Time slipped by. Robert Lyon had been away more than three years. But
in the monotonous life of the three sisters at Stowbury, nothing was
changed. Except, perhaps, Elizabeth, who had grown quite a woman;
might have passed almost for thirty; so solidly old fashioned were
her figure and her manners.
Ascott Leaf had finished his walking the hospitals and his
examinations, and was now fitted to commence practice for himself.
His godfather had still continued his allowance, though once or
twice, when he came down to Stowbury, he had asked his aunts to help
him in small debts the last time in one a little more serious; when,
after some sad and sore consultation, it had been resolved to tell
him he must contrive to live within his own allowance. For they were
poorer than they used to be; many more schools had arisen in the
town, and theirs had dwindled away. It was becoming a source of
serious anxiety whether they could possibly make ends meet; and when,
the next Christmas, Ascott sent them a five pound note--an actual
five pound note, together with a fond, grateful letter that was worth
it all--the aunts were deeply thankful, and very happy.
But still the school declined. One night they were speculating upon
the causes of this, and Hilary was declaring, in a half jocular, half
earnest way, that it must be because a prophet is never a prophet in
his own country.
"The Stowbury people will never believe how clever I am. Only, it is
a useless sort of cleverness, I fear. Greek, Latin, and mathematics
are no good to infants under seven, such as Stowbury persists in
sending to us."
"They think I am only fit to teach little children--and perhaps it is
true," said Miss Leaf.
"I wish you had not to teach at all. I wish I was a daily
governess--I might be, and earn enough to keep the whole family;
only, not here."
"I wonder," said Johanna, thoughtfully, "if we shall have to make a
change."
"A change!" It almost pained the elder sister to see how the younger
brightened up at the word. "Where to--London? Oh, I have so longed to
go and live in London! But I thought you would not like it, Johanna."
That was true. Miss Leaf, whom feeble health had made prematurely
old, would willingly have ended her days in the familiar town; but
Hilary was young and strong. Johanna called to mind the days when she
too had felt that rest was only another name for dullness; and when
the most difficult thing possible to her was what seemed now so
easy--to sit down and endure.
Besides, unlike herself, Hilary had her life all before her. It might
be a happy life, safe in a good man's tender keeping; those unfailing
letters from India seemed to prophecy that it would. But no one could
say. Miss Leaf's own experience had not led her to place much faith
in either men or happiness.
Still, whatever Hilary's future might be, it would likely be a very
different one from that quiet, colorless life of hers. And as she
looked at her younger sister, with the twilight glow on her
face--they were taking an evening stroll up and down the
terrace--Johanna hoped and prayed it might be so. Her own lot seemed
easy enough for herself; but for Hilary--she would like to see Hilary
something better than a poor schoolmistress at Stowbury.
No more was said at that time, but Johanna had the deep, still,
Mary-like nature, which "kept" things, and "pondered them in her
heart." So that when the subject came up again she was able to meet
it with that sweet calmness which was her especial
characteristic--the unruffled peace of a soul which no worldly storms
could disturb overmuch, for it had long since cast anchor in the
world unseen.
The chance which revived the question of the Great Metropolitan
Hegira, as Hilary called it, was a letter from Mr. Ascott, as
follows:
"MISS LEAF. MADAM,--I shall be obliged by your informing me if it is
your wish, as it seems to be your nephew's, that instead of returning
to Stowbury, he should settle in London as a surgeon and general
practitioner? His education complete, I consider that I have done my
duty by him; but I may assist him occasionally still, unless he turns
out--as his father did before him--a young man who prefers being
helped to helping himself, in which case I shall have nothing more to
do with him. I remain, Madam, your obedient servant,
PETER ASCOTT."
The sisters read this letter, passing it round the table, none of
them apparently liking to be the first to comment upon it. At length
Hilary said: "I think that reference to poor Henry is perfectly
brutal."
"And yet he was very kind to Henry. And if it had not been for his
common sense in sending poor little Ascott and the nurse down to
Stowbury the baby might have died. But you don't remember any thing
of that time, my dear," said Johanna, sighing.
"He has been kind enough, though he has done it in such a patronizing
way," observed Selina. "I suppose that's the real reason of his doing
it. He thinks it fine to patronize us, and show kindness to our
family; he, the stout, bullet-headed grocer's boy, who used to sit
and stare at us all church time."
"At you--you mean. Wasn't he called your beau?" said Hilary
mischievously, upon which Selina drew herself up in great
indignation.
And then they fell to talking of that anxious question--Ascott's
future. A little they reproached themselves that they had left the
lad so long in London--so long out of the influence that might have
counteracted the evil, sharply hinted in his godfather's letter. But
once away--to lure him back to their poor home was impossible.
"Suppose we were to go to him," suggested Hilary.
The poor and friendless possess one great advantage--they have nobody
to ask advice of; nobody to whom it matters much what they do or
where they go. The family mind has but to make itself up, and act
accordingly. Thus within an hour or two of the receipt of Mr.
Ascott's letter Hilary went into the kitchen, and told Elizabeth that
as soon as her work was done Miss Leaf wished to have a little talk
with her.
"Eh! what's wrong? Has Miss Selina been a-grumbling at me?"
Elizabeth was in one of her bad humors, which, though of course they
never ought to have, servants do have as well as their superiors.
Hilary perceived this by the way she threw the coals on and tossed
the chairs about. But to-day her heart was full of far more serious
cares than Elizabeth's ill temper. She replied, composedly--
"I have not heard that either of my sisters is displeased with you.
What they want to talk to you about is for your own good. We are
thinking of making a great change. We intend to leave Stowbury and
going to live in London."
"Going to live in London!"
Now, quick as her tact and observation were--her heart taught her
these things--Elizabeth's head was a thorough Saxon one, slow to
receive impressions. It was a family saying, that nothing was so hard
as to put a new idea into Elizabeth except to get it out again.
For this reason Hilary preferred paving the way quietly, before
startling her with the sudden intelligence of their contemplated
change.
"Well, what do you say to the plan?" asked she, good-humoredly.
"I dunnot like it at all," was the brief gruff answer of Elizabeth
Hand.
Now it was one of Miss Hilary's doctrines that no human being is good
for much unless he or she has what is called "a will of one's own."
Perhaps this, like many another creed, was with her the result of
circumstances. But she held it firmly, and with that exaggerated
one-sidedness of feeling which any bitter family or personal
experience is sure to leave behind--a strong will was her first
attraction to every body. It had been so in the case of Robert Lyon,
and not less in Elizabeth's.
But this quality has its inconveniences. When the maid began sweeping
up her hearth with a noisy, angry gesture, the mistress did the
wisest and most dignified thing a mistress could do under the
circumstances and which she knew was the sharpest rebuke she could
administer to the sensitive Elizabeth--she immediately quitted the
kitchen.
For an hour after the parlor bell did not ring; and though it was
washing day, no Miss Hilary appeared to help in folding up the
clothes. Elizabeth, subdued and wretched, waited till she could wait
no longer; then knocked at the door, and asked humbly if she should
bring in supper?
The extreme kindness of the answer, to the effect that she must come
in, as they wanted to speak to her, crushed the lingering fragments
of ill humor out of the girl.
"Miss Hilary has told you our future plans, Elizabeth; now we wish to
have a little talk with you about yours."
"Eh?"
"We conclude you will not wish to go with us to London; and it would
be hardly advisable you should. You can get higher wages now than any
we can afford to give you; indeed, we have more than once thought of
telling you so, and offering you your choice of trying for a better
place."
"You're very kind," was the answer, stolid rather than grateful.
"No; I think we are merely honest. We should never think of keeping a
girl upon lower wages than she was worth. Hitherto, however, the
arrangement has been quite fair you know, Elizabeth, you have given
us a deal of trouble in the teaching of you." And Miss Leaf smiled,
half sadly, as if this, the first of the coming changes, hurt her
more than she liked to express. "Come, my girl," she added, "you
needn't look so serious. We are not in the least vexed with you; we
shall be very sorry to lose you, and we will give you the best of
characters when you leave."
"I dunnot--mean--to leave."
Elizabeth threw out the words like pellets, in a choked fashion, and
disappeared suddenly from the parlor.
"Who would have thought it!" exclaimed Selina; "I declare the girl
was crying."
No mistake about that; though when, a few minutes after, Miss Hilary
entered the kitchen, Elizabeth tried in a hurried, shamefaced way to
hide her tears by being very busy over something. Her mistress took
no notice, but began, as usual on washing days, to assist in various
domestic matters, in the midst of which she said, quietly, "And so,
Elizabeth, you would really like to go to London?"
"No! I shouldn't like it at all; never said I should. But if you go,
I shall go too; though Missis is so ready to get shut o' me."
"It was for your own good, you know."
"You always said it was for a girl's good to stop in one place; and
if you think I'm going to another. I aren't that's all."
Rude as the form of the speech was--almost the first rude speech that
Elizabeth had ever made to Miss Hilary, and which, under other
circumstances she would have felt bound severely to reprove--the
mistress passed it over. That which lay beneath it, the sharpness of
wounded love, touched her heart. She felt that, for all the girl's
rough manner, it would have been hard to go into her London kitchen
and meet a strange London face, instead of that fond homely one of
Elizabeth Hand's.
Still, she thought it right to explain to her that London life might
have many difficulties, that; for the present at least, her wages
could not be raised, and the family might at first be in even more
straitened circumstances than they were at Stowbury.
"Only at first, though, for I hope to find plenty of pupils, and
by-and-by our nephew will get into practice."
"Is it on account of him you're going, Miss Hilary?"
"Chiefly."
Elizabeth gave a grunt which said as plainly as words could say, "I
thought so;" and relapsed into what she, no doubt, believed to be
virtuous indignation, but which, as it was testified against the
wrong parties, was open to the less favorable interpretation of ill
humor--a small injustice not uncommon with us all.
I do not pretend to paint this young woman as a perfect character.
She had her fierce dislikes as well as her strong fidelities; her
faults within and without, which had to be struggled with, as all of
us have to struggle to the very end of our days. Oftentimes not till
the battle is high over--sometimes not till it is quite over--does
God give us the victory.
Without more discussion on either side, it was agreed that Elizabeth
should accompany her mistresses. Even Mrs. Hand seemed to be pleased
thereat, her only doubt being lest her daughter should meet and be
led astray by that bad woman, Mrs. Cliffe, Tommy Cliffe's mother, who
was reported to have gone to London. But Miss Hilary explained that
this meeting was about as probable as the rencontre of two needles in
a hay-rick; and besides, Elizabeth was not the sort of girl to be
easily "led astray" by any body.
"No, no; her's a good wench, though I says it," replied the mother,
who was too hard worked to have much sentiment to spare. "I wish the
little 'uns may take pattern by our Elizabeth. You'll send her home,
may be, in two or three years' time, to let us have a look at her?"
Miss Hilary promised, and then took her way back through the familiar
old town--so soon to be familiar no more--thinking anxiously, in
spite of herself, upon those two or three years, and what they might
bring.
It happened to be a notable day--that sunshiny 28th of June--when the
little, round-cheeked damsel, who is a grandmother now, had the crown
of three kingdoms first set upon her youthful head; and Stowbury,
like every other town in the land, was a perfect bower of green
arches, garlands, banners; white covered tables were spread in the
open air down almost every street, where poor men dined, or poor
women drank tea; and every body was out and abroad, looking at or
sharing in the holiday' making, wild with merriment, and brimming
over with passionate loyalty to the Maiden Queen.
That day is now twenty-four years ago; but all those who remember it
must own there never has been a day like it, when, all over the
country, every man's heart throbbed with chivalrous devotion, every
woman's with womanly tenderness, toward this one royal girl, who, God
bless her! has lived to retain and deserve it all.
Hilary called for, and protected through the crowd, the little,
timid, widow lady who had taken off the Misses Leaf's hands their
house and furniture, and whom they had made very happy--as the poor
often can make those still poorer than themselves--by refusing to
accept any thing for the "good will" of the school. Then she was
fetched by Elizabeth, who had been given a whole afternoon's holiday;
and mistress and maid went together home, watching the last of the
festivities, the chattering groups that still lingered in the
twilight streets, and listening to the merry notes of the "Triumph"
which came down through the lighted windows of the Town Hall, where
the open-air tea drinkers had adjourned to dance country dances, by
civic permission, and in perfectly respectable jollity.
"I wonder," said Hilary--while, despite some natural regret, her
spirit stretched itself out eagerly from the narrowness of the place
where she was born into the great wide world; the world where so many
grand things were thought and written and done; the world Robert Lyon
had so long fought with, and was fighting bravely still--"I wonder,
Elizabeth, what sort of place London is, and what our life will be in
it?"
Elizabeth said nothing. For the moment her face seemed to catch the
reflected glow of her mistress's, and then it settled down into that
look of mingled resistance and resolution which was habitual to her.
For the life that was to be, which neither knew--oh, if they had
known!--she also was prepared.