And now I leave Miss Hilary for a time; leave her in, if not
happiness, great peace. Peace which, after these stormy months, was
an actual paradise of calm to both herself and Johanna.
Their grief for Ascott had softened down. Its very hopelessness gave
it resignation. There was nothing more to be done; they had done all
they could, both to find him out and to save him from the public
disgrace which might blight any hope of reformation. Now the result
must be left in higher hands.
Only at times fits of restless trouble would come; times when a
sudden knock at the door would make Johanna shake nervously for
minutes afterward; when Hilary walked about every where with her mind
preoccupied, and her eyes open to notice every chance passerby; nay,
she had sometimes secretly followed down a whole street some figure
which, in its light jaunty step and long fashionably-cut hair,
reminded her of Ascott.
Otherwise they were not unhappy, she and her dearest sister. Poor as
they were, they were together, and their poverty had no sting. They
knew exactly how much they would receive monthly, and how much they
ought to spend. Though obliged to calculate every penny, still their
income and expenses were alike certain; there was no anxiety about
money matters, which of itself was an indescribable relief. Also
there was that best blessing--peace at home. Never in all her days
had Johanna known such an easy life; sitting quietly in her parlor
while Hilary was engaged in the shop below; descending to dinner,
where she took the head of the table, and the young people soon
learned to treat her with great respect and even affection; then
waiting for the happy tea in their own room, and the walk afterward,
in Richmond Park or along the Thames banks toward Twickenham. Perhaps
it was partly from the contrast to that weary year in London, but
never, in any spring, had the air seemed so balmy, or the trees so
green. They brought back to Hilary's face the youthful bloom which
she had begun to lose; and, in degree, her youthful brightness, which
had also become slightly overclouded. Again she laughed and made her
little domestic jokes, and regained her pretty ways of putting
things, so that every thing always appeared to have a cheerful, and
comical, side.
Also--for while we are made as we are, with capacity for happiness,
and especially the happiness of love, it is sure to be thus--she had
a little private sunbeam in her own heart, which brightened outside
things. After that sad letter from India which came on Selina's
wedding day, every succeeding one grew more cheerful, more
demonstrative, nay, even affectionate; though still with that queer
Scotch pride of his, that would ask for nothing till it could ask and
have every thing, and give every thing in return--the letters were
all addressed to Johanna.
"What an advantage it is to be an old woman!" Miss Leaf would
sometimes say, mischievously, when she received them. But more often
she said nothing, waiting in peace for events to develop themselves.
She did not think much about herself, and had no mean jealousy over
her child; she knew that a righteous and holy love only makes all
natural affections more sacred and more dear.
And Hilary? She held her head higher and prouder; and the spring
trees looked greener, and the river ran brighter in the sunshine. Ah,
Heaven pity us all! it is a good thing to have love in one's life; it
is a good thing, if only for a time, to be actually happy. Not merely
contented, but happy!
And so I will leave her, this little woman; and nobody need mourn
over her because she is working too hard, or pity her because she is
obliged to work; has to wear common clothes, and live in narrow
rooms, and pass on her poor weary feet the grand carriages of the
Richmond gentry, who are not a bit more well-born or well-educated
than she; who never take the least notice of her, except sometimes to
peer curious at the desk where she sits in the shop-corner, and
wonder who "that young person with the rather pretty curls" can be.
No matter, she is happy.
How much happiness was there in the large house at Russell Square?
The Misses Leaf could not tell; their sister never gave them an
opportunity of judging.
"My son's my son till he gets him a wife,
But my daughter's my daughter all her life."
And so, most frequently, is "my sister." But not in this case. It
could not be; they never expected it would.
When on here rare visits to town Hilary called at Russell Square she
always found Mrs. Ascott handsomely dressed, dignified, and gracious.
Not in the slightest degree uncivil or unsisterly, but
gracious--perhaps a thought too gracious. Most condescendingly
anxious that she should stay to luncheon, and eat and drink the best
the house afforded, but never by any chance inviting her to stay to
dinner. Consequently, as Mr. Ascott was always absent in the city
until dinner, Hilary did not see him for months together, and her
brother-in-law was, she declared, no more to her than any other man
upon 'Change, or the man in the moon, or the Great Mogul.
His wife spoke little about him. After a few faint, formal questions
concerning Richmond affairs, somehow her conversation always recurred
to her own: the dinners she had been at, those she was going to give;
her carriages, clothes, jewelry, and so on. She was altogether a very
great lady, and Hilary, as she avouched laughingly--it was, in this
case, better to laugh than to grieve--felt an exceedingly small
person beside her.
Nevertheless Mrs. Ascott showed no unkindness--nay, among the various
changes that matrimony had produced in her, her temper appeared
rather to have improved than otherwise; there was now seldom any
trace of that touchy sharpness which used to be called "poor Selina's
way." And yet Hilary never quitted the house without saying to
herself, with a sigh, the old phrase, "Poor Selina!"
Thus, in the inevitable consequences of things, her visits to Russell
Square became fewer and fewer; she kept them up as a duty, not
exacting any return, for she felt that was impossible, though still
keeping up the ghostly shadow of sisterly intimacy. Nevertheless she
knew well it was but a shadow; that the only face that looked honest,
glad welcome, or that she was honestly glad to see in her
brother-in-law's house was the under house-maid, Elizabeth Hand.
Contrary to all expectations, Mrs. Ascott had consented to take
Elizabeth into her service. With many stipulations and warnings never
to presume on past relations, never even to mention Stowbury, on pain
of instant dismissal--still, she did take her, and Elizabeth staid.
At every one of Miss Hilary's visits, lying in wait in the bed
chamber, or on the staircase, or creeping up at the last minute to
open the hall door, was sure to appear the familiar face, beaming all
over. Little conversation passed between them--Mrs. Ascott evidently
disliked it; still Elizabeth looked well and happy, and when Miss
Hilary told her so she always silently smiled.
But this story must tell the whole truth which lay beneath that fond
acquiescing smile.
Elizabeth was certainly in good health, being well fed, well housed,
and leading on the whole an easy life; happy, too, when she looked at
Miss Hilary. But her migration from Mrs. Jones's lodgings to this
grand mansion had not been altogether the translation from Purgatory
to Paradise that some would have supposed.
The author of this simple story having--unfortunately for it--never
been in domestic service, especially in the great houses of London,
does not pretend to describe the ins and outs of their "high life
below stairs;" to repeat kitchen conversations, to paint the humors
of the servants' hall--the butler and housekeeper getting tipsy
together, the cook courting the policeman, and the footman making
love successively to every house-maid and ladys'-maid. Some writers
have depicted all this, whether faithfully or not they know best; but
the present writer declines to attempt any thing of the kind. Her
business is solely with one domestic, the country girl who came
unexpectedly into this new world of London servant-life--a world
essentially its own, and a life of which the upper classes are as
ignorant as they are of what goes on in Madagascar and Otabeite.
This fact was the first which struck the unsophisticated Elizabeth.
She, who had been brought up in a sort of feudal relationship to her
dear mistresses, was astonished to find the domestics of Russell
Square banded together into a community which, in spite of their
personal bickerings and jealousies, ended in alliance offensive and
defensive against the superior powers, whom they looked upon as their
natural enemies. Invisible enemies, certainly; for "master" they
hardly ever saw; and, excepting the ladys' maid, were mostly as
ignorant of "missis." The housekeeper was the middle link between the
two estates--the person with whom all business was transacted, and to
whom all complaints had to be made. Beyond being sometimes talked
over, generally in a quizzical, depreciatory, or condemnatory way,
the heads of the establishment were no more to their domestics than
the people who paid wages, and exacted in return certain duties,
which most of them made as small as possible, and escaped whenever
they could.
If this be an exaggerated picture of a state of things perhaps in
degree inevitable--and yet it should not be, for it is the source of
incalculable evil, this dividing of a house against itself--if I have
in any way said what is not true, I would that some intelligent
"voice from the kitchen" would rise up and tell us what is true, and
whether it be possible on either side to find means of amending what
so sorely needs reformation.
Elizabeth sometimes wanted Tom Cliffe to do this--to "write a book,"
which he, eager young malcontent, was always threatening to do, upon
the evils of society, and especially the tyranny of the upper
classes. Tom Cliffe was the only person to whom she imparted her
troubles and perplexities: how different her life was from that she
had been used to; how among her fellow-servants there was not one who
did not seem to think and act in a manner totally opposed to every
thing she had learned from Miss Hilary. How consequently she herself
was teased, bullied, threatened, or at best "sent to Coventry," from
morning till night.
"I am quite alone, Tom--I am, indeed," said she, almost crying, the
first Sunday night when she met him accidentally in going to church,
and, in her dreary state of mind, was exceedingly glad to see him. He
consoled her, and even went to church with her, half promising to do
the same next Sunday, and calling her "a good little Christian, who
almost inclined him to be a Christian too."
And so, with the vague feeling that she was doing him good and
keeping him out of harm--that lad who had so much that was kindly and
nice about him--Elizabeth consented, not exactly to an appointment,
but she told him what were her "Sundays out," and the church she
usually attended, if he liked to take the chance of her being there.
Alack! she had so few pleasures; she so seldom got even a breath of
outside air--it was not thought necessary for servants. The only hour
she was allowed out was the church-going on alternate Sunday
evenings. How pleasant it was to creep out then, and see Tom waiting
for her under the opposite trees, dressed so smart and gentlemanlike,
looking so handsome and so glad to see her--her, the poor countrified
Elizabeth, who was quizzed incessantly by her fellow-servants on her
oddness, plainness, and stupidity.
Tom did not seem to think her stupid, for he talked to her of all his
doings and plannings, vague and wild as those of the young tailor in
"Alton Locke," yet with a romantic energy about them that strongly
interested his companion; and he read her his poetry, and addressed a
few lines to herself, beginning,
"Dearest and best, my long familiar friend;"
which was rather a poetical exaggeration, since he had altogether
forgotten her in the interval of their separation. But she never
guessed this; and so they both clung to the early tie, making it out
to be ten times stronger than it really was, as people do who are
glad of any excuse for being fond of one another.
Tom really was getting fond of Elizabeth. She touched the higher half
of his nature--the spiritual and imaginative half. That he had it,
though only a working-man, and she too, though only a domestic
servant, was most true: probably many more of their class have it
than we are at all aware of. Therefore, these two being special
individuals, were attracted by each other; she by him, because he was
clever, and he by her, because she was so good. For he had an ideal,
poor Tom Cliffe! and though it had been smothered and laid to sleep
by a not too regular life, it woke up again under the kind, sincere
eyes of this plain, simple-minded, honest Elizabeth Hand.
He knew she was plain, and so old-fashioned in her dress, that Tom,
who was particular about such things, did not always like walking
with her: but she was so interesting and true; she sympathized with
him so warmly; he found her so unfailingly and unvaryingly good to
him through all the little humors and pettishnesses that almost
always accompany a large brain, a nervous temperament, and delicate
health. Her quietness soothed him, her strength of character
supported him; he at once leaned on her, and ruled over her.
As to Elizabeth's feelings toward Tom, they will hardly bear
analyzing; probably hardly any strong emotion will, especially one
that is not sudden but progressive. She admired him extremely, and
yet she was half sorry for him. Some things in him she did not at all
like, and tried heartily to amend. His nervous fancies, irritations,
and vagaries she was exceedingly tender over; she looked up to him,
and yet took care of him; this thought of him, and anxiety over him,
became by degrees the habit of her life. People love in so many
different ways; and perhaps that was the natural way in which a woman
like Elizabeth would love, or creep into love without knowing it,
which is either the safest or the saddest form which the passion can
assume.
Thus things went on, till one dark, rainy Sunday night, walking round
and round the inner circle of the square, Tom expressed his feelings.
At first, in somewhat high flown and poetical phrases, then melting
into the one, eternally old and eternally new, "Do you love me?"
followed by a long, long kiss, given under shelter of the umbrella,
and in mortal fear of the approaching policeman; who, however, never
saw them, or saw them only as "pair of sweet-hearts"--too common an
occurrence on his beat to excite any attention.
But to Elizabeth the whole thing was new, wonderful; a bliss so far
beyond any thing that had ever befallen her simple life, and so
utterly unexpected therein, that when she went to her bed that night
she cried like a child over the happiness of Tom's loving her, and
her exceeding unworthiness of the same.
Then difficulties arose in her mind. "No followers allowed," was one
of the strict laws of the Russell Square dynasty. Like many another
law of that and of much higher dynasties it was only made to be
broken; for stray sweet-hearts were continually climbing down area
railings, or over garden walls, or hiding themselves behind kitchen
doors. Nay, to such an extent was the system carried out, each
servant being, from self-interest, a safe co-conspirator, that very
often when Mr. and Mrs. Ascott went out to dinner, and the old
housekeeper retired to bed, there were regular symposia held below
stairs--nice little supper-parties, where all the viands in the
pantry and the wines in the cellar were freely used; where every
domestic had his or her "young man" or "young woman," and the
goings-on, though not actually discreditable, were of the most lively
kind.
To be cognizant of these, and yet to feel that, as there was no
actual wickedness going on, she was not justified in "blabbing," was
a severe and perpetual trial to Elizabeth. To join them, or bring Tom
among them as her "young man," was impossible.
"No, Tom," she said, when he begged hard to come in one evening--for
it was raining fast, and he had a bad cough--
"No, Tom, I can't let you. If other folks break the laws of the
house, I won't--you must go. I can only meet you out of
doors."
And yet to do this surreptitiously, just as if she were ashamed of
him, or as if there were something wrong in their being fond of one
another, jarred upon Elizabeth's honest nature. She did not want to
make a show of him, especially to her fellow-servants: she had the
true woman's instinct of liking to keep her treasures all to herself;
but she had also her sex's natural yearning for sympathy in the great
event of a woman's life. She would have liked to have somebody unto
whom she could say, "Tom has asked me to marry him," and who would
have answered cordially, "It's all right: he is a good fellow: you
are sure to be happy."
Not that she doubted this: but it would have been an additional
comfort to have a mother's blessing, or a sister's, or even a
friend's, upon this strange and sweet emotion which had come into her
life. So long as it was thus kept secret there seemed a certain
incompleteness and unsanctity about even their happy love.
Tom did not comprehend this at all. He only laughed at her for
feeling so "nesh" (that means tender, sensitive--but the word is
almost unexplainable to other than Stowbury ears) on the subject. He
liked the romance and excitement of secret courtship--men often do;
rarely women, unless there is something in them not quite right, not
entirely womanly.
But Tom was very considerate, and though he called it "silly," and
took a little fit of crossness on the occasion, he allowed Elizabeth
to write to mother about him, and consented that on her next holiday
she should go to Richmond, in order to speak to Miss Hilary on the
same subject, and ask her also to write to Mrs. Hand, stating how
good and clever Tom was, and how exceedingly happy was Tom's
Elizabeth.
"And won't you come and fetch me, Tom?" asked she, shyly. "I am sure
Miss Hilary would not object, nor Miss Leaf neither."
Tom, protested he did not care two straws whether they objected or
not; he was a man of twenty, in a good trade--he had lately gone back
to the printing, and being a clever workman, earned capital wages. He
had a right to choose whom he liked, and marry when he pleased. If
Elizabeth didn't care for him, she might leave him alone.
"Oh, Tom!" was all she answered, with a strange gentleness that no
one could have believed would ever have come into the manner of South
Sea Islander. And quitting the subject then, she afterward persuaded
him, and not for the first time, into consenting to what she thought
right. There is something rather touching in a servant's holiday. It
comes so seldom. She must count on it for so long beforehand, and
remember it for so long afterward. This present writer owns to a
strong sympathy with the holiday-makers on the grand gala-days of the
English calendar. It is a pleasure to watch the innumerable groups of
family folk, little, children, and prentice lands.
--"Dressed in all their best,
To walk abroad with Sally."
And the various "Sallys" and their corresponding swains can hardly
feel more regret than she when it happens to be wet weather on Easter
week or at Whitsuntide.
Whit-Monday, the day when Tom escaped from the printing-office, and
Elizabeth got leave of absence for six hours, was as glorious a June
day as well could be. As the two young people perched themselves on
the top of the Richmond omnibus and drove through Kensington,
Hammersmith, Turnham Green, and over Kew Bridge--Tom pointing out all
the places, and giving much curious information about them--Elizabeth
thought there never was a more beautiful country, or a more lovely
summer day: she was, she truly said, "as happy as a Queen."
Neverthless, when the omnibus stopped, she, with great self-denial,
insisted on getting rid of Tom for anytime. She thought Miss Hilary
might not quite like Tom's knowing where she lived, or what her
occupation was, lest he might gossip about it to Stowbury people; so
she determined to pay her visit by herself, and appointed to meet him
at a certain hour on Richmond Bridge, over which bridge she watched
him march sulkily, not without a natural pleasure that he should be
so much vexed at losing her company for an hour or two. But she knew
he would soon come to himself--as he did, before he had been half a
mile on the road to Hampton Court, meeting a young fellow he knew,
and going with him over that grand old palace, which furnished them
with a subject at their next debating society, where they both came
out very strong on the question of hypocritical priests and obnoxious
kings, with especial reference to Henry VIII, and Cardinal Wolsey.
Meanwhile Elizabeth went in search of the little shop--which nobody
need expect to find at Richmond now--bearing the well-known name
"Janet Balquidder." Entering it, for there was no private door, she
saw, in the far corner above the curtained desk, the pretty curls of
her dear Miss Hilary. Elizabeth had long known that her mistress
"kept a shop," and with the notions of gentility which are just as
rife in her class as in any other, had mourned bitterly over this
fact. But when she saw how fresh and well the young lady looked, how
busily and cheerfully she seemed to work with her great books before
her, and with what a composed grace and dignity she came forward when
asked for, Elizabeth secretly confessed that not even keeping a shop
had made or could make the smallest difference in Miss Hilary.
She herself was much more changed.
"Why, Elizabeth, I should hardly have known you!" was the involuntary
exclamation of her late mistress.
She certainly did look very nice; not smart--for her sober taste
preferred quiet colors--but excessively neat and well-dressed. In her
new gown of gray "coburg," her one handsome shawl, which had been
honored several times by Miss Hilary's wearing, her white straw
bonnet and white ribbons, underneath which the smooth black hair and
soft eyes showed to great advantage, she appeared, not "like a
lady"--a servant can seldom do that let her dress be ever so
fine--but like a thoroughly respectable, intelligent, and
pleasant-faced young woman.
And her blushes came and went so fast, she was so nervous and yet so
beamingly happy, that Miss Hilary soon suspected there was more in
this visit than at first appeared. Knowing that with Elizabeth's
great shyness the mystery would never come out in public, she took an
opportunity of asking her to help her in the bedroom, and there, with
the folding-doors safely shut, discovered the whole secret. Miss
Hilary was a good deal surprised at first. She had never thought of
Elizabeth as likely to get married at all--and to Tom Cliffe.
"Why, isn't he a mere boy; ever so much younger than you are?"
"Three years."
"That is a pity--a great pity: women grow old so much faster than
men."
"I know that," said Elizabeth, somewhat sorrowfully.
"Besides, did you not tell me he was very handsome and clever?"
"Yes: and I'm neither the one nor the other. I have thought all that
over too, many a time; indeed I have, Miss Hilary. But Tom likes
me--or fancies he does. Do you think"--and the intense humility which
true love always has, struck into Miss Hilary's own conscious heart a
conviction of how very true this poor girl's love must be. "Do you
think he is mistaken? that his liking me--I mean in that sort of
way--is quite impossible?"
"No, indeed, and I never said it; never thought it," was the earnest
reply. "But consider; three years younger than yourself; handsomer
and cleverer than you are--".
Miss Hilary stopped; it seemed so cruel to say such things, and yet
she felt bound to say them. She knew her former "bower-maiden" well
enough to be convinced that if Elizabeth were not happy in marriage
she would be worse than unhappy--might grow actually bad.
"He loves you now; you are sure of that; but are you sure that he is
a thoroughly stable and reliable character? Do you believe he will
love you always?"
"I can't tell. Perhaps--if I deserved it," said poor Elizabeth.
And, looking at the downcast eyes, at the thorough womanly sweetness
and tenderness which suffused the whole face, Hilary's doubts began
to melt away. She thought how sometimes men, captivated by inward
rather than outward graces, have fallen in love with plain women, or
women older than themselves, and actually kept to their attachment
through life, with a fidelity rare as beautiful. Perhaps this young
fellow, who seemed by all accounts superior to his class--having had
the sense to choose that pearl in an oyster-shell, Elizabeth
Hand--might also have the sense so appreciate her, and go on loving
her to the end of his days, Anyhow, he loved her now, and she loved
him; and it was useless reasoning any more about it.
"Come, Elizabeth," cried her mistress, cheerfully, "I have said all
my say, and now I have only to give my good wishes. If Tom Cliffe
deserves you, I am sure you deserve him, and I should like to tell
him so."
"Should you, Miss Hilary?" and with a visible brightening up
Elizabeth betrayed Tom's whereabouts, and her little conspiracy to
bring him here, and her hesitation lest it might be "intruding."
"Not at all. Tell him to come at once. I am not like my sister; we
always allow 'followers.' I think a mistress stands in the relation
of a parent, for the time being; and that can not be a right or good
love which is concealed from her, as if it were a thing to be ashamed
of."
"I think so too. And I'm not a bit ashamed of Tom, nor he of me,"
said Elizabeth, so energetically that Miss Hilary smiled.
"Very well; take him to have his tea in the kitchen, and then bring
him up stairs to speak to my sister and me."
At that interview, which of course was rather trying, Tom acquitted
himself to every body's satisfaction. He was manly, modest,
self-possessed; did not say much--his usual talkativeness being
restrained by the circumstances of the case, and the great impression
made upon him by Miss Hilary, who, he afterward admitted to
Elizabeth, "was a real angel, and he should write a poem upon her."
But the little he did say gave the ladies a very good impression of
the intelligence and even refinement of Elizabeth's sweet-heart. And
though they were sorry to see him look so delicate, still there was a
something better than handsomeness in his handsome face, which made
them not altogether surprised at Elizabeth's being so fond of him. As
she watched the young couple down Richmond Street, in the soft summer
twilight--Elizabeth taking Tom's arm, and Tom drawing up his stooping
figure to its utmost extent, both a little ill-matched in height as
they were in some other things, but walking with that air of perfect
confidence and perfect contentedness in each other which always
betrays, to a quick eye, those who have agreed to walk through the
world together--Miss Hilary turned from the window and sighed.