Living in lodgings, not temporarily, but permanently, sitting down to
make one's only "home" in Mrs. Jones's parlor or Mrs. Smith's first
floor, of which not a stick or a stone that one looks at is one's
own, and whence one may be evicted or evade, with a week's notice or
a week's rent, any day--this sort of life is natural and even
delightful to some people. There are those who, like strawberry
plants, are of such an errant disposition, that grow them where you
will, they will soon absorb all the pleasantness of their habitat,
and begin casting out runners elsewhere; may, if not frequently
transplanted, would actually wither and die. Of such are the pioneers
of society--the emigrants, the tourists, the travelers round the
world; and great is the advantage the world derives from them,
active, energetic, and impulsive as they are. Unless, indeed, their
talent for incessant locomotion degenerates into rootless
restlessness, and they remain forever rolling stones, gathering no
moss, and acquiring gradually a smooth, hard surface, which adheres
to nothing, and to which nobody dare venture to adhere.
But there are others possessing in a painful degree this said quality
of adhesiveness, to whom the smallest change is obnoxious; who like
drinking out of a particular cup, and sitting in a particular chair;
to whom even a variation in the position of furniture is unpleasant.
Of course, this peculiarity has its bad side, and yet it is not in
itself mean or ignoble. For is not adhesiveness, faithfulness,
constancy--call it what you will--at the root of all citizenship,
clanship, and family love? Is it not the same feeling which, granting
they remain at all, makes old friendships dearer than any new? Nay,
to go to the very sacredest and closest bond, is it not that which
makes an old man see to the last in his old wife's faded face the
beauty which perhaps nobody ever saw except himself, but which he
sees and delights in still, simply because it is familiar and his
own.
To people who possess a large share of this rare--shall I say
fatal?--characteristic of adhesiveness, living in lodgings is about
the saddest life under the sun. Whether some dim foreboding of this
fact crossed Elizabeth's mind as she stood at the window watching for
her mistresses' first arrival at "home," it is impossible to say. She
could feel, though she was not accustomed to analyze her feelings.
But she looked dull and sad. Not cross, even Ascott could not have
accused her of "savageness."
And yet she had been somewhat tried. First, in going out what she
termed "marketing," she had traversed a waste of streets, got lost
several times, and returned with light weight in her butter, and sand
in her moist sugar; also with the conviction that London tradesmen
were the greatest rogues alive. Secondly, a pottle of strawberries,
which she had bought with her own money to grace the tea-table with
the only fruit Miss Leaf cared for, had turned out a large delusion,
big and beautiful at top, and all below small, crushed, and stale.
She had thrown it indignantly, pottle and all, into the kitchen fire.
Thirdly, she had a war with the landlady, partly on the subject of
their fire--which, with her Stowbury notions on the subject of coals,
seemed wretchedly mean and small--and partly on the question of table
cloths at tea, which Mrs. Jones had "never heard of," especially when
the use of plate and lines was included in the rent. And the
dinginess of the article produced at last out of an omnium-gatherum
sort of kitchen cupboard, made an ominous impression upon the country
girl, accustomed to clean, tidy, country ways--where the kitchen was
kept as neat as the parlor, and the bedrooms were not a whit behind
the sitting rooms in comfort and orderliness. Here it seemed as if,
supposing people could show a few respectable living rooms, they were
content to sleep any where, and cook any how, out of anything, in the
midst of any quantity of confusion and dirt. Elizabeth set all this
down as "London," and hated it accordingly.
She had tried to ease her mind by arranging and rearranging the
furniture--regular lodging house furniture--table, six chairs,
horse-hair sofa, a what not, and the chiffonnier, with a tea-caddy
upon it, of which the respective keys had been solemnly presented to
Miss Hilary. But still the parlor looked homeless and bare; and the
yellowish paper on the walls, the large patterned, many colored
Kidderminster on the floor, gave an involuntary sense of discomfort
and dreariness. Besides, No. 15 was on the shady side of the
street--cheap lodgings always are; and no one who has not lived in
the like lodgings--not a house--can imagine what it is to inhabit
perpetually one room where the sunshine just peeps in for an hour a
day, and vanishes by eleven A. M.; leaving behind in winter a chill
dampness, and in summer a heavy, dusty atmosphere, that weighs like
lead on the spirits in spite of one's self. No wonder that, as is
statistically known and proved, cholera stalks, fever rages, and the
registrar's list is always swelled along the shady side of a London
street.
Elizabeth felt this, though she had not the dimmest idea why. She
stood watching the sunset light fade out of the topmost windows of
the opposite house--ghostly reflection of some sunset over fields and
trees far away; and she listened to the long monotonous cry melting
away round the crescent, and beginning again at the other end of the
street--"Straw-berries--straw-ber-ries!" Also, with an eye to
tomorrow's Sunday dinner, she investigated the cart of the tired
costermonger, who crawled along beside his equally tired donkey,
reiterating at times, in tones hoarse with a day's bawling, his
dreary "Cauli-flower! Cauli-flower!--Fine new pease, sixpence peck!"
But, alas! the pease were neither fine nor new; and the cauliflowers
were regular Saturday night's cauliflowers. Besides, Elizabeth
suddenly doubted whether she had any right, unordered, to buy these
things which, from being common garden necessaries, had become
luxuries. This thought, with some others that it occasioned, her
unwonted state of Idleness and the dullness of every thing about
her--what is so dull as a "quiet" London street on a summer
evening?--actually made Elizabeth stand, motionless and meditative,
for a quarter of an hour. Then she started to hear two cabs drive up
to the door; the "family" had at length arrived.
Ascott was there too. Two new portmanteaus and a splendid hat-box
east either ignominy or glory upon the poor Stowbury luggage;
and--Elizabeth's sharp eye noticed--there was also his trunk which
she had seen lying detained for rent in his Gower Street lodgings.
But he looked quite easy and comfortable: handed out his Aunt
Johanna, commanded the luggage about, and paid the cabmen with such a
magnificent air, that they touched their bats to him, and winked at
one another as much as to say. "That's a real gentleman!"
In which statement the landlady evidently coincided, and courtesied
low when Miss Leaf introducing him as "my nephew," hoped that a room
could be found for him. Which at last there was, by his appropriating
Miss Leaf's, while she and Hilary took that at the top of the house.
But they agreed, Ascott must have a good airy room to study in.
"You know, my dear boy," said his Aunt Johanna to him--and at her
tender tone he looked a little downcast, as when he was a small
fellow and had been forgiven something -- "You know you will have to
work very hard."
"All right, aunt! I'm your man for that! This will be a jolly room;
and I can smoke up the chimney capitally!"
So they came down stairs quite cheerfully, and Ascott applied himself
with the best of appetites to what he called a "hungry" tea. True,
the ham, which Elizabeth had to fetch from an eating house some
streets off, cost two shillings a pound, and the eggs, which caused
her another war below over the relighting of a fire to boil them,
were dismissed by the young gentleman as "horrid stale." Still,
woman-like, when there is a man in the question, his aunts let him,
have his why. It seemed as if they had resolved to try their utmost
to make the new home to which he came, or rather was driven, a
pleasant home, and to bind him to it with cords of love, the only
cords worth any thing, though sometimes--Heaved knows why--even they
fail, and are snapped and thrown aside like straws.
Whenever Elizabeth went in and out of the parlor she always heard
lively talk going on among the family; Ascott making his jokes,
telling about his college life, and planning his life to come as a
surgeon in full practice, on the most extensive scale. And when she
brought in the chamber candles, she saw him kiss his aunts
affectionately, and even help his Aunt Johanna--who looked
frightfully pale and tired, but smiling still--to her bed-room door.
"You'll not sit up long, my dear? No reading to night?" said she,
anxiously.
"Not a bit of it. And I'll be up with the lark to-morrow morning. I
really will auntie. I'm going to turn over a new leaf, you know."
She smiled again at the immemorial joke, kissed and blessed him, and
the door shut up on her and Hilary.
Ascott descended to the parlor, threw himself on the sofa with an air
of great relief, and an exclamation of satisfaction that "the women"
were all gone. He did not perceive Elizabeth, who, hidden behind, was
kneeling to arrange something in the chiffonnier, till she rose up
and proceeded to fasten the parlor shutters.
"Hollo! are you there? Come, I'll do that when I go to bed. You may
'slope' if you like."
"Eh, Sir."
"Slope, mizzle, cut your stick; don't you understand. Any how, don't
stop here, bothering me."
"I don't mean to," replied Elizabeth; gravely, rather than gruffly,
as if she had made up her mind to things as they were, and was
determined to be a belligerent party no longer. Besides, she was
older now; too old to have things forgiven to her that might be
overlooked in a child; and she had received a long lecture from Miss
Hilary on the necessity of showing respect to Mr. Ascott, or Mr.
Leaf, as it was now decided he was to be called, in his dignity and
responsibility as the only masculine head of the family. As he lay
and lounged there, with his eyes lazily shut, Elizabeth stood a
minute gazing at him. Then, steadfast in her new good behavior, she
inquired "if he wanted any thing more to-night?"
"Confound you! no! Yes; stop." And the young man took a furtive
investigation of the plain, honest face, and not over-graceful,
ultra-provincial figure, which still characterized his aunt's "South
Sea Islander."
"I say, Elizabeth, I want you to do something for me." He spoke so
civilly, almost coaxingly, that Elizabeth turned round surprised.
"Would you just go and ask the landlady if she has got such thing as
a latch key?"
"A what, Sir?"
"A latch-key--a--oh, she knows. Every London house has it. Tell her
I'll take care of it, and lock the front door all right. She needn't
be afraid of thieves."
"Very well, Sir."
Elizabeth went, but shortly reappeared with the information that Mrs.
Jones had gone to bed: in the kitchen, she supposed, as she could not
get in. But she laid on the table the large street door key.
"Perhaps that's what you wanted, Mr. Leaf. Though I think you needn't
be the least afraid of robbers, for there's three bolts, and a chain
besides."
"All right!" cried Ascott, smothering down a laugh. "Thank you!
That's for you," throwing a half-crown across the table.
Elizabeth took it up demurely, and put it down again. Perhaps she did
not like him enough to receive presents from him; perhaps she
thought, being an honest minded girl, that a young man who could not
pay his rent had no business to be giving away half-crowns; or else
she herself had not been so much as many servants are, in the habit
of taking them. For Miss Hilary had put into Elizabeth some of her
own feeling as to this habit of paying an inferior with money for any
little civility or kindness which, from an equal, would be accepted
simply as kindness, and only requited with thanks. Any how, the coin
remained on the table, and the door was just shutting upon Elizabeth,
when the young gentleman turned round again.
"I say, since my aunts are so horridly timid of robbers and such
like, you'd better not tell them any thing about the latch-key."
Elizabeth stood a minute perplexed, and then replied briefly: "Miss
Hilary isn't a bit timid; and I always tells Miss Hilary every
thing."
Nevertheless, though she was so ignorant as never to have heard of a
latch-key, she had the wit to see that all was not right. She even
lay awake, in her closet off Miss Leaf's room, whence she could hear
the murmur of her two mistresses talking together, long after they
retired--lay broad awake for an hour or more, trying to put things
together--the sad things that she felt certain must have happened
that day, and wondering what Mr. Ascott could possibly want with the
key. Also, why he had asked her about it, instead of telling his
aunts at once; and why he had treated her in the matter with such
astonishing civility.
It may be said a servant had no business to think about these things,
to criticize her young master's proceedings, or wonder why her
mistresses were sad: that she had only to go about her work like an
automaton, and take no interest in any thing. I can only answer to
those who like such service, let them have it: and as they sow they
will assuredly reap. But long after Elizabeth, young and hearty, was
soundly snoring on her hard, cramped bed, Johanna and Hilary Leaf,
after a brief mutual pretence of sleep, soon discovered by both, lay
consulting together over ways and means. How could the family
expenses, beginning with twenty-five shillings per week as rent,
possibly be met by the only actual certain family income, their £50
per annum from a mortgage? For the Misses Leaf were or that
old-fashioned stamp which believed that to reckon an income by mere
probabilities is either insanity or dishonesty.
Common arithmetic soon proved that this £50 a year could not maintain
them; in fact they must soon draw on the little sum--already dipped
into to-day, for Ascott--which had been produced by the sale of the
Stowbury furniture. That sale, they now found had been a mistake; and
they half feared whether the whole change from Stowbury to London had
not been a mistake--one of those sad errors in judgment which we all
commit sometimes, and have to abide by, and make the best of, and
learn from if we can. Happy those who "Dinna greet ower spilt
milk"--a proverb wise as cheerful, which Hilary, knowing well who it
came from, repeated to Johanna to comfort her--teaches a second brave
lesson, how to avoid spilling the milk a second time. And then they
consulted anxiously about what was to be done to earn money.
Teaching presented itself as the only resource. In those days women's
work and women's rights had not been discussed so freely as at
present. There was a strong feeling that the principal thing required
was our duties--owed to ourselves, our home, our family and friends.
There was a deep conviction--now, alas! slowly disappearing--that a
woman, single or married, should never throw herself out of the safe
circle of domestic life till the last extremity of necessity; that it
is wiser to keep or help to keep a home, by learning how to expend
its income, cook its dinners, make and mend its clothes, and, by the
law that "prevention is better than cure," studying all those
preservative means of holding a family together--as women, and women
alone, can--than to dash into men's sphere of trades and professions,
thereby, in most instances, fighting an unequal battle, and coming
out of it maimed, broken, unsexed; turned into beings that are
neither men nor women, with the faults and corresponding sufferings
of both, and the compensations of neither.
"I don't see," said poor Hilary, "what I can do but teach. And oh, if
I could only get daily pupils, so that I might come home or nights,
and creep into the fireside; and have time to mend the stockings and
look after Ascott's linen, that he need not be so awfully
extravagant."