MISS TOLLER, a lady about forty years old, kept a boarding-house, called
Russell House, at Brighton, in a dull but genteel part of the town—so
dull that even those fortunate inhabitants who were reputed to have
resources in themselves were relieved by a walk to the shops or by a
German band. Miss Toller could not afford to be nearer the front. Rents
were too high for her, even in the next street, which claimed a sea-view
sideways through the bow-windows. She was the daughter of a farmer in
Northamptonshire, and till she came to Brighton had lived at home. When
she was five-and-twenty her mother died, and in two years her father
married again. The second wife was a widow, good-looking but hard, and
had a temper. She made herself very disagreeable to Miss Toller, and the
husband took the wife’s part. Miss Toller therefore left the farm at
Barton Sluice, and with a little money that belonged to her purchased the
goodwill and furniture of Russell House. She brought with her a
Northamptonshire girl as servant, and the two shared the work between
them. At the time when this history begins she had five lodgers, all of
whom had been with her six months, and one for more than a year.
Mrs. Poulter, the senior in residence of the five, was the widow of a
retired paymaster in the Navy. She was between fifty and sixty, a big,
portly woman. After her husband was pensioned she lived in Southsea. As
he belonged to the civilian branch, Mrs. Poulter had to fight undauntedly
in order to maintain a calling acquaintance with the wives of executive
officers, and in fact the highest she had on her list was a commander’s
lady. When Paymaster Poulter died, and his pension ceased, she gave up
the struggle. She had no children, and moved to Brighton with an annuity
of £150 a year derived from her husband’s insurance of £2000, and a life
interest in some property left by her mother.
Mr. Goacher was a bachelor clergyman of about forty. He read prayers,
presided over the book-club, and by a judicious expenditure of oil
prevented friction between the other boarders. It was understood that he
had been compelled to give up clerical duty by what is called clergyman’s
sore-throat. It was not known whether he had been vicar, rector, or
curate, but he wore the usual white neck-band and a soft, low felt hat,
he was clean-shaven, his letters were addressed ‘Reverend,’ he was not
bad-looking; and these vouchers were considered sufficient.
Mrs. Mudge was the widow of a tradesman in London. She was better off
than any of the other lodgers, and drank claret at twenty shillings a
dozen.
Miss Everard, the youngest of the party, was a French mistress, but
English by birth, and gave lessons in two or three schools. She was
never at home on weekdays excepting at breakfast and dinner. After
dinner she generally corrected exercises in her bedroom, but when she was
not busy she sat in the drawing-room to save fire and light.
Miss Taggart was the daughter of a country doctor. Both her parents were
dead, and she was poor. She had a reputation for being enlightened, as
she was not regular in her attendance at public worship on Sunday, and
did not always go to the same church. She told Mrs. Poulter once that
science should tincture theology, whereupon, appeal being made to Mr.
Goacher by that alarmed lady, he ventured to remark, that with all
respect to Miss Taggart, such observations were perhaps liable to
misconstruction in ordinary society, where they could not be fully
explained, and, although she was doubtless right in a way, the statement
needed qualification. Miss Taggart was not very friendly with Mrs.
Poulter and Mr. Goacher, and despised Mrs. Mudge because she was
low-bred. Miss Everard Miss Taggart dreaded, and accused her of being
vicious and spiteful.
It was still early in December, but the lodgers in Russell House who had
nothing to do—that is to say all of them excepting Miss Everard—were
making plans for Christmas. They always thought a long time beforehand
of what was going to happen. On Tuesday morning they began to anticipate
Sunday, and when the Sunday afternoon wore away slowly and drearily, they
looked forward to the excitement of omnibuses and butchers’ carts on
Monday. A little more than a fortnight before Christmas, on Sunday at
early dinner, a leg of mutton was provided. Mrs. Poulter always sat at
the head of the table and carved. This was the position she occupied
when Mr. Goacher came, and she did not offer to resign it. Mrs. Mudge
was helped first, but it was towards the knuckle and she had no fat.
‘Thank you, Mrs. Poulter, but will you please give me a piece of fat?’
Mrs. Poulter, scowling, placed a minute portion of hard, half-burnt skin
on Mrs. Mudge’s plate.
‘Much obliged, Mrs. Poulter, but I want a piece of _fat_—white fat—just
there,’ pointing to it with her fork.
Mrs. Poulter, as we have said, was at enmity with Mrs. Mudge. Mrs. Mudge
also was Low Church; and Mrs. Poulter was High. She had just returned
from a High Church service at St. Paul’s, and the demand for an undue
share of fat was particularly irritating.
‘Really, Mrs. Mudge, you forget that there is hardly enough to go round.
For my part, though, I care nothing about it.’
‘If I had thought you did, Mrs. Poulter, I am sure I should not have
dared to ask for it.’
‘I believe,’ said Miss Taggart, ‘that the office of fat in diet is to
preserve heat.’
‘If fat promotes heat,’ said Miss Everard, ‘and I have no doubt it is so,
considering Miss Taggart’s physiological knowledge, my advice is that we
abstain from it.’
‘It is a pity,’ said Mr. Goacher, smiling, ‘that animals will not suit
our requirements. But to be practical, Miss Toller might be instructed
to order legs of mutton with more fat. This reminds me of beef, and beef
reminds me of Christmas. It is now the second Sunday in Advent, and
there is a subject which you will remember we had agreed to discuss this
week.’
This important subject was a proposal by Mrs. Mudge that Miss Toller
should dine with them on Christmas Day.
‘You, Mrs. Poulter,’ said Mr. Goacher, ‘are of opinion that we should not
invite her?’
‘Certainly. I do not see how she is to send up the dinner properly if
she is to be our guest, and I imagine also she would not be comfortable
with us.’
_Mrs. M._ ‘Why shouldn’t she be comfortable? Of course, if we don’t try
to make her so she won’t be. There are ways to make people comfortable
and ways to make them uncomfortable. Miss Toller is just as good as any
of us.’
_Miss T._ ‘She is not an educated woman, and I am sure she would rather
remain downstairs; our conversation would not interest her.’
_Miss E._ ‘Pray, Miss Taggart, what is an educated woman?’
_Miss T._ ‘What a question, Miss Everard! By an educated woman is meant
a woman who has been taught the usual curriculum of a lady in cultivated
circles.’
_Miss E._ ‘What is the curriculum of a cultivated lady?’
_Miss T._ ‘Really you are provoking; you understand perfectly as well as
I do.’
_Miss E._ ‘I am still in the dark. What is the curriculum of a
cultivated lady?’
_Mrs. P._ ‘I much doubt if Miss Toller is acquainted with the ordinary
facts of geography, even those which are familiar to common seamen in the
Navy. She probably could not tell us the situation of the Straits of
Panama.’
Mrs. Poulter had been reading something in the newspaper the day before
about the Panama Canal.
_Miss E._ ‘Straits of Panama!’ but she checked herself when she saw that
not a muscle moved on anybody’s face. ‘Now, my dear Mrs. Poulter, I
assure you I have friends who dine in the best society, and I’ll be bound
they never heard of the Straits of Panama.’
_Mrs. P._ ‘The society in which _I_ was accustomed to mix, Miss Everard,
would have excluded a person who was so grossly ignorant.’
_Miss T._ ‘The possession of scientific truth, in addition to conferring
social advantages, adds so much to our happiness.’
_Miss E._ ‘This also I am inclined to dispute. Do you really feel
happier, Mrs. Poulter, because you can tell us what continents are
divided by the Straits of Panama?’
_Mrs. M._ ‘I’ll lay a wager Miss Toller knows as much as we do, but the
things she knows aren’t the things we know.’
_Mr. G._ ‘We are digressing, I am afraid. I suggest we should have a
ballot. I will write “Yes” on five little pieces of paper, and “No” on
five, and after distribution we will fold them up, and each of us shall
drop one in the vase on the mantel-shelf.’
This was done, and there were three for the invitation and two against
it.
Mrs. Poulter and Mr. Goacher were left alone after the table was cleared.
‘Permit me to say, dear madam, that I entirely agreed with you.’
‘You must have voted with Mrs. Mudge.’
‘I did, but not from any sympathy with her views. I strive to keep the
peace. In an establishment like this concord is necessary.’
Mr. Goacher, when he dropped his paper in the vase, had not forgotten
that Mrs. Mudge had offered to provide the wine for the dinner. If she
had been defeated the offer might have been withdrawn.
‘I have fancied before now that I have seen in you a decided preference
for Mrs. Mudge.’
This was true. He had ‘tried it on with her,’ to use her own words, but
she was impregnable. ‘It was no good with me,’ she said to Miss Everard;
‘I saw what he was after.’
‘My dear Mrs. Poulter, your supposition is preposterous—forgive me—you do
not suppose that I am unable to recognise superiority in birth, in
manners, and in intellect. It was better, on this particular occasion,
to conciliate Mrs. Mudge. She is not worthy of serious opposition. Miss
Toller will not sit near you.’
Mrs. Poulter was pacified.
‘I am glad to hear this explanation. I had hoped that one might be
forthcoming.’
‘I am truly thankful I am worthy of hope, _truly_ thankful.’
Mrs. Poulter dropped Palmer’s _Ecclesiastical History_, which she had
begun to read every Sunday afternoon for three months. Mr. Goacher
picked it up, and was about to take Mrs. Poulter’s hand, but Miss Taggart
entered and the conversation closed just when it was becoming
interesting.
In a day or two Mrs. Poulter informed Miss Toller that the ladies and Mr.
Goacher had been pleased to express a wish that she should dine with them
on Christmas Day. She consented with becoming humility, as even Mrs.
Poulter confessed, but with many secret misgivings. She desired to
strengthen herself with her lodgers on whom her living depended, but
Helen was more than a servant. She was her friend, and she could not
bear the thought of leaving her in the kitchen. Helen, too, was
passionate and jealous. Miss Toller therefore ventured to ask Mrs.
Poulter whether, as it was Christmas, Helen also might be invited. Mrs.
Poulter signified to Miss Toller her extreme surprise at the suggestion.
‘The line, Miss Toller, must be drawn somewhere. Helen will have the
gratuity usual at this season—she is a well-regulated person and will see
the impropriety of intrusion into a sphere for which she is unfit.’
Miss Toller withdrew. She dared not venture to explain or apologise to
Helen, although delay would make matters worse. She went into North
Street and spent ten shillings which she could ill afford in buying a
locket for her.
Christmas Eve was black and bitter. After the lodgers had gone to bed,
Miss Toller and Helen sat by the kitchen fire.
‘Oh, Miss, I wish we were at Barton Sluice.’
‘What makes you wish it, now?’
‘I hate this place and everybody in it, excepting you. I suppose it’s
Christmas makes me think of the old farm.’
‘I remember you said once that you thought you would like a town.’
‘Ah, I said so then. I should love to see them meadows again. The snow
when it melts there doesn’t go to dirty, filthy slush as it does in
Brighton. But it’s the people here I can’t bear. I could fly at that
Poulter and that Goacher at times, no matter if I was had up for it.’
‘You forget what a hard life you had with Mrs. Wootton at the Hatch.’
‘No, I don’t forget. She had a rough tongue, but she was one of our set.
She got as good as she gave. She spoke her mind, and I spoke mine, and
there was an end to it. But this lot—they are so stuck-up and
stuck-round. I never saw such folk in our parts—they make me feel as if
I were the dirt under their feet.’
‘Never mind them. I have more to put up with than you have. You know
all; you may be sure, if I could help it, I shouldn’t be here.’
‘I do know all. I shouldn’t grieve if that stepmother of yours drank
herself to death. O Lord, when I see what you have to go through I am
ashamed of myself. But you were made one way and I another. You dear,
patient creature!’
‘It’s half-past eleven. It is time to go to bed.’
They went to their cold lean-to garrets under the slates.
Miss Toller lay awake for hours. This, then, was Christmas Eve, one more
Christmas Eve. She recollected another Christmas Eve twenty years gone.
She went out to a party, she and her father and mother and sister; mother
and sister now dead. Somebody walked home with her that clear, frosty
night. Strange! Miss Toller, Brighton lodging-house keeper, always in
black gown—no speck of colour even on Sundays—whose life was spent before
sinks and stoves, through whose barred kitchen windows the sun never
shone, had wandered in the land of romance; in her heart also Juliet’s
flame had burned. A succession of vivid pictures of her girlhood passed
before her: of the garden, of the farmyard and the cattle in it, of the
river, of the pollard willows sloping over it, of Barton Sluice covered
with snow—how still it was at that moment—the dog has been brought inside
because of the cold, and is asleep in the living-room—her father, is he
awake? the tall clock is ticking by the window, she could hear its slow
beats, and as she listened she fell asleep, but was presently awakened by
the bells proclaiming the birth in a manger. She remembered that Mrs.
Poulter had to be called at seven that she might go to an early service.
She hastily put on her clothes and knocked at the door, but Mrs. Poulter
decided that, as it was freezing, it would not be safe to venture, and
having ordered a cup of tea in her bedroom at half-past eight, turned
round and fell asleep again.
It was a busy day. The lodgers, excepting Miss Everard, went to church
in the morning, but Miss Toller and Helen had their hands full. In the
afternoon Miss Toller was obliged to tell Helen the unpleasant news.
‘I don’t want to go, but I must not offend them.’
‘But you _are_ going?’
‘I can’t get out of it.’
Helen did not speak another word. About half-past six Miss Toller put on
her best clothes and appeared in the dining-room. Helen punctually
served the dinner. A seat was allotted to Miss Toller at the bottom of
the table opposite Miss Everard and next to Mr. Goacher, who faced Mrs.
Poulter. Mrs. Mudge’s wine was produced, and Mr. Goacher graciously
poured out a glass for Miss Toller.
‘At this festive season, ma’am.’
A second glass was not offered, although Mrs. Mudge’s supply was liberal.
Mr. Goacher did not stint himself.
‘There are beautiful churches in Northamptonshire, I believe, Miss
Toller?’ said the reverend gentleman after the third glass.
‘Yes, very beautiful.’
‘Ah! that is delightful. To whatever school in the Establishment we
belong, we cannot be insensible to the harmony between it and our dear
old ivy-clad towers and the ancient gravestones. I love old country
churches. I often wish my lot had been cast in a simple rural parish.’
_Miss E._ ‘Why do you not go?’
_Mr. G._ ‘My unfortunate throat; and besides, I believe I am really
better fitted for an urban population.’
_Miss E._ ‘In what way?’
_Mr. G._ ‘Well, you see, Miss Everard, questions present themselves to
our hearers in towns which do not naturally occur to the rustic
mind—questions with which, if I may say so, I am perhaps fitted to deal.
The rustic mind needs nothing more than a simple presentation of the
Gospel.’
_Miss E._ ‘What kind of questions?’
_Mr. G._ ‘You must be aware that our friend Mrs. Poulter, for instance,
accustomed as she is to the mental stimulus of Southsea and Brighton,
takes an interest in topics unfamiliar to an honest agriculturist who is
immersed all the week in beeves and ploughs and swine.’
Mr. Goacher had intended that Mrs. Poulter should hear that her name was
mentioned.
_Mrs. P._ ‘What are you saying about me?’
_Miss E._ ‘Nothing to your discredit. We were talking about town and
country parishes, and Mr. Goacher maintains that in a town parish a
clergyman of superior intellect is indispensable.’
_Mrs. P._ ‘But what has that to do with me?’
_Miss E._ ‘Oh, we merely brought you forward as an example. You have
moved in cultured society, and he is of opinion that he is better fitted
to preach to people like you than to farmers.’
_Mrs. M._ ‘Culture, fiddle-de-dee! Afore I was married, I lived in the
country. Five-and-twenty years I lived in it. Don’t tell me. A farmer
with five hundred acres of land, or even a cowman who has to keep a dozen
cows in order and look after his own garden, wants more brains than any
of your fine town-folk. Ah, and our old parson had a good bit more than
any one of these half-witted curates such as you see here in Brighton
playing their popish antics in coloured clothes.’
Mrs. Poulter was very angry.
‘Mrs. Mudge,’ she said, speaking to nobody in particular, and looking
straight before her, ‘has chosen to-day of all days on which to insult, I
will not call it _my_ faith, but the faith of the Catholic Church.’
Mr. Goacher at once intervened with his oil-can.
‘My leanings, Mrs. Poulter, have latterly at any rate been in your
direction—without excesses, of course; but both you and I admit that the
Church is ample enough to embrace the other great parties so long as
there is agreement in essentials. Unity, unity! Mrs. Mudge’s ardour, we
must confess, proves her sincerity.’
Mr. Goacher took another glass of Mrs. Mudge’s wine. After the dessert
of almonds and raisins, figs, apples, and oranges—also supplied by Mrs.
Mudge—Miss Toller rose and said she hoped she might be excused, but Mr.
Goacher pressed her to stay. He had offered to entertain the company
with a trifling humorous composition of his own. She consented, and he
recited a parody on ‘To be or not to be,’ descriptive of a young lady’s
perplexity at having received an offer of marriage. When it was over
Miss Toller departed. It was now nine o’clock, and she found that the
dinner things had been washed up, and that Helen had gone to bed. The
next morning she went downstairs a little later than usual, but there was
no Helen. She ran up to her bedroom. It was empty; she had slept there
that night, but her box was packed and directed, and there was a paper on
it to say that the carrier would call for it. Miss Toller was
confounded. She would have rushed to the station, but the first train
had gone. She was roused by the milkman at the area door, and hastened
down to light the fire. At first she resolved to excuse Helen’s absence
on the ground that it was Boxing Day, but she would almost certainly not
return, and after breakfast Miss Toller went upstairs and told her
lodgers that Helen had left. Mrs. Poulter managed to acquaint Mr.
Goacher and Miss Taggart that she desired to speak to them when Mrs.
Mudge and Miss Everard were out of the way, and at midday there was a
conference. Mrs. Poulter declared that the time had now arrived for
decisive action, so far as she was concerned. Mrs. Mudge’s behaviour
could not be endured. Her insolence in the matter of the newspaper (this
will be explained in a moment), and her contempt for what was sacred,
made it impossible without loss of self-respect to live with her. The
servant’s sudden departure for reasons unknown, had, to use Mrs.
Poulter’s words, ‘put the coping-stone to the edifice.’ The newspaper
grievance was this. The _Morning Post_ was provided by Miss Toller for
her boarders. Mrs. Poulter was always the first to take it, and her
claim as senior resident was not challenged. One morning, however, Mrs.
Mudge, after fidgeting for a whole hour, while Mrs. Poulter leisurely
scanned every paragraph from the top of the first page down to the bottom
of the last, suggested that the paper should be divided, as other people
might wish to see it. Mrs. Poulter dropped her eye-glass and handed Mrs.
Mudge the outside sheet, with the remark that if she would but have
intimated politely that she was in a hurry, she could have had it before.
‘I’m in no hurry,’ Mrs. Mudge replied, ‘and you don’t seem to be in any.
Thank you; this is not the bit I want; you needn’t trouble; I can order a
paper myself.’ The next day there was a _Standard_ for Mrs. Mudge, who
with some malice immediately offered it to Mr. Goacher. Mrs. Poulter
glared at him, and after a little hesitation he expressed his obligation
but preferred to wait, as he had a letter to write which must be
dispatched immediately. Mrs. Poulter never forgot Mrs. Mudge’s spite, as
she called it; the _Standard_ reminded her of it daily.
Mr. Goacher agreed with Mrs. Poulter that, for the reasons she gave, it
would be desirable to remove from Russell House. He also felt that, as a
clergyman, he would do wisely in leaving, for he could not ascribe the
disappearance of ‘the domestic’ to anything but a consciousness of guilt.
Miss Taggart considered that Mrs. Mudge’s conduct was due to defective
training. As to Helen, Miss Taggart added that ‘you never feel yourself
secure against moral delinquency in the classes from which servants are
drawn. They have no basis.’
‘I understand,’ said Mrs. Poulter, ‘that Helen is a Dissenter.’
Miss Taggart, as the reader has been told, was not particularly fond of
Mrs. Poulter and Mr. Goacher, but to stay with Mrs. Mudge and Miss
Everard was impossible. She had also once or twice received a hint from
Miss Toller that perhaps she had better suit herself elsewhere, as the
minute attention she demanded to her little needs, of which there were
many, was trying both to mistress and servant.
Miss Toller was promptly informed that three of her lodgers were going at
the end of the month.
‘I hope, Mrs. Poulter, that you are not dissatisfied. I have no doubt I
shall soon be able to obtain assistance.’
_Mrs. P._ ‘Our reasons, Miss Toller, had better not be communicated;
they are sufficient. Against you personally we have nothing to object.’
_Miss T._ ‘Have you searched the box which I understand has been left?’
_Miss Toller_. ‘Have you missed anything, ma’am?’
_Miss T._ ‘Not at present. I might discover my loss when it was too
late.’
_Mr. G._ ‘It would be better for the protection of all of us.’
_Miss Toller_. ‘I couldn’t do it for worlds; you’ll pardon me for saying
so. I’d sooner you left me without paying me a farthing. Helen may have
her faults, but she is as honest as—.’ Miss Toller’s voice trembled and
she could not finish the sentence.
_Mrs. P._ ‘Have you any reason to suspect any—any improper
relationship?’
_Miss Toller_. ‘I do not quite understand you.’
_Mr. G._ ‘Pardon me, Mrs. Poulter, it is my duty to relieve you of that
inquiry. Mrs. Poulter cannot be explicit. Do you surmise that Helen is
compelled to conceal?—you will comprehend me, I am sure. I need not add
anything more.’
The poor landlady, habitually crushed by the anticipation of quarter-day
into fear of contradiction or offence, flamed up with sudden passion.
‘Sir,’ she cried, ‘Helen is my friend, my dearest friend. How dare
you!—you a clergyman! I let you and Mrs. Poulter know that she is as
pure and good as you are—yes, and a thousand times better than you are
with your hateful insinuations. I shalt be thankful to see the last of
you!’ and she flung herself out of the room.
‘What do you think of that?’ said Mrs. Poulter. ‘It is beyond comment.
We cannot remain another night.’ Mr. Goacher and Miss Taggart agreed,
and Miss Taggart was commissioned at once to engage rooms. When she had
gone Mr. Goacher was compelled to explain that he was in a difficulty.
‘Of course, my dear Mrs. Poulter, after this open insult I must go at
once, but unhappily I am rather behind-hand in my payments to Miss
Toller. Remittances I expected have been delayed.’
‘How much do you owe her?’
‘I believe it is now about fifteen pounds. Her disgraceful conduct
discharges us from any liability beyond to-day. Might I beg the loan of
twenty pounds from you?—say for a fortnight. It is a favour I could not
dream of soliciting from anybody but Mrs. Poulter.’
It was most inconvenient to Mrs. Poulter to advance twenty pounds at that
moment. But she had her own reasons for not wishing that Mr. Goacher
should imagine she was straitened.
‘I believe I can assist you.’
Mr. Goacher dropped on his knees and took the lady’s hand, kissing it
fervently.
‘My dear madam, may I take this opportunity, in this position, of
declaring what must be obvious to you, that my heart—yes, my heart—has
been captured and is yours? Identity of views on almost every subject,
social and religious, personal attachment beyond that felt to any other
woman I ever beheld—have we not sufficient reasons, if you can but
respond to my emotion, to warrant an Eden for us in the future?’
‘Mr. Goacher, you take me by surprise. I cannot conceal my regard for
you, but you will not expect an answer upon a matter of such moment until
I have given it most mature consideration. Miss Taggart will be here
directly: I think I hear the bell.’
Mr. Goacher slowly rose: Miss Taggart appeared and announced that the
rooms were secured.
To end this part of the story, it may be added that in about a fortnight
Mr. Goacher’s throat was quite well, and he announced to Mrs. Poulter his
intention of resuming active work in the Church. The marriage,
therefore, was no longer delayed.
A little while afterwards Mrs. Goacher discovered that her husband had
been a missionary in the service of the Church Missionary Society and had
consequently been Low, that he had been returned a little damaged in
character; and that resumption of active work was undesirable.
Mrs. Mudge had lunch and tea with a friend. When she came back Miss
Toller told her what had happened.
‘I dare say you’ll blame me. It was wrong to let my temper get the
better of me, but I could not help it.’
‘Help it? The wonder to me is you’ve stood it so long. I couldn’t stand
them; I should have left if they hadn’t. Have they paid you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What, that Goacher? Then he borrowed it!’ and Mrs. Mudge laughed till
she cried.
The day wore on and no carrier came for the box. After dinner Miss
Toller told Mrs. Mudge she must go out for a few minutes to get a
charwoman; that she would take the latch-key, and that nobody would call.
She had gone about a quarter of an hour when there was a ring at the
bell. Mrs. Mudge went to the door and, behold, there was Helen!
‘The Lord have mercy on us! Why did you run away so suddenly?’
‘Don’t ask me. Never you say a word about it to me. I’m a sinner:
where’s Miss Toller?’
Helen listened in silence as Mrs. Mudge told her the eventful history of
the last twelve hours. She went upstairs: Miss Toller’s bedroom door was
open, and on the drawers she saw a little packet tied up with blue silk.
It was addressed ‘for dear Helen.’ She tore it open, and there was a
locket and in it was her beloved mistress’s hair—the mistress to whom she
had been so cruel, who had so nobly defended her. She threw herself on
the bed and her heart almost broke. Suddenly she leaped up, flew down
into the kitchen, and began washing up the plates and dishes. Miss
Toller was away for nearly an hour; her search for a charwoman was
unsuccessful, and she came back dejected. Helen rushed to meet her and
they embraced one another.
‘O Miss Toller, forgive me! When I saw you sitting with that Poulter and
that Goacher, the Devil got the better of me, but—’
‘Hush, my dear; I oughtn’t to have gone, and never any more from this day
call me Miss Toller. Call me Mary, always from this day—you promise me?’
and Miss Toller kissed Helen’s quivering lips.
Miss Toller did all she could to get other boarders, but none came and
she had a hard time. It was difficult for her sometimes to find a dinner
for herself and Helen. Good Mrs. Mudge was delicately considerate and
often said, ‘that meat need not come up again,’ and purposely ordered
more than she and Miss Everard could eat, but the butcher’s bill and the
milk bill were not paid so regularly as heretofore. Worse than
privation, worse than debt, was the vain watching for inquiries and
answers to her advertisement. What would become of her? Where could she
go? Three more boarders she must have or she could not live, and there
was no prospect of one. If by great good luck she could obtain three,
they might not stay and the dismal struggle would begin again.
Lodging-house keepers are not the heroines of novels and poems, but if
endurance, wrestling with adversity, hoping in despair, be virtues, the
eternal scales will drop in favour of many underground basements against
battlefields. At last, after one or two pressing notices from landlord
and rate-collector, Mrs. Mudge and Miss Everard were informed that
Russell House was to be given up. She and Helen must seek situations as
servants.
Mrs. Mudge and Miss Everard went away at the end of the month. On the
dining-room table after they had gone Miss Toller found two envelopes
directed to her. Inside were some receipts. Mrs. Mudge had paid all the
rent due to the end of Miss Toller’s term, and Miss Everard the taxes.
Next week Miss Toller had the following letter from her father:—
‘MY DEAR MARY,—This is to tell you that your stepmother departed this
life last Tuesday fortnight. She was taken with a fit on the Sunday.
On Tuesday morning she came to herself and wished us to send for the
parson. He was here in an hour and she made her peace with God. I
did not ask you to the funeral as you had been so long away. My dear
Mary, I cannot live alone at my age. I was sixty-five last
Michaelmas, and I want you back in the old house. Let bygones be
bygones. I shall always be, your affectionate father,
‘THOMAS TOLLER.
‘_PS._—You can have the same bedroom you had when your own mother was
alive.’
The furniture, modern stuff, was sold, every stick of it, and Miss Toller
rejoiced when the spring sofa and chairs which had been devoted to
Poulters and Goachers and Taggarts were piled up in the vans. The
nightmares of fifteen years hid themselves in the mats and carpets.
Helen and she standing at the dresser ate their last meal in the dingy
kitchen of Russell House. It was nothing but sandwiches, but it was the
most delicious food they had tasted there. It is a mistake if you are
old to go back to the village in which you were born and bred. Ghosts
meet you in every lane and look out from the windows. There are new
names on the signboard of the inn and over the grocer’s shop. A
steam-engine has been put in the mill, and the pathway behind to the mill
dam and to the river bank has been closed. The people you see think you
are a visitor. The church is restored, and there is a brand new Wesleyan
chapel. Better stay where you are and amuse yourself by trying to make
flowers grow in your little, smoky, suburban back-garden. But Miss
Toller and Helen were not too old. Mr. Toller met them at the station
with a four-wheeled chaise. Before the train had quite stopped, Helen
caught sight of somebody standing by the cart which was brought for the
luggage. ‘It’s Tom! it’s Tom!’ she screamed; and it was Tom himself,
white-headed now and a little bent. She insisted on walking with him by
the side of his horse the whole four miles to their journey’s end. He
was between forty and fifty when she went away and had been with Mr.
Toller ever since—‘tried a bit at times,’ he confessed, ‘with the second
missus.’ ‘She’s with God, let us hope,’ said Tom, ‘and we’ll leave her
alone.’
They came to Barton Sluice. Flat and unadorned are the fields there, and
the Nen is slow, but it was their own land, they loved it, and they were
at rest. They fell into their former habits, and the talk of crops, of
markets, of the weather, and of their neighbours was sweet. Mrs. Mudge
and Miss Everard came now and then to see them in summer time, and when
Mr. Toller slept with his fathers, his daughter and Helen remained at the
farm and managed it between them.