Miss Balquidder's house was a handsome one, handsomely furnished, and
a neat little to aid-servant showed Hilary at once into the
dining-parlor, where the mistress sat before a business-like
writing-table, covered with letters, papers, etc., all arranged with
that careful order in disorder which indicates, even in the smallest
things, the possession of an accurate, methodical mind, than which
there are few greater possessions, either to its owner or to the
world at large.
Miss Balquidder was not a personable woman; she had never been so
even in youth; and age had told its tale upon those large, strong
features--"thoroughly Scotch features," they would have been called
by those who think all Scotchwomen are necessarily big, raw-boned,
and ugly; and have never seen that wonderfully noble beauty--not
prettiness, but actual beauty in its highest physical as well as
spiritual development--which is not seldom found across the Tweed.
But while there was nothing lovely, there was nothing unpleasant or
uncomely in Miss Balquidder. Her large figure, in its plain black
silk dress; her neat white cap, from under which peeped the little
round curls of flaxen hair, neither gray nor snowy, but real
"lint-white locks" still; and her good-humored, motherly
look--motherly rather than old-maidish--gave an impression which may
be best described by the word "comfortable."--She was a "comfortable"
woman. She had that quality--too rarely, alas! in all people, and
rarest in women going solitary down the hill of life--of being able,
out of the deep content of her own nature, to make other people the
same.
Hilary was cheered in spite of herself: it always conveys hope to the
young, when in sore trouble, if they see the old looking happy.
"Welcome, my dear! I was afraid you had forgotten your promise."
"Oh no," said Hilary, responding heartily to the hearty clasp of a
hand large as a man's, but soft as a woman's.
"Why did you not come sooner?"
More than one possible excuse flashed thro' Hilary's mind, but she
was too honest to give it. She gave none at all. Nor did she like to
leave the impression that this was merely a visit, when she knew she
had only come from secondary and personal motives.
"May I tell you why I came to-day?--Because I want advice and help,
and I think you can give it, from something I heard about you
yesterday."
"Indeed! From whom?"
"In rather a roundabout way; from Mrs. Jones, who told our
maid-servant."
"The same girl I met on the staircase at your bones? I beg your
pardon, but I know where you live, Miss Leaf; your landlady happens
to be an acquaintance of mine."
"So she said: and she told our Elizabeth that you were a rich and
benevolent woman, who took a great interest in helping other women;
not in money"--blushing scarlet at be idea--"I don't mean that, but
in procuring them work. I want work--oh! so terribly. If you only
knew--"
"Sit down, my dear;" for Hilary was rambling much, her voice
breaking, and her eyes filling, in spite of all her self-command.
Miss Balquidder--who seemed accustomed to wait upon herself--went out
of the room, and returned with cake and glasses; then she took the
wine from the side-board, poured some oat for herself and Hilary, and
began to talk.
"It is nearly my luncheon-time, and I am a great friend to regular
eating and drinking. I never let any thing interfere with my own
meals, or other folks' either, if I can help it. I would as soon
expect that fire to keep itself up without coals, as my mind to go on
working if I don't look after my body. You understand? You seem to
have good health, Miss Leaf. I hope you are a prudent girl, and take
care of it."
"I think I do;" and Hilary smiled. "At any rate my sister does for
me, and also Elizabeth."
"Ah, I liked the look of that girl. If families did but know that the
most useful patent of respectability they can carry about with them
is their maid-servant! That is how I always judge my new
acquaintances."
"There's reason in it, too," said Hilary, amused and drawn out of
herself by the frank manner and the cordial voice--I use the
adjective advisedly; none the less sweet because its good terse
English had a decided Scotch accent, with here and there a Scotch
word. Also there was about Miss Balquidder a certain dry humor
essentially Scotch--neither Irish "wit" nor English "fun," but Scotch
humor; a little ponderous perhaps, yet sparkling: like the sparkles
from a large lump of coal, red-warm at the heart, and capable of
warming a whole household. As many a time it had warmed the little
household at Stowbury--for Robert Lyon had it in perfection. Like a
waft as from old times, it made Hilary at once feel at home with Miss
Balquidder. Equally, Miss Balquidder might have seen something in
this girl's patient, heroic, forlorn youth which reminded her of her
own. Unreasoning as these sudden attractions appear, there is often a
hidden something beneath which in reality makes them both natural and
probable, as was the case here. In half an hour these two women were
sitting talking like old friends; and Hilary had explained her
present position, needs and desires. They ended in the one
cry--familiar to how many thousands more of helpless young women!--"I
want work!"
Miss Balquidder listened thoughtfully. Not that it was a new
story--alas! she heard it every day; but there was something new in
the telling of it; such extreme directness and simplicity, such utter
want of either false pride or false shame, No asking of favors, and
yet no shrinking from well-means kindness; the poor woman speaking
freely to the rich one, recognizing the common womanhood of both, and
never supposing for an instant that mere money or position could make
any difference between them.
The story ended, both turned, as was the character of both, to the
practical application of it--what it was exactly that Hilary needed,
and what Miss Balquidder could supply.
The latter said, after a turn or two up and down the room, with her
hands behind her--the only masculine trick she had--
"My dear, before going further, I ought to tell you one thing--I am
not a lady."
Hilary looked at her in no little bewilderment.
"That is," explained Miss Balquidder, laughing, "not an educated
gentlewoman like you. I made my money myself--in trade. I kept an
outfitter's shop."
"You must have kept it uncommonly well," was the involuntary reply,
which, in its extreme honesty and naivete, was perhaps the best thing
that Hilary could have said.
"Well, perhaps I did," and Miss Balquidder laughed her hearty laugh,
betraying one of her few weaknesses--a consciousness of her own
capabilities as a woman of business, and a pleasure at her own
deserved success.
"Therefore, you see. I can not help you as a governess. Perhaps I
would not if I could, for, so far as I see, a good clearance of one
half the governesses into honest trades would be for their own
benefit, and greatly to the benefit of the other half. But that's not
my affair. I only meddle with things I understand. Miss Leaf, would
you be ashamed of keeping a shop?"
It is no reflection upon Hilary to confess that this point-blank
question startled her.--Her bringing up had been strictly among the
professional class; and in the provinces sharper than even in London
is drawn the line between the richest tradesman who "keeps a shop,"
and the poorest lawyer, doctor, or clergyman who ever starved in
decent gentility. It had been often a struggle for Hilary Leaf's
girlish pride to have to teach A B C to little boys and girls whose
parents stood behind counters; but as she grew older she grew wiser,
and intercourse with Robert Lyon had taught her much. She never
forgot, one day, when Selina asked him something about his
grandfather or great-grandfather, and he answered quickly, smiling,
"Well, I suppose I had one, but I really never heard." Nevertheless
it takes long to conquer entirely the class prejudices of years, nay,
more, of generations. In spite of her will Hilary felt herself wince,
and the color rush all over her face, at Miss Balquidder's question.
"Take time to answer, and speak out, my dear. Don't be afraid. You'll
not offend me."
The kindly cheerful tone made Hilary recover her balance immediately.
"I never thought of it before; the possibility of such a thing did
not occur to me; but I hope I should not be ashamed of any honest
work for which I was competent. Only--to serve in a shop--to want
upon strangers--I am so horribly shy of strangers." And again the
sensitive color rushed in a perfect tide over checks and forehead.
Miss Balquidder looked, half amused, compassionately at her.
"No, my dear, you would not make a good shop-woman, at least there
are many who are better fitted for it than you; and it is my maxim
that people should try to find out, and to do, only that which they
are best fitted for. If they did we might not have so many cases of
proud despair and ambitious failure in the world. It looks very grand
and interesting sometimes to try and do what you can't de, and then
tear your hair, and think the world has ill-used you--very grand, but
very silly: when all the while, perhaps, there is something else you
can do thoroughly well; and the world will be exceedingly obliged to
you for doing it, and not doing the other thing.--As doubtless the
world was to me, when, instead of being a mediocre musician, as I
once wished to be--it's true, my dear--I took to keeping one of the
best ladies' outfitting warehouses in London."
While she talked her companion had quite recovered herself, and Miss
Balquidder then went on to explain, what I will tell more briefly, if
less graphically, than the good Scotchwoman, who, like all who have
had a hard struggle in their youth, liked a little to dilate upon it
in easy old age. Hard as it was, however, it had ended early, for at
fifty she found herself a woman of independent property, without kith
or kin, still active, energetic, and capable of enjoying life. She
applied her mind to find out what she could best do with herself and
her money.
"I might have bought a landed estate to be inherited by--nobody; or a
house in Belgravia, and an opera-box, to be shared by--nobody. We all
have our pet luxuries; none of these were exactly mine."
"No," assented Hilary, somewhat abstractedly. She was thinking--if
she could make a fortune, and--and give it away!--if, by any means,
any honorable, upright heart could be made to understand that it did
not signify, in reality, which side the money came from; that it
sometimes showed deeper, the very deepest attachment, when a proud,
poor man had self-respect and courage enough to say to a woman, "I
love you, and I will marry you; I am not such a coward as to be
afraid of your gold."
But, oh! what a ridiculous dream!--and she sat there, the penniless
Hilary Leaf, listening to Miss Balquidder, the rich lady, whose life
seemed so easy. For the moment, perhaps, her own appeared hard. But
she had hope, and she was young. She knew nothing of the years and
years that had had to be lived through before those kind eyes looked
as clear and cloudless as now; before the voice had gained the sweet
evenness of tone which she liked to listen to, and felt that it made
her quiet and "good," almost like Johanna's.
"You see, my dear," said Miss Balquidder, "when one has no duties,
one must just make them; when we have nobody to care for us, we must
take to caring for every body. I suppose"--here a slight pause
indicated that this life, like all women's lives, had had its tale,
now long, long told--"I suppose I was not meant to be a wife; but I
am quite certain I was meant to be a mother. And"--with her peculiar,
bright, humorous look--"you'd be astonished, Miss Leaf, if you knew
what lots of 'children' I have in all parts of the world."
Miss Balquidder then went on to explain, that finding, from her own
experience, how great was the number, and how sore the trial of young
women who nowadays are obliged to work--obliged to forget that there
is such a thing as the blessed privilege of being worked for--she had
set herself, in her small way, to try and help them. Her pet project
was to induce educated women to quit the genteel starvation of
governesships for some good trade thereby bringing higher
intelligence into a class which needed, not the elevation of the work
itself, which was comparatively easy and refined, but of the workers.
She had therefore invested sum after sum of her capital in setting up
various small shops in the environs of London, in her own former
line, and others--stationers, lace-shops, etc.--trades which could be
well carried on by women.--Into the management of these she put as
many young girls as she could find really fitted for it, or willing
to learn, paying them regular salaries, large or small, according to
their deserts.
"Fair work, fair pay; not one penny more or less; I never do it; it
would not be honest. I overlook each business myself, and it is
carried on in my name. Sometimes it brings me in a little profit;
sometimes not. Of course," she added, smiling. "I would rather have
profits than losses; still, I balance one against the other, and it
leaves me generally a small interest for my money--two or three per
cent., which is all I care about. Thus, you see. I and my young
people make a fair bargain on both sides; it's no charity. I don't
believe in charity."
"No," said Hilary, feeling her spirit rise. She was yet young enough,
yet enough unworn by the fight to feel the deliciousness of
work--honest work for honest pay. "I think I could do it," she added.
"I think, with a little practice, I really could keep a shop."
"At all events, perhaps you could do what I find more difficult to
get done, and well done, for it requires a far higher class of women
than generally apply: you could keep the accounts of a shop; you
should be the head, and it would be easy to find the hands, Let me
see; there is a young lady, she has managed my stationer's business
at Kensington these two years, and now she is going to be married.
Are you good at figures; do you understand book-keeping?"
And suddenly changing into the woman of business, and one who was
evidently quite accustomed both to arrange and command, Miss
Balquidder put Hilary through a sort of extempore arithmetical
catechism, from which she came off with flying colors.
"I only wish there were more like you. I wish there were more young
ladies brought up like--"
"Like boys!" said Hilary, laughing, "for I always used to say that
was my case."
"No, I never desire to see young women made into men." And Miss
Balquidder seemed a little scandalized. "But I do wish girls were
taught fewer accomplishments, and more reading, writing, and
arithmetic; were made as accurate, orderly, and able to help
themselves as boys are. But to business. Will you take the management
of my stationer's shop?"
Hilary's breath came hard and fast. Much as she had longed for work,
to get this sort of work--to keep a stationer's shop? What would her
sisters say? what would he say! But she dared not think of that just
now.
"How much should I be able to earn, do you think?"
Miss Balquidder considered a moment, and then said, rather shortly,
for it was not exactly acting on her own principles; she knew the pay
was above the work. "I will give you a hundred a year."
A hundred a year! actually certain, and over and above any other
income. It seemed a fortune to poor Hilary.
"Will you give me a day or two to think about it and consult my
sisters?"
She spoke quietly, but Miss Balquidder could see how agitated she
was; how she evidently struggled with many feelings that would be
best struggled with alone. The good old lady rose.
"Take your own time, my dear; I will keep the situation open for you
for one week from this date. And now I must send you away, for I have
a great deal to do."
They parted quite like friends; and Hilary went out, walking quickly,
feeling neither the wind nor the rain. Yet when she reached No. 15
she could not bring herself to enter, but took another turn or two
round the Crescent, trying to be quite sure of her own mind before
she opened the matter to her sisters.--
And there was one little battle to be fought which the sisters did
know.
It was perhaps foolish, seeing she did not belong to him in any open
way, and he had no external right over her life or her actions, that
she should go back and back to the question, "What would Robert Lyon
say?"
He knew she earned her daily bread; sometimes this had seemed to vex
and annoy him, but it must be done; and when a thing was inevitable,
it was not Mr. Lyon's way to say much about it. But being a governess
was an accredited and customary mode of a young lady's earning her
livelihood. This was different. If he should think it too public, too
unfeminine: he had such a horror of a woman's being any thing but a
woman, as strong and brave as she could, but in a womanly way; doing
any thing, however painful, that she was obliged to do, but never out
of choice or bravado, or the excitement of stepping out of her own
sphere into man's. Would Robert Lyon think less of her, Hilary,
because she had to earn to take care of herself, to protect herself,
and to act in so many ways for herself, contrary to the natural and
right order of things? That old order--God forbid it should ever
change!--which ordained that the women should be "keepers at home;"
happy rulers of that happy little world, which seemed as far off as
the next world from this poor Hilary.
"What if he should look down upon me? What if he should return and
find me different from what he expected?"
And bitter tears burned in her eyes, as she walked rapidly and
passionately along the deserted street. Then a revulsion came.
"No; love is worth nothing that is not worth every thing, and to be
trusted through every thing. If he could forget me--could love any
one better than me--me myself, no matter what I was--ugly or pretty,
old or young, rich or poor--I would not care for his love. It would
not be worth my having; I'd let it go. Robert, though it broke my
heart, I'd let you go."
Her eyes flashed; her poor little hand clenched itself under her
shawl; and then, as a half reproach, she heard in fancy the steady
loving voice--which could have calmed her wildest paroxysm of passion
and pain--"You must trust me, Hilary."
Yes, he was a man to be trusted. No doubt very much like other men,
and by no means such a hero to the world at large as this fond girl
made him out to be; but Robert Lyon had, with all people, and under
all circumstances, the character of reliableness. He had also--you
might read it in his face--a quality equally rare, faithfulness. Not
merely sincerity, but faithfulness; the power of conceiving one clear
purpose, or one strong love--in unity of strength--and of not only
keeping true to it at the time, but of holding fast to it with a
single-minded persistency that never even takes in the idea of
voluntary change, as long as persistency is right or possible.
"Robert, Robert!" sobbed this forlorn girl, as if slowly waking up to
a sense of her forlorness, and of the almost universal fickleness,
not actual falseness, but fickleness, which prevails in the world and
among mankind. "O Robert, be faithful! faithful to yourself--faithful
to me!"