While her anxious mistresses were thus talking her over the servant
lay on her humble bed and slept. They knew she did, for they heard
her heavy breathing through the thin partition wall. Whether, as
Hilary suggested, she was too ignorant to notice the days of the
week, or month, or, as Selina thought, too stupid to care for any
thing beyond eating, drinking, and sleeping. Elizabeth manifested no
anxiety about herself or her destiny.
She went about her work just as usual; a little quicker and readier,
now she was becoming familiarized to it; but she said nothing. She
was undoubtedly a girl of silent and undemonstrative nature.
"Sometimes still waters run deep," said Miss Hilary.
"Nevertheless. there are such things as canals," replied Johanna.
"When do you mean to have your little talk with her?"
Hilary did not know. She was sitting, rather more tired than usual,
by the school-room fire, the little people having just departed for
their Saturday half-holiday. Before clearing off the debris which
they always left behind, she stood a minute at the window, refreshing
her eyes with the green field opposite, and the far-away wood,
crowned by a dim white monument, visible in fair weather, on which
those bright brown eyes had a trick of lingering, even in the middle
of school hours. For the wood and the hill beyond belonged to a
nobleman's "show" estate, five miles off--the only bit of real
landscape beauty that Hilary had ever beheld. There, during the last
holidays but one, she, her sisters, her nephew, and, by his own
special request, Mr. Lyon, had spent a whole long, merry, midsummer
day. She wondered whether such a day would ever come again!
But spring was coming again, any how; the field looked smiling and
green, specked here and there with white dots which, she opined.
might possibly be daisies. She half wished she was not too old and
dignified to dart across the road, leap the sunk fence, and run to
see.
"I think, Johanna--Hark, what can that be?"
For at this instant somebody came tearing down the stairs, opened the
front door, and did--exactly what Hilary had just been wishing to do.
"It's Elizabeth, without her bonnet or shawl, with something white
flying behind her. How she is dashing across the field! What can she
be after? Just look."
But loud screams from Selina's room, the front, one, where she had
been lying in bed all morning, quite obliterated the little servant
from their minds. The two sisters ran hastily up stairs.
Selina was sitting up, in undisguised terror and agitation.
"Stop her! Hold her! I'm sure she has gone mad. Lock the door, or
she'll come back and murder us all."
"Who? Elizabeth! Was she here? What has been the matter?"
But it was some time before they could make out any thing. At last
they gathered that Elizabeth had been waiting upon Miss Selina,
putting vinegar cloths on her head, and doing various things about
the room. "She is very handy when one is ill." even Selina allowed.
"And I assure you I was talking most kindly to her; about the duties
of her position, and how she ought to dress better, and be more civil
behaved, or else she never could except to keep any place. And she
stood in her usual sulky way of listening, never answering a
word--with her back to me, staring right out of window. And I had
just said, Elizabeth, my girl'--indeed, Hilary, I was talking to her
in my very kindest way--"
"I've no doubt of it--but do get on."
"When she suddenly turned round, snatched a clean towel from a chair
back, and another from my head--actually from my very head,
Johanna--and out she ran. I called after her, but she took no more
notice than if I had been a stone. And she left the door wide
open--blowing upon me. Oh, dear; she has given me my death of cold."
And Selina broke out into piteous complainings.
Her elder sister soothed her as well as she could, while Hilary ran
down to the front door and looked, and enquired every where for
Elizabeth. She was not to be seen on field or road; and along that
quiet terrace not a soul had even perceived her quit the house.
"It's a very odd thing." said Hilary, returning. "What can have come
over the girl? You are sure, Selina, that you said nothing which--"
"Now I know what you are going to say, You are going to blame me.
Whatever happens in this house you always blame me. And perhaps
you're right. Perhaps I am a nuisance--a burden--would be far better
dead and buried. I wish I were!"
When Selina took this tack, of course her sisters were silenced. They
quited her a little, and then went down and searched the house all
over.
All was in order; at least in as much order as was to be expected the
hour before dinner. The bowl of half-peeled potatoes stood on the
back kitchen "sink;" the roast was down before the fire; the knives
were ready for cleaning. Evidently Elizabeth flight had not been
premeditated.
"It's all nonsense about her going mad. She has as sound a head as I
have," said Hilary to Johanna, who began to look seriously uneasy.
"She might have run away in a fit of passion, certainly; and yet that
is improbable; her temper is more sullen than furious. And having no
lack of common sense she must know that doing a thing like this is
enough to make her lose her place at once."
"Yes," said Johanna, mournfully, "I'm afraid after this she must go."
"Wait and see what she has to say for herself." pleaded Hilary. "She
will surely be back in two or three minutes."
But she was not, nor even in two or three hours.
Her mistresses' annoyance became displeasure, and that again subsided
into serious apprehension. Even Selina ceased talking over and over
the incident which gave the sole information to be arrived at; rose,
dressed, and came down to the kitchen. There, after long and anxious
consultation, Hilary, observing that "Somebody had better do
something," began to prepare the dinner as in pre-Elizabethan days;
but the three ladies' appetites were small.
About three in the afternoon, Hilary, giving utterance to the hidden
alarm of all, said--
"I think, sisters, I had better go down as quickly as I can to Mrs.
Hand's."
This agreed, she stood consulting with Johanna as to what could
possibly be said to the mother in case that unfortunate child had not
gone home, when the kitchen door opened, and the culprit appeared.
Not, however, with the least look of a culprit. Hot she was, and
breathless; and with her hair down about her ears, and her apron
rolled up round her waist, presented a most forlorn and untidy
aspect; but her eyes were bright, and her countenance glowing.
She took a towel from under her arm.--"There's one on 'em--and you'll
get back--the other--when it's washed."
Having blurted out this, she leaned against the wall, trying to
recover her breath.
"Elizabeth! Where have you been? How dared you go? Your behavior is
disgraceful--most disgraceful, I say. Johanna, why don't you speak to
your servant?" (When, for remissness in reproving others, the elder
sister herself fell under reproof, it was always emphatically "your
sister--"your nephew"--"your servant.")
But, for once, Miss Selina's sharp voice failed to bring the
customary sullen look to Elizabeth's face, and when Miss Leaf, in her
milder tones, asked where she had been, she answered unhesitatingly--
"I've been down the town."
"Down the town!" the three ladies cried, in one chorus of
astonishment.
"I've been as quick as I could, missis. I runned all the way there
and back; but it was a good step, and he was some'at heavy, though he
is but a little'un,"
"He! who on earth is he?"
"Deary me! I never thought of axing; but his mother lives in Hall
street. Somebody saw me carrying him to the doctor, and went and told
her. Oh! he was welly killed, Miss Leaf--the doctor said so; but
he'll do now, and you'll get your towel clean washed tomorrow."
While Elizabeth spoke so incoherently, and with such unwonted energy
and excitement, Johanna looked as if she thought her sister's fears
were true, and the girl had really gone mad; but Hilary's quicker
perceptions jumped at a different conclusion.
"Quiet yourself, Elizabeth," said she, taking a firm hold of her
shoulder, and making her sit down, when the rolled-up apron dropped,
and showed itself all covered with blood spots. Selina screamed
outright.
Then Elizabeth seemed to become half conscious that she had done
something blamable, or was at least a suspected character. Her warmth
of manner faded; the sullen cloud of dogged resistance to authority
was rising in her poor dirty face, when Hilary, beginning with, "Now,
we are not going to scold you; but we must hear the reason of this,"
contrived by adroit questions, and not a few of them, to elicit the
whole story.
It appeared that, while standing at Miss Selina's window, Elizabeth
had watched three little boys, apparently engaged in a very favorite
amusement of little boys in that field, going quickly behind a horse,
and pulling out the longest and handsomest hairs in his tail to make
fishing lines of. She saw the animal give a kick, and two of the boys
ran away; the other did not stir. For a minute or so she noticed a
black lump lying in the grass; then, with the quick instinct for
which nobody had ever given her credit, she guessed what had
happened, and did immediately the wisest and only thing possible
under the circumstances, namely, to snatch up a towel, run across the
field, bind up the child's head as well as she could, and carry it,
bleeding and insensible, to the nearest doctor, who lived nearly a
mile off.
She did not tell--and they only found it out afterward--how she had
held the boy while under the doctor's hands, the skull being so badly
fractured that the frightened mother fainted at the sight; how she
had finally carried him home, and left him comfortably settled in
bed, his senses returned, and his life saved.
"Ay, my arms do ache above a bit," she said, in answer to Miss Leaf's
questions. "He wasn't quite a baby--nigh upon twelve, I reckon; but
then he was very small of his age. And he looked just as if he was
dead--and he bled so."
Here, just for a second or two, the color left the big girl's lips,
and she trembled a little. Miss Leaf went to the kitchen cupboard,
and took out their only bottle of wine--administered in rare doses,
exclusively as medicine.
"Drink this, Elizabeth; and then go and wash your face and eat your
dinner. We will talk to you by-and-by."
Elizabeth looked up with a long, wistfull stare of intense surprise,
and then added, "Have I done any thing wrong, missis?"
"I did not say so. But drink this; and don't talk, child."
She was obeyed. By-and-by Elizabeth disappeared into the back
kitchen, emerged thence with a clean face, hands, and apron; and went
about her afternoon business as if nothing had happened.
Her mistresses' threatened "talk" with her never came about. What,
indeed, could they say? No doubt the little servant had broken the
strict letter of domestic law by running off in that highly eccentric
and inconvenient way; but, as Hilary tried to explain by a series of
most ingenious ratiocinations, she had fulfilled, in the spirit of
it, the very highest law--that of charity. She had also shown prompt
courage, decision, practical and prudent forethought, and above all,
entire self-forgetfulness.
"And I should like to know," said Miss Hilary, warming with her
subject, "if those are not the very qualities that go to constitute a
hero."
"But we don't want a hero; we want a maid-of-all-work."
"I'll tell you what we want, Selina. We want a woman; that is, a girl
with the making of a good woman in her. If we can find that, all the
rest will follow. For my part, I would rather take this child, rough
as she is, but with her truthfulness, conscientiousness, kindliness
of heart, and evident capability of both self-control and
self-devotedness, than the most finished servant we could find. My
advice is--keep her."
This settled the matter, since it was a curious fact that the
"advice" of the youngest Miss Leaf was, whether they knew it or not,
almost equivalent to a family ukase.
When Elizabeth had brought in the tea-things, which she did with
especial care, apparently wishing to blot out the memory of the
morning's escapade by astonishingly good behavior for the rest of the
day, Miss Leaf called her, and asked if she knew that her month of
trial ended this day?
"Yes, ma'am," with the strict normal courtesy, something between that
of the old-world family domestic--as her mother might have been to
the Miss Elizabeth Something she was named after--and the abrupt
"dip" of the modern National school girl; which constituted Elizabeth
Hand's sole experience of manners.
"If you had not been absent I should have gone to speak with your
mother to-day. Indeed Miss Hilary was going when you came in; but it
would have been with a very different intention from what we had in
the morning. However, that is not likely to happen again."
"Eh?" said Elizabeth, inquiringly.
Miss Leaf hesitated, and looked uneasily at her two sisters. It was
always a trial to her shy nature to find herself the mouth-piece of
the family; and this same shyness made it still more difficult to
break through the stiff barriers which seemed to rise up between her,
a gentlewoman well on in years, and this coarse working girl. She
felt, as she often complained, that with the-kindest intentions, she
did not quite know how to talk to Elizabeth.
"My sister means," said Hilary, "that as we are not likely to have
little boys half killed in the field every day, she trusts you will
not be running away again as you did this morning. She feels sure
that you would not do such a thing, putting us all to so great
annoyance and uneasiness, for any less cause than such as happened
to-day. You promise that?"
"Yes, Miss Hilary."
"Then we quite forgive you as regards ourselves. Nay"--feeling in
spite of Selina's warning nudge, that she had hardly been kind
enough--"we rather praise than blame you, Elizabeth. And if you like
to stay with us and will do your best to improve, we are willing to
keep you as our servant."
"Thank you ma'am. Thank you, Miss Hilary. Yes, I'll stop."
She said no more--but sighed a great sigh, as if her mind were
relieved--("So," thought Hilary, "she was not so indifferent to us as
we imagined")--and bustled back into her kitchen.
"Now for the clothing of her," observed Miss Leaf, also looking much
relieved that the decision was over. "You know what we agreed upon;
and there is certainly no time to be lost. Hilary, my dear, suppose
you bring down your brown merino?" Hilary went without a word.
People who inhabit the same house, eat, sit, and sleep
together--loving one another and sympathizing with one another, ever
so deeply and dearly--nevertheless inevitably have momentary seasons
when the intense solitude in which we all live, and must expect ever
to live, at the depth of our being, forces itself painfully upon the
heart. Johanna must have had many such seasons when Hilary was a
child; Hilary had one now.
She unfolded the old frock, and took out of its pocket, a hiding
place at once little likely to be searched, and harmless if
discovered, a poor little memento of that happy midsummer day.
"Dear Miss Hilary. To-morrow, then, I shall come.
Yours truly, Robert Lyon."
The only scrap of note she had ever received; he always wrote to
Johanna; as regularly as ever, or more so, now Ascott was gone; but
only to Johanna. She read over the two lines, wondered where she
should keep them now that Johanna might not notice them; and then
recoiled, as if the secret were a wrong to that dear sister who loved
her so well.
"But nothing makes me love her less; nothing ever could. She thinks
me quite happy, as I am; and yet--oh, if I did not miss him so!"
And the aching, aching want which sometimes came over began again.
Let us not blame her. God made all our human needs. God made love.
Not merely affection but actual love--the necessity to seek and find
out some other being, not another but the complement of one's
self--the "other half," who brings rest and strength for weakness,
sympathy in aspiration, and tenderness for tenderness, as no other
person ever can. Perhaps, even in marriage, this love is seldom
found, and it is possible in all lives to do without it. Johanna had
done so. But then she had been young, and was now growing old; and
Hilary was only twenty, with a long life before her. Poor child, let
us not blame her!
She was not in the least sentimental, her natural disposition
inclining her to be more than cheerful, actually gay. She soon
recovered herself, and when, a short time after, she stood, scissors
in hand, demonstrating how very easy it was to make something out of
nothing, her sisters never suspected how very near tears had lately
been to those bright eyes, which were always the sunshine of the
house.
"You are giving yourself a world of trouble," said Selina. "If I were
you, I would just make over the dress to Elizabeth, and let her do
what she could with it."
"My dear, I always find I give myself twice the trouble by expecting
people to do what they can't do. I have to do it myself afterward.
Prove how a child who can't even handle a needle and thread is
competent to make a gown for herself, and I shall be most happy to
secede in her favor."
"Nay," put in the eldest sister, afraid of a collision of words,
"Selina is right; if you do not teach Elizabeth to make her own gowns
how can she learn?"
"Johanna, you are the brilliantest of women! and you know you don't
like the parlor littered with rags and cuttings. You wish to get rid
of me for the evening? Well, I'll go! Hand me the work basket and the
bundle, and I'll give my first lesson in dress making to our South
Sea Islander."
But Fate stood in the way of Miss Hilary's good intentions.
She found Elizabeth not as was her wont, always busy, over the
perpetual toil of those who have not yet learned the mysterious art
of arrangement and order, nor, as sometimes, hanging sleepily over
the kitchen fire, waiting for bedtime; but actually sitting, sitting
down at the table. Her candle was flaring on one side of her; on the
other was the school room inkstand, a scrap of waste paper, and a pen
But she was not writing; she sat with her head on her hands, in an
attitude of disconsolate idleness, so absorbed that she seemed not to
hear Hilary's approach.
"I did not know you could write, Elizabeth."
"No more I can," was the answer, in the most doleful of voices. "It
bean't no good. I've forgotten all about it. T' letters wonna join."
"Let me look at them." And Hilary tried to contemplate gravely the
scrawled and blotted page, which looked very much as if a large
spider had walked into the ink bottle, and then walked out again on a
tour of investigation. "What did you want to write?" asked she,
suddenly.
Elizabeth blushed violently. "It was the woman, Mrs. Cliffe, t'
little lad's mother, you know; she wanted somebody to write to her
husband as is at work at Birmingham, and I said I would. I'd learned
at the National, but I've forgotten it all. I'm just as Miss Selina
says--I'm good for nowt."
"Come, come, never fret;" for there was a sort of choke in the girl's
voice. "There's many a good person who never learned to write. But I
don't see why you should not learn. Shall I teach you?"
Utter amazement, beaming gratitude, succeeded one another, plain as
light, in Elizabeth's eyes, but she only said, "Thank you, Miss
Hilary."
"Very well. I have brought you an old gown of mine, and was going to
show you how to make it up for yourself, but I'll look over your
writing instead. Sit down and let me see what you can do."
In a state of nervous trepidation, pitiful to behold, Elizabeth took
the pen. Terrible scratches resulted; blots innumerable; and one
fatal deluge of ink, which startled from their seats both mistress
and maid, and made Hilary thankful that she had taken off her better
gown for a common one, as, with sad thriftiness, the Misses Leaf
always did of evenings.
When Elizabeth saw the mischief she had done, her contrition and
humility were unbounded. "No, Miss Hilary, you can't make nothin' of
me. I be too stupid, I'll give it up."
"Nonsense!" And the bright active little lady looked steadily into
the heavy face of this undeveloped girl, half child, half woman,
until some of her own spirit seemed to be reflected there. Whether
the excitement of the morning had roused her, or her mistresses'
kindness had touched Elizabeth's heart, and--as in most women--the
heart was the key to the intellect; or whether the gradual daily
influence of her changed life during the last month had been taking
effect, now for the first time to appear--certain it is that Hilary
had never perceived before what an extremely intelligent face it was;
what good sense was indicated in the well shaped head and forehead;
what tenderness and feeling in the deep-set grey eyes.
"Nonsense," repeated she. "Never give up any thing; I never would.
We'll try a different plan, and begin from the beginning, as I do
with my little scholars. Wait, while I fetch a copy book out of the
parlor press."
She highly amused her sisters with a description of what she called
her "newly instituted Polynesian Academy;" returned, and set to work
to guide the rough, coarse hand through the mysteries of calligraphy.
To say this was an easy task would not be true. Nature's own laws and
limits make the using of faculties which have been unused for
generations very difficult at first. To suppose that a working man,
the son of working men, who applies himself to study, does it with as
little trouble as your upper-class children, who have been
unconsciously undergoing education ever since the cradle, is a great
mistake. All honor, therefore, to those who do attempt, and to ever
so small a degree succeed in, the best and wisest culture of all,
self-culture.
Of this honor Elizabeth deserved her share.
"She is stupid enough," Hilary confessed, after the lesson was over;
"but there is a dogged perseverance about the girl which I actually
admire. She blots her fingers, her nose, her apron, but she never
gives in; and she sticks to the grand principle of one thing at a
time. I think she did two whole pages of a's, and really performed
them satisfactorily, before she asked to go on to b's. Yes! I believe
she will do."
"I hope she will do her work, any how," said Selina, breaking into
the conversation rather crossly. "I'm sure I don't see the good of
wasting time over teaching Elizabeth to write, when there's so much
to be done in the house by one and all of us, from Monday morning
till Saturday night."
"Ay, that's it," answered Hilary, meditatively. "I don't see how I
ever shall get time to teach her, and she is so tired of nights when
the work is all done; she'll be dropping asleep with the pen in her
hand--I have done it myself before now."
Ay, in those days when, trying so hard to "improve her mind," and
make herself a little more equal and companionable to another mind
she knew, she had, after her daily house cares and her six hours of
school teaching, attempted at nine P. M. to begin close study on her
own account. And though with her strong will she succeeded tolerably,
still, as she told Johanna, she could well understand how slow was
the, "march of intellect" (a phrase which had just then come up)
among day laborers and the like; and how difficult it was for these
Mechanics Institutions, which were now talked so much of, to put any
new ideas into the poor tired heads, rendered sluggish and stupid
with hard bodily labor, "Suppose I were to hold my Polynesian Academy
on a Sunday?" and she looked inquiringly at her sisters, especially
Johanna.
Now the Misses Leaf were old fashioned country folk, who lived before
the words Sabbatarian and un-Sabbatarian had ever got into the
English language. They simply "remembered the Sabbath day to keep it
holy;" they arranged so as to make it for all the household a day of
rest: and they went regularly to church once--sometimes Selina and
Hilary went twice. For the intervening hours, their usual custom was
to take an afternoon walk in the fields; begun chiefly for Ascott's
sake, to keep the lad out of mischief, and put into his mind better
thoughts than he was likely to get from his favorite Sunday
recreation of sitting on the wall throwing stones. After he left for
London there was Elizabeth to be thought of; and they decided that
the best Sabbath duty for the little servant was to go and see her
mother. So they gave her every Sunday afternoon free; only requiring
that she should be at home punctually after church time, at eight
o'clock. But from thence till bedtime was a blank two hours, which,
Hilary had noticed, Elizabeth not infrequently spent in dozing over
the fire.
"And I wonder," said she, giving the end of her long meditation out
loud, "whether going to sleep is not as much Sabbath breaking as
learning to write? What do you say, Johanna?"
Johanna, simple, God-fearing woman as she was, to whom faith and love
came as natural as the breath she drew, had never perplexed herself
with the question. She only smiled acquiescence. But Selina was
greatly shocked. Teaching to write on a Sunday! Bringing the week day
work into the day of rest! Doing one's own pleasure on the holy day!
She thought it exceedingly wrong. Such a thing had never been heard
of in their house. Whatever else might be said of them, the Leafs
were always a respectable family as to keeping Sunday. Nobody could
say that even poor Henry--
But here Selina's torrent of words stopped.
When conversation revived, Hilary, who had been at first half annoyed
and half amused, resumed her point seriously.
"I might say that writing isn't Elizabeth's week-day work, and that
teaching her is not exactly doing my own pleasure; but I won't creep
out of the argument by a quibble. The question is, What is keeping
the Sabbath day 'holy?' I say--and I stick to my opinion--that it is
by making it a day of worship, a rest day--a cheerful and happy
day--and by doing as much good in it as we can. And therefore I mean
to teach Elizabeth on a Sunday."
"She'll never understand it. She'll consider it work."
"And if she did, work is a more religious thing than idleness. I am
sure I often feel that, of the two, I should be less sinful in
digging potatoes in my garden, or sitting mending stockings in my
parlor, than in keeping Sunday as some people do--going to church
genteelly in my best clothes, eating a huge Sunday dinner, and then
nodding over a good book, or taking a regular Sunday nap till
bedtime."
"Hush, child!" said Johanna, reprovingly; for Hilary's cheeks were
red, and her voice angry. She was taking the hot, youthful part which
in its hatred of forms and shams, sometimes leads--and not seldom led
poor Hilary--a little too far on the other side. "I think," Miss Leaf
added, "that our business is with ourselves, and not with our
neighbors. Let us keep the Sabbath according to our conscience. Only,
I would take care never to do any thing which jarred against my
neighbor's feelings. I would, like Paul, 'eat no meat while the world
standeth' rather than 'make my brother to offend.' "
Hilary looked in her sister's sweet, calm face, and the anger died
out of her own.
"Shall I give up my academy?" she said, softly.
"No, my love. It is lawful to do good on the Sabbath day, and
teaching a poor ignorant girl to write is an absolute good. Make her
understand that, and you need not be afraid of any harm ensuing."
"You never will make her understand," said Selina, sullenly. "She is
only a servant."
"Nevertheless I'll try."
Hilary could not tell how far she succeeded in simplifying to the
young servant's comprehension this great question, involving so many
points--such as the following of the spirit and the letter, the law
of duty and the compulsion of love, which, as she spoke, seemed
opening out so widely and awfully that she herself involuntarily
shrank from it, and wondered that poor finite creatures should, ever
presume to squabble about it at all.
But one thing the girl did understand--her young mistress's kindness.
She stood watching the delicate little hand that had so patiently
guided hers, and now wrote copy after copy for her future benefit. At
last she said--
"You're taking a deal o' trouble wi' a poor wench, and it's very kind
in a lady like you."
Miss Hilary was puzzled what answer to make. True enough it was
"kind," and she was "a lady;" and between her and Mrs. Hand's rough
daughter was an unmistakable difference and distinction. That
Elizabeth perceived it was proved by her growing respectfulness of
manner--the more respectful, it seemed, the more she herself
improved. Yet Hilary could not bear to make her feel more sharply
than was unavoidable the great gulf that lies and ever must lie--not
so much between mistress and servant, in their abstract
relation--(and yet that is right, for the relation and authority are
ordained of God)--but between the educated and the ignorant, the
coarse and the refined.
"Well," she said, after a pause of consideration, "you always have it
in your power to repay my 'kindness,' as you call it. The cleverer
you become the more useful you will be to me; and the more good you
grow the better I shall like you."
Elizabeth smiled--that wonderfully bright, sudden smile which seemed
to cover over all her plainness of feature.
"Once upon a time," Hilary resumed by-and-by, "when England was very
different from what it is now, English ladies used to have what they
call 'bower-women,' whom they took as girls, and brought up in their
service; teaching them all sorts of things--cooking, sewing,
spinning, singing, and, probably, except that the ladies of that time
were very ill-educated themselves, to read and write also. They used
to spend part of every day among their bower-women; and as people can
only enjoy the company of those with whom they have some sympathies
in common, we must conclude that--"
Here Hilary stopped, recollecting she must be discoursing miles above
the head of her little bower-maiden, and that, perhaps, after all,
her theory would be best kept to herself, and only demonstrated
practically.
"So, Elizabeth, if I spend a little of my time in teaching you, you
must grow up my faithful and attached bower-maiden?"
"I'll grow up any thing, Miss Hilary, if it's to please you," was the
answer, given with a smothered intensity that quite startled the
young mistress.
"I do believe the girl is getting fond of me," said she, half
touched, half laughing to Johanna. "If so, we shall get on. It is
just as with our school children, you know. We have to seize hold of
their hearts first, and their heads afterward. Now, Elizabeth's head
may be uncommonly tough, but I do believe she likes me."
Johanna smiled; but she would not for the world have said--never
encouraging the smallest vanity in her child--that she did not think
this circumstance so very remarkable.