hannah at an early hour that morning that “that there girl Lottie” had
“run away without saying a word to nobody; taken her bundle, and gone
clean off.” Isa could in no way account for the sudden departure of
her young servant, except by imagining that she had taken offence at
something, and that perhaps something wild and gipsy-like in her nature
corresponded with her somewhat gipsy-like appearance.
“To go without saying a word to me, kind and indulgent as I ever have
been, seems so strange, so ungrateful,” observed Isa to her brother, when
she mentioned to him at breakfast a fact of which he had had much earlier
notice than herself.
“No accounting for the vagaries of a raw, untutored village rustic,”
observed Gaspar, applying to his snuff-box; and he was ungenerous enough
to add, in order to cover his own confusion, “You had better count up the
spoons.”
“I could answer for Lottie’s honesty,” said Isa.
So could Gaspar Gritton, for he had seen it put to the proof; he had seen
the “raw, untutored village rustic” withstand a temptation under which
he, an educated man, calling himself a gentleman, had basely succumbed.
But Gaspar felt himself placed in a position of difficulty. He would
probably have at once told his sister all the circumstances connected
with Lottie’s dismissal, had it not been for Isa’s having spoken to him
on the subject of the _Orissa_. Gaspar shrank from avowing to one who,
as he knew, suspected _his_ honesty, that he actually had a large sum of
money concealed in a vault.
“What could have induced the girl to take such a step?” said Isa,
following the current of her own thoughts. “Hannah is as much in the dark
as ourselves.”
“Really,” observed Gaspar peevishly, “the subject is not worth the
trouble of considering. Such an insignificant cipher may go, or stay, or
hang herself; it matters not the turn of a straw to us.”
A feeling of indignation swelled the heart of Isa, and it cost her an
effort to give it no outward expression. Isa was not one of those who
regard the humbler members of a household as mere pieces of furniture,
to be discarded when faulty, or neglected when worn out, without a
thought or a care. She looked upon them as fellow-Christians and
fellow-immortals, over whom the position of master or mistress gives
an influence for which an account must one day be rendered. Added to
this, Lottie’s simplicity, warmth of heart, and the knowledge of her
early trials, had engaged in her behalf the kindly interest of her young
mistress. Isa’s anxiety on account of her run-away servant was not only a
matter of conscience, but a matter of feeling also.
After some minutes of silence, Isa exclaimed, as if she had suddenly
found a clue for which she had been searching, “It must have been your
words to her yesterday evening.”
“What words do you mean?” asked Gaspar.
“You said that she must have been drinking. Such a sentence, though
lightly spoken, would wound her deeply, for she would think it an
allusion to the well-known vice of her father, whom, poor child, she
loves so dearly.”
“Really,” observed Mr. Gritton, with a short, harsh laugh, “we must be
careful now-a-days where we blow thistle-down, lest it should wound some
sensitive maid-of-all-work!” He was not sorry that Isa should suggest
some cause for Lottie’s sudden flight that was remote from the real one.
“I cannot rest till I know all, and have seen the poor girl,” thought
Isa; “I will go over to the Castle at once, and ask Edith to take me in
the carriage to Axe.”
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