Ascott Leaf never came home.
Day after day appeared the advertisement, sometimes slightly altered,
as hope or fear suggested; but no word, no letter, no answer of any
kind reached the anxious women.
By-and-by, moved by their distress, or perhaps feeling that the
scape-grace would be safer got rid of if found and dispatched abroad
in some decent manner, Mr. Ascott himself took measures for privately
continuing the search. Every outward-bound ship was examined; every
hospital visited; every case of suicide investigated: but in vain.
The unhappy young man had disappeared, suddenly and completely, as
many another has disappeared, out of the home circle, and been never
heard of more.
It is difficult to understand how a family can possibly hear such a
sorrow, did we not know that many have had to bear it, and have borne
it, with all its load of agonizing suspense, slowly dying hope,
"The hope that keeps alive despair," settling down into a permanent
grief, compared to which the grief for loss by death is light and
endurable.
The Leaf family went through all this. Was it better or worse for
them that their anguish had to be secret? that there were no friends
to pity, inquire, or console? that Johanna had to sit hour by hour
and day by day in the solitary parlor, Selina having soon gone back
to her old ways of "gadding about," and her marriage preparations;
and that, hardest of all, Hilary had on the Monday morning to return
to Kensington and work, work, work, as nothing were amiss?
But it was natural that all this should tell upon her; and one day
Miss Balquidder said, after a long covert observation of her face,
"My dear, you look ill. Is there any thing troubling you? My young
people always tell me their troubles, bodily or mental. I doctor
both."
"I am sure of it," said Hilary, with a sad smile, but entered into no
explanation, and Miss Balquidder had the wise kindliness to inquire
no further. Nevertheless, on some errand or other she came to
Kensington nearly every evening and took Hilary back with her to
sleep at No. 15.
"Your sister Selina must wish to have you with her as much as
possible till she is married." she said, as a reason for doing this.
And Hilary acquiesced, but silently, as we often do acquiesce in what
ought to be a truth, but which we know to be the saddest, most
painful falsehood.
For Selina, it became plain to see, was one of the family no more.
After her first burst of self-reproachful grief she took Mr. Ascott's
view of her nephew's loss--that it was a good riddance; went on
calmly with her bridal preparations, and seemed only afraid lest any
thing should interfere to prevent her marriage.
But the danger was apparently tided over. No news of Ascott came.
Even the daily inquiries for him by his creditors had ceased. His
Aunt Selina was beginning to breathe freely, when, the morning before
the wedding day, as they were all sitting in the midst of white
finery, but as sadly and silently as if it were a funeral, a person
was suddenly shown in "on business."
It was a detective officer sent to find out from Ascott Leaf's aunts
whether a certain description of him, in a printed hand-bill, was
correct. For his principal creditor, exasperated, had determined on
thus advertising him in the public papers as having "absconded."
Had a thunder-bolt fallen in the little parlor the three aunts could
not have been more utterly overwhelmed. They made no "scene"--a
certain sense of pride kept these poor gentlewomen from betraying
their misery to a strange man; though he was a very civil man, and
having delivered himself of his errand, like an automaton, sat
looking into his hat, and taking no notice of aught around him. He
was accustomed to this sort of thing.
Hilary was the first to recover herself. She glanced round at her
sisters, but they had not a word to say. In any crisis of family
difficulty they always left her to take the helm.
Rapidly she ran over in her mind all the consequences that would
arise from this new trouble--the public disgrace; Mr. Ascott's anger
and annoyance, not that she cared much for this, except so far as it
would affect Selina; lastly, the death-blow it was to any possible
hope of reclaiming the poor prodigal. Who she did not believe was
dead, but still, fondly trusted he would return one day from his
wanderings and his swine's husks, to have the fatted calf killed for
him and glad tears shed over him. But after being advertised as
"absconded," Ascott never would, never could, come home any home.
Taking as cool and business-like a tone as she could, she returned
the paper to the detective.
"This is a summary proceeding. Is there no way of avoiding it?"
"One, Miss," replied the man, very respectfully. "If the family would
pay the debt."
"Do you know how much it is?"
"Eighty pounds."
"Ah!"
That hopeless sigh of Johanna's was sufficient answer, though no one
spoke.
But in desperate cases some women acquire a desperate courage, or
rather it is less courage than faith--the faith which is said to
"remove mountains"--the belief that to the very last there must be
something to be done, and, if it can be done, they will have strength
to do it. True, the mountain may not be removed, but the mere act of
faith, or courage sometimes teaches how to climb over it.
"Very well. Take this paper back to your employer. He must be aware
that his only chance of payment is by suppressing it. If he will do
that, in two days he shall hear from us, and we will make
arrangements about paying the debt."
Hilary said this, to her sisters' utter astonishment; so utter that
they let her say it, and let the detective go away with a civil "Good
morning," before they could interfere or contradict by a word.
"Paying the debt! Hilary, what have you promised? It is an
impossibility."
"Like the Frenchman's answer to his mistress--'Madame, if it had been
possible it would have been done already; if it is impossible, it
shall be done.' It shall, I say."
"I wonder you can jest about our misfortunes," said Selina, in her
most querulous voice.
"I'm not jesting. But where is the use of sitting down to moan! I
mean what I say. The thing must be done."
Her eyes glittered--her small, red lips were set tightly together.
"If it is not done, sisters--if his public disgrace is not prevented,
don't you see the result? Not as regards your marriage, Selina--the
man must be a coward who would refuse to marry a woman he cared for,
even though her nearest kinsman had been hanged at the Old
Bailey--but Ascott himself. The boy is not a bad boy, though he has
done wickedly; but there is a difference between a wicked act and a
wicked nature. I mean to save him if I can."
"How?"
"By saving his good name; by paying the debt."
"And where on earth shall you get the money?"
"I will go to Miss Balquidder and--"
"Borrow it?"
"No, never! I would as soon think of stealing it."
Then controlling herself, Hilary explained that she meant to ask Miss
Balquidder to arrange for her with the creditor to pay the eighty
pounds by certain weekly or monthly installments, to be deducted from
her salary at Kensington.
"It is not a very great favor to ask of her: merely that she should
say, 'This young woman is employed by me: I believe her to be honest,
respectable, and so forth; also, that when she makes a promise to
pay, she will to the best of her power perform it.' A character which
is at present rather a novelty in the Leaf family."
"Hilary!"
"I am growing bitter, Johanna; I know I am. Why should we suffer so
much! Why should we be always dragged down--down--in this way? Why
should we never have had any one to cherish and take care of us, like
other women! Why--"
Miss Leaf laid her finger on her child's lips--
"Because it is the will of God."
Hilary flung herself on her dear old sister's neck and burst into tears.
Selina too cried a little, and said that she should like to help in
paying the debt, if Mr. Ascott had no objection. And then she turned
back to her white splendors, and became absorbed in the annoyance of
there being far too much clematis and far too little orange blossom
in the bridal bonnet--which it was now too late to change. A little,
also, she vexed herself about the risk of confiding in Miss
Balquidder, lest by any chance the story might get round to Russell
Square; and was urgent that at least nothing should be said or done
until after to-morrow. She was determined to be married, and dreaded
any slip between the cup and lip.
But Hilary was resolute. "I said that in two days the matter should
be arranged, and so it must be, or the man will think we too break
our promises."
"You can assure him to the contrary," said Selina, with dignity. "In
fact, why can't you arrange with him without going at all to Miss
Balquidder?"
Again the fierce, bitter expression returned to Hilary's face.
"You forget, Miss Balquidder's honest name is his only guarantee
against the dishonesty of ours."
"Hilary, you disgrace us--disgrace me--speaking in such a way. Are we
not gentle women?"
"I don't know, Selina. I don't seem to know or to feel any thing,
except that I would live on bread and water in order to live
peaceably and honestly. Oh, will it ever, ever be?"
She walked up and down the parlor, disarranging the white draperies
which lay about, feeling unutterable contempt for them and for her
sister. Angry and miserable, with every nerve quivering, she was at
war with the whole world.
This feeling lasted even when, after some discussion, she gained her
point and was on her way to call on Miss Balquidder. She went round
and round the Square many times, trying to fix in her mind word for
word what she meant to say; revealing no more of the family history
than was absolutely necessary, and stating her business in the
briefest, hardest, most matter-of-fact way--putting it as a
transaction between employer and employed, in which there was no more
favor asked or bestowed than could possibly be avoided. And as the
sharp east wind blew across her at every corner, minute by minute she
felt herself growing more fierce, and hard, and cold.
"This will never do. I shall be wicked by-and-by. I must go in and
get it over."
Perhaps it was as well. Well for her, morally as physically, that
there should have been that sudden change from the blighting weather
outside to the warm, well-lighted room where the good rich woman sat
at her early and solitary tea.
Very solitary it looked--the little table in the centre of that large
handsome parlor, with the one cup and saucer, the one easy-chair. And
as Hilary entered she noticed, amidst all this comfort and luxury,
the still, grave, almost sad expression which solitary people always
get to wear.
But the next minute Miss Balquidder had turned round, and risen,
smiling.
"Miss Leaf, how very kind of you to come and see me! Just the day
before the wedding, too, when you must be so busy! Sit down and tell
me all about it. But first, my dear, how wet your boots are! Let me
take them off at once."
Which she did, sending for her own big slippers, and putting them on
the tiny feet with her own hands.
Hilary submitted--in truth she was too much surprised to resist.
Miss Balquidder had, like most folk, her opinions or "crotchets"--as
they might be--and one of them was, to keep her business and friendly
relations entirely distinct and apart. Whenever she went to
Kensington or her other establishments she was always emphatically
"the mistress"--a kindly and even motherly mistress, certainly, but
still authoritative, decided. Moreover, it was her invariable rule to
treat all her employees alike--"making no step-bairns" among them.
Thus for some time it had happened that Hilary had been, and felt
herself to be, just Miss Leaf, the book keeper, doing her duty to
Miss Balquidder, her employer, and neither expecting nor attaining
any closer relation.
But in her own house, or it might be from the sudden apparition of
that young face at her lonely fireside, Miss Balquidder appeared
quite different.
A small thing touches a heart that is sore with trouble. When the
good woman rose up--after patting the little feet, and approving
loudly of the woolen stockings--she saw that Hilary's whole face was
quivering with the effort to keep back her tears.
There are some woman of whom one feels by instinct that they were, as
Miss Balquidder had once jokingly said of herself, specially meant to
be mothers. And though, in its strange providence, Heaven often
denies the maternity, it can not and does not mean to shut up the
well-spring of that maternal passion--truly a passion to such women
as these, almost as strong as the passion of love--but lets the
stream, which might otherwise have blessed one child or one family,
flow out wide and far, blessing wherever it goes.
In a tone that somehow touched every fibre of Hilary's heart, Miss
Balquidder said, placing her on a low chair beside her own.
"My dear, you are in trouble. I saw it a week or two ago, but did not
like to speak. Couldn't you say it out, and let me help you? You need
not be afraid. I never tell any thing, and every body tells every
thing to me."
That was true. Added to this said mother-liness of hers, Miss
Balquidder, possessed that faculty, which some people have in a
remarkable degree, and some--very good people too--are totally
deficient in, of attracting confidence. The secrets she had been
trusted with, the romances she had been mixed up in, the Quixotic
acts she had been called upon to perform during her long life, would
have made a novel--or several novels--such as no novelist could dare
to write, for the public would condemn them as impossible and
unnatural. But all this experience--though happily it could never be
put into a book--had given to the woman herself a view of human
nature at once so large, lenient, and just, that she was the best
person possible to hear the strange and pitiful story of young Ascott
Leaf.
How it came out Hilary hardly knew; she seemed to have told very
little, and yet Miss Balquidder guessed it all. It did not appear to
surprise or shock her. She neither began to question nor preach; she
only laid her hand, her large, motherly, protecting hand, on the
bowed head, saying.
"How much you must have suffered, my poor bairn!"
The soft Scotch tone and word--the grave, quiet Scotch manner,
implying more than it even expressed--was it wonderful if underlying
as well as outside influences made Hilary completely give way?
Robert Lyon had had a mother, who died when he was seventeen, but of
whom he kept the tenderest remembrance, often saying that of all the
ladies he had met with in the world there was none equal to her--the
strong, tender, womanly peasant woman--refined in mind and word and
ways--though to the last day of her life she spoke broad Scotch, and
did the work of her cottage with her own hands. It seems as if that
mother--toward whom Hilary's fancy had clung, lovingly as a woman
ought to cling, above all others, to the mother of the man she
loves--were speaking to her now, comforting her and helping
her--comfort and help that it would have been sweeter to receive from
her than from any woman living.
A mere fancy; but in her state of long uncontrolled excitement it
took such possession of her that Hilary fell on her knees and hid her
face in Miss Balquidder's lap, sobbing aloud.
The other was a little surprised; it was not her Scotch way to yield
to emotion before folk; but she was a wise woman she asked no
questions, merely held the quivering hands and smoothed the throbbing
head, till composure returned. Some people have a magical, mesmeric
power of soothing and controlling; it was hers. When she took the
poor face between her hands, and looked straight into the eyes, with,
"There, you are better now," Hilary returned the gaze as steadily,
nay, smilingly, and rose.
"Now, may I tell you my business?"
"Certainly, my dear. When one's friends are in trouble, the last
thing one ought to do is to sit down beside them and moan. Did you
come to ask my advice, or had you any definite plan of your own?"
"I had." And Hilary told it.
"A very good plan, and very generous in you to think of it. But I see
two strong objections: first, whether it can be carried out;
secondly, whether it ought."
Hilary shrank, sensitively.
"Not on my account, my dear, but your own. I often see people making
martyrs of themselves for some worthless character on whom the
sacrifice is utterly wasted. I object to this, as I would object to
throwing myself or my friend into a blazing house, unless I were
morally certain there was a life to be saved. Is there in this case?"
"I think there is! I trust in Heaven there is!" said Hilary,
earnestly.
There was both pleasure and pity expressed in Miss Balquidder's
countenance as she replied, "Be it so: that is a matter on which no
one can judge except yourself. But on the other matter you ask my
advice, and I must give it. To maintain two ladies and pay a debt of
eighty pounds out of one hundred a year is simply impossible."
"With Johanna's income and mine it will be a hundred and twenty
pounds and some odd shillings a year."
"You accurate girl! But even with this it can not be done, unless you
were to live in a manner so restricted in the commonest comforts that
at your sister's age she would be sure to suffer. You must look on
the question from all sides, my dear. You must be just to others as
well as to that young man, who seems never to-- But I will leave him
unjudged."
They were both silent for a minute, and then Miss Balquidder said: "I
feel certain there is but one rational way of accomplishing the thing
if you are bent upon doing it, if your own judgment and conscience
tell you it ought to be done. Is it so?"
"Yes," said Hilary, firmly.
The old Scotswoman took her hand with a warm pressure. "Very well. I
don't blame you. I might have done the same myself. Now to my plan.
Miss Leaf, have you known me long enough to confer on me the
benediction--one of the few that we rich folk possess 'It is more
blessed to give than to receive?' "
"I don't quite understand."
"Then allow me to explain. I happen to know this creditor of your
nephew's. He being a tailor and outfitter, we have had dealings
together in former times, and I know him to be a hard man, an
unprincipled man, such a one as no young woman should have to do
with, even in business relations. To be in his power, as you would be
for some years if your scheme of gradual payment were carried out, is
the last thing I should desire for you. Let me suggest another way.
Take me for your creditor instead of him. Pay him at once, and I will
write you a check for the amount."
The thing was put so delicately, in such an ordinary manner, as if it
were a mere business arrangement, that at first Hilary hardly
perceived all it implied. When she did--when she found that it was in
plain terms a gift or loan of eighty pounds offered by a person
almost a stranger, she was at first quite bewildered. Then (ah! let
us not blame her if she carried to a morbid excess that noble
independence which is the foundation of all true dignity in man or
woman) she shrunk back into herself, overcome with annoyance and
shame. At last she forced herself to say, though the words came out
rather coldly.
"You are very good, and I am exceedingly obliged to you; but I never
borrowed money in my life. It is quite impossible."
"Very well; I can understand your feelings. I beg your pardon,"
replied Miss Balquidder, also somewhat coldly.
They sat silent and awkward, and then the elderly lady took out a
pencil and began to make calculations in her memorandum book.
"I am reckoning what is the largest sum per month that you could
reasonably be expected to spare, and how you may make the most of
what remains. Are you aware that London lodgings are very expensive?
I am thinking that if you were to exchange out of the Kensington shop
into another I have at Richmond, I could offer you the first floor
above it for much less rent than you pay Mrs. Jones; and you could
have your sister living with you."
"Ah! that would make us both so much happier! How good you are!"
"You will see I only wish to help you to help yourself; not to put
you under any obligation. Though I can not see any thing so very
terrible in your being slightly indebted to an old woman, who has
neither chick nor child, and is at perfect liberty to do what she
likes with her own."
There was a pathos in the tone which smote Hilary into quick
contrition.
"Forgive me! But I have such a horror of borrowing money--you must
know why after what I have told you of our family. You must surely
understand--"
"I do fully; but there are limits even to independence. A person who,
for his own pleasure, is ready to take money from any body and every
body, without the slightest prospect or intention of returning it, is
quite different from a friend who in a case of emergency accepts help
from another friend, being ready and willing to take every means of
repayment, as I knew you were, and meant you to be. I meant, as you
suggested, to stop out of your salary so much per month, till I had
my eighty pounds sate back again."
"But suppose you never had it back? I am young and strong; still I
might fall ill--I might die, and you never be repaid."
"Yes, I should," said Miss Balquidder, with a serious smile. "You
forget, my dear bairn, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of these
little ones, ye have done it unto ME.' 'He that giveth to the poor
lendeth to the LORD.' I have lent Him a good deal at different times,
and He has always paid me back with usury."
There was something at once solemn and a little sad in the way the
old lady spoke. Hilary forgot her own side of the subject; her pride,
her humiliation.
"But do you not think, Miss Balquidder, that one ought to work on,
struggle on, to the last extremity, before one accepts an obligation,
most of all a money obligation?"
"I do, as a general principle. Yet money is not the greatest thing in
this world, that a pecuniary debt should be the worst to bear. And
sometimes one of the kindest acts you can do to a
fellow-creature--one that touches and softens his heart, nay, perhaps
wins it to you for life, is to accept a favor from him."
Hilary made no reply.
"I speak a little from experience. I have not had a very happy life
myself; at least most people would say so if they knew it; but the
Lord has made it up to me by giving me the means of bringing
happiness, in money as well as other ways, to other people. Most of
us have our favorite luxuries; this is mine. I like to do people
good; I like, also--though maybe that is a mean weakness--to feel
that I do it. If all whom I have been made instrumental in helping
had said to me, as you have done, 'I will not be helped, I will not
be made happy,' it would have been rather hard for me."
And a smile, half humorous, half sad, came over the hard-featured
face, spiritualizing its whole expression.
Hilary wavered. She compared her own life, happy still, and hopeful,
for all its cares, with that of this lonely woman, whose only
blessing was her riches, except the generous heart which sanctified
them, and made them such. Humbled, nay, ashamed, she took and kissed
the kindly hand which has succored so many, yet which, in the
inscrutable mystery of Providence, had been left to go down to the
grave alone; missing all that is personal, dear, and precious to a
woman's heart, and getting instead only what Hilary now gave her--the
half-sweet, half-bitter payment of gratitude.
"Well, my bairn, what is to be done?"
"I will do whatever you think right," murmured Hilary.