A BURDENED SOUL.
FAIRBANK FARM lay about five miles from Chelmsford, and one mile
beyond the village of Danesbury. The farmhouse in which Lizzie Austen
was born, and where with the exception of two years her life had
been passed, was a low, two-storied house, with ivy growing thickly
about it. It stood in the midst of fields, but was visible from the
Chelmsford Road, from which the length of a meadow separated it. The
shortest way to the house was by the footpath which slanted across the
meadow from the stile at one corner to the garden gate. The road for
vehicles ran beside the hedge of the cornfield beyond.
Neat iron palings enclosed the house and garden. Only a strip of gravel
and a couple of flower-beds lay in front of the house, but the garden
stretched beside the meadow to some distance to the left of the house,
and covered a large area. It was a grand old garden, where from month
to month bloomed almost every flower named in the gardener's almanac.
It had a reputation in the country-side. Lizzie's mother had been an
enthusiastic lover of flowers, and justly proud of the success that
attended her gardening operations. Mrs. Austen's hyacinths, roses,
orchids, asters, and chrysanthemums were alike famous, and had taken
many a prize at Chelmsford flower-shows.
But now for five summers Mrs. Austen's comely form had been missing
from the garden where she had been wont to spend many hours, moving
to and fro in her large straw hat, scissors or rake in hand, as she
watched and tended with utmost care the plants that were so dear to
her. In the old churchyard at Danesbury there was a mound of earth
always kept bright with flowers for her sake.
The high character of the garden was maintained after her death. Farmer
Austen, without sharing his wife's enthusiasm for flowers, had been
proud of her successful horticulture, and in his deep mourning for her
loss, it seemed to him due to her memory to preserve with jealous care
the plants and shrubs which she had planted, and as far as possible to
keep the garden as she would have liked to see it. His daughter Lizzie
tried to carry out his wishes, and, though she had never cared for
gardening, gave much time and attention to "dear mother's flowers," and
to such good purpose that the garden continued to produce some of the
finest specimens of each season's flowers that could be found in the
neighbourhood.
A silent, sad-faced woman was Lizzie Austen after her mother's death.
She had been the brightest, prettiest girl to be seen for many a mile
round, but from that time, she was another being. She had the look of
a woman with a sad history, yet to her acquaintance at Danesbury, her
life-story seemed simple enough.
A high-spirited, somewhat perverse young girl was Lizzie, when,
attracted by her pretty face, Mark Warren, the wealthy owner of
Danesbury Mill, had come courting her. Her parents would have liked
the match well, but Lizzie would not look with favour on her suitor,
for Mark, though worthy in character, was rough in manner and blunt of
speech, and Lizzie's imagination, excited by indiscriminate course of
novel-reading, craved a more romantic lover. His wooing vexed her, and
she was beginning to weary of the monotony of rural life. So she begged
her parents to let her leave home and go to London for a while, to
learn millinery and to see a little of the world.
Farmer Austen had married late in life, and from her infancy, his only
child had been to him a perpetual wonder and delight. He could deny
her nothing. Nor was easy-tempered Mrs. Austen more successful in the
assertion of parental authority. Lizzie always contrived to get her own
way, and in this instance, though at first her parents refused their
consent, Lizzie by coaxing and pleading at last persuaded them to let
her go to London.
Old John Austen won plenty of blame for allowing his daughter to leave
home, but he knew how to reply to every hint of disapproval. It was
well that Lizzie should go away for a time; well both for her and for
Mark Warren. She was going to his cousin, a prosperous milliner at the
West End, whom he knew would take good care of Lizzie. Not that he was
afraid to trust his girl anywhere. She had a head on her shoulders, and
could bold her own with any one. There were not many girls, though he
said it that should not, to be compared with his Lizzie. But whilst he
spoke thus it was evident that the old man missed his daughter sadly,
and was longing for her return.
Lizzie went away early in the year, and in harvest-time she came back,
but only for a brief visit. She told those who questioned her that she
loved London, and had no mind to settle down to country life again. She
looked prettier than ever in her fashionable hat and feathers and her
London-made gown. But there was a change in her demeanour that saddened
Mark Warren, and made what little hope he had still cherished die out
of his heart. She was flippant in speech and restless in manner, and
treated almost with indifference the parents who loved her as the light
of their life.
Lizzie returned to London, and many months passed ere she was again
seen at Danesbury. Her acquaintance did not forget to inquire for her,
and always the answer was the same. Lizzie was well and happy, and was
coming home-soon. But another spring and summer passed without bringing
her, although it was known that her cousin had died, and the millinery
business had passed into other hands.
Farmer Austen was beginning to grow feeble, and it was observed that
the cloud which was now ever on his brow deepened when any one named
his daughter. Mrs. Austen's comely face, too, was losing somewhat
of its colour and roundness, and the corners of her mouth had a
discontented droop. Then it was rumoured that John Austen had told some
one that Lizzie had gone to Paris, to perfect her skill in millinery
and acquire the French language. But that she would certainly come home
to spend Christmas with her parents. Christmas, however, came and went
without bringing Lizzie to her old home.
Early in the year, when the snow lay deep upon the farm, Mrs. Austen
fell ill with an attack of acute bronchitis. Till lately, she had
enjoyed fair health, and the news that the doctor had pronounced her
case hopeless came upon all the neighbours as a shock. A hasty summons
was sent to Lizzie. And at last, she returned home, but only in time to
be with her mother for an hour or two before she died.
Many persons attended the funeral, for the Austens were widely known
and much respected in the neighbourhood.
Curious glances were cast at Lizzie to see what changes time had
wrought in her, and how she appeared to bear the stroke of bereavement.
It was to be expected that she would look pale and sorrowful, but the
change the neighbours saw in her was such as startled them. Could
that wan, despairing-looking woman be the Lizzie Austen whose pretty
girlish form they had known so well? The rosiness had vanished from her
face, her cheeks were thin and hollow. Her eyes looked washed out with
weeping, her hair had lost its brightness, and the indefinable charm of
girlhood was gone. She was a woman now—a weary, sorrow-stricken woman.
Had a few days of grief had power thus to change her? Was it remorse
for neglecting her mother that weighed so heavily upon her heart?
"Depend upon it, she can't forgive herself for staying away so long,"
the gossips said. "It must have been a dreadful shock to come home and
find her mother at the point of death."
Yet, severe though the shock was, it scarcely seemed enough to account
for the utter dejection that marked Lizzie's bearing. She did not rouse
from it as the days went on.
The friends who came to condole with her declared that they could not
make her out. Lizzie had been frank and free of speech in the days
that were gone, but now she had hardly a word to say. Their well-meant
condolences were received by her with an air of passive endurance,
and the questions which they did not hesitate to put obtained but the
briefest replies. It was plain that she shrank from each allusion to
her past life. When her friends assumed that she would remain with her
father for the future, Lizzie said nothing, and her silence was taken
as assent.
Lizzie went back to London, however, but only for a week. At the end
of that time she returned, bringing her boxes with her; and it was
understood that she would not leave her father again.
Her melancholy did not pass away as time went on. No daughter could
have been more tender and devoted than she was, but her old father
often watched her wistfully, longing to see again the Lizzie of former
days. If only she would smile as she used to smile, or utter one of the
merry, saucy sayings which once fell so often from her lips!
"Poor Lizzie does fret sorely after her mother," he would say to a
sympathizing neighbour; "she's another girl from what she was."
There was no need to tell that to any one who had known her in earlier
years.
Lizzie had plenty of work, and no one could accuse her of lack of
industry. In addition to the care of the house and garden, the
superintendence of the dairy devolved on her. The dairy was a large
one, for it was now the most important branch of the farming at
Fairbank. John Austen, like most of the farmers in the neighbourhood,
had suffered from the bad harvests and general agricultural depression,
but he had the good sense to turn as much of his land as possible into
pasturage, and was able to make a fair profit by supplying milk to the
London market.
Lizzie showed herself a good woman of business, and gradually her
father allowed her to undertake more and more of the practical
management of affairs. He continued to look after his men and to attend
the Chelmsford markets. But, when there was business to be done in
London, he was willing that Lizzie, who had no fear of the din and
bustle of the city, and was more used to town ways than he, should
attend to it.
But though Lizzie was ready to go to London whenever required, it was
observed that these visits did not make her more cheerful. If possible,
her face was more sad and her manner more hopeless when she came back.
And she never took advantage of her journey to town to get a new
fashion or a pretty ornament. No one would suppose that she had any
skill in millinery, people said, to see the plain, Quaker-like bonnet
she always wore. Did she wear it as a penance?
In time, the neighbours grew impatient of Lizzie Austen's continued
depression and reserve. Why did she hold herself apart from every one,
refusing each invitation to tea-drinking or harvesting, and going
nowhere, save that on Sunday mornings she accompanied her father to the
little chapel at Danesbury, in which he had held the office of deacon,
until, after his wife's death, he felt himself too old and infirm
longer to fulfil its duties? As they noted her strange ways and dreamy
looks, they began to speak of Lizzie as "peculiar," using the word in
a way that might lead those unacquainted with her to imagine that Miss
Austen's melancholy had reached the extreme of mental derangement.
Lizzie troubled herself not at all about what the neighbours might
think or say of her. There had been a time when she had thought much of
their opinion, but now the heavy weight of trouble which clouded her
life could hardly be lightened or deepened by words of theirs. Alike in
the bright days of summer and the dark days of winter, her heart was
full of bitterness. Life might be more endurable on some days than on
others, that was all.
Happiness, peace, content—such words had no meaning for Lizzie Austen.
To wake at early morn to a sense of hopeless misery, and wish the
day over before it had begun; to set about its round of duty with a
weary, aching heart that gave its weariness to head and limbs; to give
herself no rest, but fill every moment with toil, in the vain hope of
escaping from thoughts which yet mingled their bitterness with every
action,—such was Lizzie's day.
What greater misery is there for a human soul than to know that one's
life is spoiled, utterly spoiled, and that it is one's own wilful folly
that has wrecked it; to look along the coming years, whilst their
number still seems great, and see no ray of hope, no possibility of
escape from the pitiless torture of remorse; and at the same time to
remember with painful vividness the happier days that are for ever gone
and the good that might have been but for one fatal step; to know, too,
that the bitter consequences of one's folly are not suffered by oneself
alone, but that another innocent life is blighted by them?
God pity all spirits bowed beneath this intolerable burden! Such an one
was Lizzie Austen.