It was not a cheerful morning on which to be married. A dense,
yellow, London fog, the like of which the Misses Leaf had never yet
seen, penetrated into every corner of the parlor at No. 15, where
they were breakfasting drearily by candle-light, all in their wedding
attire. They had been up since six in morning, and Elizabeth had
dressed her three mistresses one after the other, taking exceeding
pleasure in the performance. For she was still little more than a
girl, to whom a wedding was a wedding, and this was the first she had
ever had to do with in her life.
True, it disappointed her in some things. She was a little surprised
that last evening had passed off just like all other evenings. The
interest and bustle of packing soon subsided--the packing consisting
only of the traveling trunk, for the rest of the trousseau went
straight to Russell Square, every means having been taken to ignore
the very existence of No. 15; and then the three ladies had supper as
usual, and went to bed at their customary hour without any special
demonstrations of emotion of affection. To Elizabeth this was
strange. She had not yet learned the unspeakable bitterness of a
parting where no body has any grief to restrain.
On a wedding morning, of course, there is no time to be spared for
sentiment. The principal business appeared to be--dressing. Mr.
Ascott had insisted on doing his part in making his new connections
appear "respectable" at his marriage, and for Selina's sake they had
consented. Indeed, it was inevitable: they had no money whatever to
clothe themselves withal. They must either have accepted Mr. Ascott's
gifts--in which, to do him justice, he was both thoughtful and
liberal--or they must have staid away from the wedding altogether,
which they did not like to do "for the sake of the family."
So, with a sense of doing their last duty by the sister, who would
be, they felt, henceforward a sister no more, Miss Leaf attired
herself in her violet silk and white China shawl, and Miss Hilary put
on her silver-grey poplin, with a cardinal cape, as was then in
fashion, trimmed with white swan's-down. It was rather an elderly
costume for a bridemaid; but she was determined to dress warmly, and
not risk, in muslins and laces, the health which to her now was
money, life--nay, honor.
For Ascott's creditor had been already paid: Miss Balquidder never
let grass grow under her feet. When Hilary returned to her sisters
that day there was no longer any fear of public exposure; she had the
receipted bill in her hand, and she was Miss Balquidder's debtor to
the extent of eighty pounds.
But it was no debt of disgrace or humiliation, nor did she feel it as
such. She had learned the lesson which the large hearted rich can
always teach the poor, that, while there is sometimes, to some
people, no more galling chain, there is to others--and these are the
highest natures, too--no more firm and sacred bond than gratitude.
But still the debt was there; and Hilary would never feel quite easy
till it was paid--in money, at least. The generosity she never wished
to repay. She would rather feel it wrapping her round, like an arm
that was heavy only through its exceeding tenderness, to the end of
her days.
Nevertheless she had arranged that there was to be a regular monthly
deduction from her salary; and how, by retrenchment, to make this
monthly payment as large as she could, was a question which had
occupied herself and Johanna for a good while after they had retired
to rest. For there was no time to be lost. Mrs. Jones must be given
notice to; and there was another notice to be given, if the Richmond
plan were carried out; another sad retrenchment, foreboding which,
when Elizabeth brought up supper, Miss Hilary could hardly look the
girl in the face, and, when she bade her good night, had felt almost
like a secret conspirator.
For she knew that, if the money to clear this debt was to be saved,
they must part with Elizabeth.
No doubt the personal sacrifice would be considerable, for Hilary
would have to do the work of their two rooms with her own hands, and
give up a hundred little comforts in which Elizabeth, now become a
most clever and efficient servant, had made herself necessary to them
both. But the two ladies did not think of that at the moment; they
only thought of the pain of parting with her. They thought of it
sorely, even though she was but a servant, and there was a family
parting close at hand. Alas! people must take what they earn. It was
a melancholy fact that, of the two impending losses, the person they
should miss most would be, not their sister, but Elizabeth.
Both regrets combined made them sit at the breakfast table--the last
meal they should ever take together as a family--sad and sorry,
speaking about little else than the subject which presented itself as
easiest and uppermost, namely, clothes.
Finally, they stood all completely arrayed, even to bonnets; Hilary
looking wonderfully bewitching in hers, which was the very pattern of
one that may still be seen in a youthful portrait of our gracious
Queen--a large round brim, with a wreath of roses inside; while Miss
Leaf's was somewhat like it, only with little bunches of white
ribbon: "for," she said, "my time of roses has gone by." But her
sweet faded face had a peace that was not in the other two--not even
in Hilary's.
But the time arrived; the carriage drew up at the door. Then nature
and sisterly feeling asserted themselves for a minute. Miss Selina
"gave way," not to any loud or indecorous extent, to nothing that
could in the least harm her white satin, or crumple her laces and
ribbons; but she did shed a tear or two--real honest tears--kissed
her sisters affectionately, hoped they would be very happy at
Richmond, and that they would often come to see her at Russell
Square.
"You know," said she, half apologetically, "it is a great deal better
for one of us at least to be married and settled. Indeed I assure
you. I have done it all for the good of my family."
And for the time being she devoutly believed she had.
So it was all over. Elizabeth herself, from the aisle of St. Pancras
Church, watched the beginning and ending of the show; a very fine
show, with a number of handsomely dressed people, wedding guests, who
seemed to stare about them a good deal and take little interest in
either bride or bridegroom. The only persons Elizabeth recognized
were her mistresses--Miss Leaf, who kept her veil down and never
stirred; and Miss Hilary, who stood close behind the bride, listening
with downcast eyes to the beautiful marriage service. It must have
touched her more than on her sister's account, for a tear, gathered
under each eyelash, silently rolled down the soft cheek and fell."
"Miss Hilary's an angel, and he'll be a lucky man that gets her,"
meditated her faithful "bower-maiden" of old; as, a little excited by
the event of the morning, she stood by the mantle-piece and
contemplated a letter which had come after the ladies departed; one
of these regular monthly Indian letters, after which, Elizabeth was
sharp enough to notice, Miss Hilary's step always grew lighter and
her eye brighter for many days.
"It must be a nice thing to have somebody fond of one, and somebody
to be fond of," meditated she. And "old fashioned piece of goods" as
she was--according to Mrs. Jones (who now, from the use she was in
the Jones's menage, patronized and confided in her extremely) some
little bit of womanly craving after the woman's one hope and crown of
bliss crept into the poor maid-servant's heart. But it was not for
the maid-servant's usual necessity--a "sweet heart"--somebody to
"keep company with;" it was rather for somebody to love, and perhaps
take care of a little. People love according to their natures; and
Elizabeth's was a strong nature; its principal element being a
capacity for passionate devotedness, almost unlimited in extent. Such
women, who love most, are not always, indeed very rarely, loved best.
And so it was perhaps as well that poor Elizabeth should make up her
mind, as she did very composedly, that she herself should never be
married; but after that glorious wedding of Miss Hilary's to Mr.
Lyon, should settle down to take care of Miss Leaf all her days.
"And if I turn out only half as good and contented as my mistress, it
can't be such a dreadful thing to be an old maid after all,"
stoically said Elizabeth Hand.
The words were scarcely out of her mouth when her attention was
caught by some one in the passage inquiring for her; yes, actually
for her. She could hardly believe her eyes when she perceived it was
her new-found old acquaintance, Tom Cliffe.
He was dressed very well, out of livery; indeed, he looked so
extremely like a gentleman that Mrs. Jones's little girl took him for
one, called him "Sir," and showed him into the parlor.
"All right. I thought this was the house. Uncommon sharp of me to
hunt you out; wasn't it Elizabeth?"
But Elizabeth was a little stiff, flurried, and perplexed. Her
mistresses were out; she did not know whether she ought to ask Tom
in, especially as it must be into the parlor; there was no other
place to take him to.
However, Tom settled the matter with a conclusive, "Oh, gammon!"--sat
himself down, and made himself quite comfortable. And Elizabeth was
so glad to see him--glad to have another chance of talking about dear
old Stowbury. It could not be wrong; she would not say a word about,
the family, not even tell him she lived with the Misses Leaf if she
could help it. And Tom did not seem in the least curious.
"Now, I call this quite a coincidence. I was stopping at St. Pancras
Church to look at a wedding--some old city fogy who lives in Russell
Square, and is making a great splash; and there I see you, Elizabeth,
standing in the crowd, and looking so nice and spicy--as fresh as an
apple and as brisk as a bee. I hummed and hawed and whistled, but I
couldn't catch your eye; then I missed you, and was vexed above a
bit, till I saw one like you going in at this door, so I just knocked
and asked; and here you are! 'Pon my life, I am very glad to see
you."
"Thank you, Tom," said Elizabeth, pleased, even grateful for the
trouble he had taken about her: she had so few friends; in truth,
actually none.
They began to talk, and Tom Cliffe talked exceedingly well. He had
added to his natural cleverness a degree of London sharpness, the
result of much "knocking about" ever since childhood. Besides, his
master, the literary gentleman, who had picked him out of the
printing office, had taken a deal of pains with him. Tom was, for his
station, a very intelligent and superior young man. Not a boy, though
he was still under twenty, but a young man: that precocity of
development which often accompanies a delicate constitution, making
him appear, as he was indeed, in mind and character, fully six or
seven years older than his real age.
He was a handsome fellow, too, though small; dark haired, dark eyed,
with regular and yet sensitive and mobile features. Altogether Tom
Cliffe was decidedly interesting, and Elizabeth took great pleasure
in looking at him, and in thinking, with a certain half motherly,
half romantic satisfaction, that but for her, and her carrying him
home from under the horse's heels, he might, humanly speaking, have
been long ago buried in Stowbury church yard.
"I have a 'church yard cough' at times still," said he, when speaking
of this little episode of early life. "I don't think I shall ever
live to be a middle-aged man." And he shook his head, and looked
melancholy and poetical; nay, even showed Elizabeth some poetry that
he himself had written on the subject, which was clever enough in its
way.
Elizabeth's interest grew. An ordinary baker or butcher boy would not
have attracted her in the least; but here was something in the shape
of a hero, somebody who at once touched her sympathies and roused her
admiration. For Tom was quite as well informed as she was herself;
more so, indeed. He was one of the many shrewd and clever working men
who were then beginning to rise up and think for themselves, and
educate themselves. He attended classes at mechanics' institutions,
and young men's debating societies; where every topic of the day,
religion, politics, political economy, was handled freely, as the
young do handle these serious things. He threw himself, heart and
soul, into the new movement, which, like all revolutions, had at
first its great and fatal dangers, but yet resulted in much good;
clearing the political sky, and bringing all sorts of hidden abuses
under the sharp eyes of that great scourge of evil-doers--public
opinion.
Yet Elizabeth, reared under the wing of the conservative Misses Leaf,
was a little startled when Tom Cliffe, who apparently liked talking
and being listened to, gave her a long dissertation on the true
principles of the Charter, and how Frost, Williams, and Jones--names
all but forgotten now--were very ill-used men, actual martyrs. She
was more than startled--shocked indeed--until there came a reaction
of the deepest pity--when he confessed that he never went to church.
He saw no use in going, he said; the parsons were all shams, paid
largely to chatter about what they did not understand; the only real
religion was that which a man thought out for himself, and acted out
for himself. Which was true enough, though only a half truth; and
innocent Elizabeth did not see the other half.
But she was touched and carried away by the earnestness and
enthusiasm of the lad, wild, fierce iconoclast as he was, ready to
cast down the whole fabric of Church and State; though without any
personal hankering after lawless rights and low pleasures. His sole
idol was, as he said, intellect, and that was his preservation.
Also, the fragile health which was betrayed in every flash of his
eye, every flush of his sallow cheek, made Tom Cliffe, even in the
two hours he staid with her, come very close to Elizabeth's heart. It
was such a warm heart, such a liberal heart, thinking so little of
itself or of its own value.
So here began to be told the old story, familiar in kitchens as
parlors; but, from the higher bringing up of the two parties
concerned, conducted in this case more after the fashion of the
latter than the former.
Elizabeth Hand was an exceptional person, and Tom had the sense to
see that at once. He paid her no coarse attentions, did not attempt
to make love to her; but he liked her, and he let her see that he
did. True, she was not pretty, and she was older than he; but that to
a boy of nineteen is rather flattering than otherwise. Also, for
there is a law even under the blind mystery of likings and fallings
in love--a certain weakness in him, that weakness which generally
accompanies the poetical nature, clung to the quiet, solid, practical
strength of hers. He liked to talk and be listened to by those
silent, admiring, gentle gray eyes; and he thought it very pleasant
when, with a motherly prudence, she warned him to be careful over his
cough, and gave him a flannel breast-plate to protect his chest
against the cold.
When he went away Tom was so far in love that, following the free and
easy ways of his class, he attempted to give Elizabeth a kiss; but
she drew back so hotly that he begged her pardon, and slipped away
rather confounded.
"That's an odd sort of young woman; there's something in her," said
he to himself. "I'll get a kiss, though, by-and-by."
Meanwhile Elizabeth, having forgotten all about her dinner, sat
thinking, actually doing nothing but thinking, until within half an
hour of the time when her mistresses might be expected back. They
were to go direct to the hotel, breakfast, wait till the
newly-married couple had departed, and then come home. They would be
sure to be weary, and want their tea.
So Elizabeth made every thing ready for them, steadily putting Tom
Cliffe out of her mind. One thing she was glad of, that talking so
much about his own affairs, he had forgotten to inquire concerning
hers, and was still quite ignorant even of her mistresses' name. He
therefore could tell no tales of the Leaf family at Stowbury. Still
she determined at once to inform Miss Hilary that he had been here,
but that, if she wished it, he should never come again. And it spoke
well for her resolve, that while resolving she was startled to find
how very sorry she should feel if Tom Cliffe never came again.
I know I am painting this young woman with a strangely tender
conscience, a refinement of feeling, and a general moral
sensitiveness which people say is seldom or never to be found in her
rank of life. And why not? Because mistresses treat servants as
servants, and not as women; because in the sharp, hard line they
draw, at the outset, between themselves and their domestics, they
give no chance for any womanliness to be developed. And therefore
since human nature is weak, and without help from without, a long
degraded class can never rise, sweet-hearts will still come crawling
through back entries and down at area doors; mistresses will still
have to dismiss helpless and fallen, or brazen in iniquity, many a
wretched girl who once was innocent; or, if nothing actually vicious
results, may have many a good, respectable servant, who left to get
married, return, complaining that her "young man," whom she knew so
little about, has turned out a drunken scoundrel of a husband, who
drives her back to her old comfortable "place" to beg for herself and
her starving babies a morsel of bread.
When, with a vivid blush that she could not repress, Elizabeth told
her mistress that Tom Cliffe had been to see her, the latter replied
at first carelessly, for her mind was preoccupied. Then, her
attention caught by the aforesaid blush, Miss Hilary asked.
"How old is the lad?"
"Nineteen."
"That's a bad age, Elizabeth. Too old to be a pet, and rather too
young for a husband."
"I never thought of such a thing," said Elizabeth, warmly--and
honestly, at the time.
"Did he want to come and see you again?"
"He said so."
"Oh, well, if he is a steady, respectable lad there can be no
objection. I should like to see him myself next time."
And then a sudden sharp recollection that there would likely be no
next time, in their service at least, made Miss Hilary feel quite a
hypocrite.
"Elizabeth," said she, "we will speak about Tom Cliffe--is not that
his name?--by-and-by. Now, as soon as tea is over, my sister wants to
talk to you. When you are ready, will you come up stairs?"
She spoke in an especially gentle tone, so that by no possibility
could Elizabeth fancy they were displeased with her.
Now, knowing the circumstances of the family, Elizabeth's conscience
had often smitten her that she must eat a great deal, that her wages,
paid regularly month by month, must make a great hole in her
mistress's income. She was, alack! a sad expense, and she tried to
lighten her cost in every possible way. But it never struck her that
they could do without her, or that any need would arise for their
doing so. So she went into the parlor quite unsuspiciously, and found
Miss Leaf lying on the sofa, and Miss Hilary reading aloud the letter
from India. But it was laid quietly aside as she said, "Johanna,
Elizabeth is here."
Then Johanna, rousing herself to say what must be said, but putting
it as gently and kindly as she could, told Elizabeth, what mistresses
often think it below their dignity to tell to servants, the plain
truth--namely, that circumstances obliged herself and Miss Hilary to
retrench their expenses as much as they possibly could. That they
were going to live in two little rooms at Richmond, where they would
board with the inmates of the house.
"And so, and so--" Miss Leaf faltered. It was very hard to say it
with those eager eyes fixed upon her.
Hilary took up the word-- "And so, Elizabeth, much as it grieves us,
we shall be obliged to part with you. We cannot any longer afford to
keep a servant."
No answer.
"It is not even as it was once before, when we thought you might do
better for yourself. We know, if it were possible, you would rather
stay with us, and we would rather keep you. It is like parting with
one of our own family." And Miss Hilary's voice too failed. "However,
there is no help for it; we must part."
Elizabeth, recovered from her first bewildered grief, was on the
point of bursting out into entreaties that she might do like many
another faithful servant, live without wages, put up with any
hardships, rather than be sent away. But something in Miss Hilary's
manner told her it would be useless--worse than useless, painful: and
she would do any thing rather than give her mistress pain. When,
utterly unable to control it, she gave vent to one loud sob, the
expression of acute suffering on Miss Hilary's countenance was such
that she determined to sob no more. She felt that, for some reason or
other, the thing was inevitable; that she must take up her burden, as
her mistress had done, even though it were the last grief of
all--leaving that beloved mistress.
"That's right, Elizabeth," said Miss Hilary, softly. "All these
changes are very bitter to us also, but we bear them. There is
nothing lasting in this world, except doing right, and being good and
faithful and helpful to one another."
She sighed. Possibly there had been sad tidings in the letter which
she still held in her hand, clinging to it as we do to something
which, however sorely it hurts us, we would not part with for the
whole world. But there was no hopelessness or despair in her tone,
and Elizabeth caught the influence of that true courageous heart.
"Perhaps you may be able to take me back again soon, Ma'am," said
she, looking toward Miss Leaf. "And meantime I might get a place;
Mrs. Jones has told me of several;" and she stopped, afraid lest it
might be found out how often Mrs. Jones had urged her to "better
herself," and she had indignantly refused. "Or," (a bright idea
occurred) "I wonder if Miss Selina, that is, Mrs. Ascott, would take
me in at Russell Square?"
Hilary looked hard at her.
"Would you really like that?"
"Yes, I should; for I should see and hear of you. Miss Hilary, if you
please, I wish you would ask Mrs. Ascott to take me."
And Hilary, much surprised--for she was well acquainted with
Elizabeth's sentiments toward both Mr. Ascott and the late Miss
Selina---promised.