Elizabeth Murray was very busy about her poultry all the height of the
summer. She had so many broods of chickens to look after that she
scarcely knew how to turn. With all her ordinary work to do, these extra
cares filled up her time so that the day was not long enough for its
occupations. Dick was very helpful and handy, and they laboured together
without grudging, with that unfailing and unvarying industry which those
exercise who know that all the fruit of their labours will be their own.
No other man or woman drudges with such patience as the little
landholders, who have no master over them, and nobody to share their
gains; and in many cases no other class live so sordid and miserable a
life. Elizabeth and her boy laboured day and night, and never found it
too much. She went to the market Saturday after Saturday, and worked all
the week through among the chickens and the cows. It never occurred to
her even to think that she was getting near the end of that platform of
middle age on which most of the more serious work of life is done, or
that by-and-by rest might be a necessity; nor did she think her life so
hard, as many a poor worker, not doing half so much, has done. She was
busy in the poultry-yard in the evening of one of those long summer
days, which her eldest son, though she did not know it, was spending so
near. At that season there are always chickens in a delicate state of
health to be looked after. Two were lying already in a warm basket close
to the fire, which was warm enough to singe their down off--and the
hospital was likely to be larger before night. The sky was all ablaze
with the sunset, if she had ever thought of the sunset. Sometimes,
indeed, she would raise her head, and look round her for a moment,
seeing all the glories that filled the silent sky and air, but taking no
special notice, except to say to herself that this splendid weather was
going to last. "Good for the chickens and a' living things," Elizabeth
said to herself. But she heard her boy's step coming sturdily up the
hill (for Dick had been absent since the morning) long before he was in
sight. This was of more interest to her than all the sunsets; and yet,
when she paused and looked down for him, what a sight was spread before
her! all coolness and greenness and shadow above, the light fading out,
the colour departing from the green turf and tiny fields, from
everything except the beck with its chain of little pools, which
reflected heaven in all its glory. Overhead the rosy clouds were
hanging still, brilliant with every tint that reflection can give; while
spread out before her lay a wonderful panorama--the broken ground of the
braes, close at hand, for a foreground, and beyond them, between the
openings of the hills, whose great shoulders shut in the view on either
side--far beyond them, yet claiming the attention by its blaze of
radiance--the water, far away shining like a sheet of gold in the sun.
To look down from this shadowy, cloudy place, already almost dark in the
early failing shadows, and see that burnished shield throwing back the
light, and all the canopy overhead brilliant with crimson and purple,
was a wonderful sight.
Dick came up with a sturdy resounding step, but not quickly. Sometimes
he would become inaudible, as he crossed "a boggy bit," or took a
devious way, crushing the fragrant bog-myrtles beneath his feet. When he
arrived at last, he found Elizabeth, with a clean apron on, waiting his
arrival for supper. Everything was ready for him. The chickens in their
flannel infirmary chirped feebly now and then by the fire. The cat,
curious, with a growing interest in the chirpings, purred about, knowing
she dared not approach. The old collie, not interested at all, but
tolerant, lay, though it was hot, and he felt it so, in front of the
fire, which threw a reflected tinge of redness upon his shabby black
coat.
"I have brought you a letter," Dick said; he did not add who was the
writer, but handed it over quickly. It had been lying in the window of
the toll-house for two long days, and Elizabeth gave a little cry when
she saw the writing. She forgot the supper and Dick's fatigue, and
everything but her eldest son, who wrote so seldom. A letter from Abel!
there had not been one for--Elizabeth well knew how long. Had not she
counted the months and the days? But even to herself she pretended not
to know; and the sight of it thrilled her through and through; a flush
of sudden colour came to her face, and the water to her eyes. When such
an unusual thing as a letter came to Overbeck, it was common that he or
she who received it should run it over first, thus getting the cream of
novelty and sweetness--then read it aloud. Elizabeth did the first--she
read it, devouring the lines: but her countenance changed as she went
on, and when she had ended she put it down with some irritation upon the
table, and proceeded at once to give Dick his supper. "If it's needful
that he should write seldom, he might be pleasant when he writes," she
said, with a spasm of disappointment and offence choking her voice.
"Is it Abel, mother; and what does he say?"
Dick began his supper calmly. He was not so much excited about Abel as
to neglect his meal. But Elizabeth was roused out of the common routine
altogether. The first morsel she tried to swallow choked her. "I cannot
eat," she said, pushing her plate away. "Oh, Dick, one thing I've asked
from the Lord; it is, that my bairns should thrive and do well. Me--what
do I care for me? I'm willing to work, and if I have daily bread I want
no more; but my lads and my lass--my lass, my Lily, the only one I
have!"
"What is wrong with Lily?" Dick said, looking up with interest. "And
what has Abel to do with that?"
"Ay, you may just ask; never to have taken any notice, never asked where
she was, or any single thing about her, and then, all in a moment--oh,
you're not to think I'm blaming your brother," said Elizabeth, with a
sudden compunction; "if he never showed an interest before, reason good
he should show it now."
"Is there anything wrong with Lily? Give me the letter, and I'll see for
myself."
"Ay, lad, there it is; it's gone to my heart, and I cannot read the
words out loud. It would be like believing, it would be like taking all
for gospel that was said again' my bairn."
Dick prepared himself for this pause in his meal by two or three large
mouthfuls to begin with, and by cutting and preparing a few more, to be
eaten as he went on. He was concerned, having a sturdy and honest
affection for his sister; but he was hungry as well. He had to spell
over the letter, not being great in "written hand," but this was what he
made out at last:--
"DEAR MOTHER,--You will think it long since I have written, and so
it is--but I will not take up your time and mine by excusing
myself. I have a great deal to do, and that I know you will
understand; and then my life has got to be very different from
yours. I get into a kind of despair when I think of it. How could I
make you understand my life? Yours is all fresh air and nature;
mine is all artificial--close rooms and talk and books. Sometimes I
think it would have been better if I had never left you, then we
should have understood each other. God knows if we ever can now.
"I am writing to you, however, not merely to give you news of me,
or to ask how you are, but to put you on your guard about a danger
which, perhaps, you know nothing of. A friend of mine has been in
your neighbourhood, living at one of the gentlemen's houses" (Abel
had smiled to himself when he used this expression, so familiar in
the days of old), "and I have heard from him of a girl in the
village, a very pretty girl, who is with the dressmaker, and whom a
great many young men admire. I cannot doubt by the description that
it is my sister Lily. She has the young squire, Roger Ridley, going
after her, and I don't know how many more. You know that this is
not a safe thing for a young girl. It might come to no harm with
her, and I hope would come to no harm; but it is a thing her mother
ought to know, and her friends should keep an eye on her. Of course
my friend did not know it was my sister, so I heard everything, and
there is nothing wrong; but you know well that a girl's name should
not be bandied about, and should not be talked of in connection
with a gentleman's name who could not marry her, who is far above
her. Do not be affronted that I speak so plainly. I am sure when
you know, by all I remember of you, that you will take care of Lily
and set everything right.--Your affectionate son,
"ABEL MURRAY."
"Well," said Dick, with his mouth full, "I see nothing to vex you in
this, mother; he speaks very sensible. I meant to tell you the same
thing. It is what you ought to know. I was meaning to say to you, 'Bring
Lily home,' this very night."
"Oh!" said Elizabeth, wringing her hands. "I knew you would be both in
one story; it only wanted that. And what could I expect from two lads,
that can no more see into the mind of a simple lass! That's what you do,
all you men folk--put your own ill thoughts upon her that is as innocent
of harm--oh, that's what you do! In the course of Providence, or maybe
it's nature--the Lord deliver me from knowing which--you learn what an
innocent lass need never know; and then all you've learned from ill
folks, and all you've read from ill books, you think my bairn knows it
as well as you!"
To this most unprovoked and undeserved attack Dick made no reply. He
held his tongue, being partially compelled by circumstances to that wise
reticence, and occupied himself with his supper. It was the wisest way.
After a while Elizabeth, who was influenced in a way she could have
hardly believed, by her clumsy Dick's support and approval of what his
brother said, calmed down out of her own offence and indignation, and
began to consider the question too.
"If you've heard that, and he's heard that, there may be something at
the bottom of it: is that what you mean to tell me?"
"Nothing against Lily," said Dick, "and _he_ says nothing against Lily;
but she's young" (he was two years younger himself), "and if a gentleman
says to her she's bonnier than all the rest put together, how is she to
know it's not true?"
"And so she is," said Elizabeth, with a gleam of pride; "there's no one
o' them, no one o' them you could name the same day!"
"Well, mother, well; that makes Abel all the more right in what he says,
and me the less wrong. You wouldn't expect Mr Roger, the Squire of
Waterdale, that will be member of Parliament and the Queen's counsellor,
to marry Lily Murray, the cotter's daughter at Overbeck?"
"He might search far and wide o'er the world to get one like her," said
the mother. "And wherefore no'? her brother is as good a gentleman, and
has as much chance to be the Queen's counsellor, as himself."
"And that is all you know," said Dick, with a groan; "when her brother
hears all that's said about Lily, and never has the heart to say, 'Hold
your peace, lad, it's my sister.' Much good it will do her to have a
brother that is like that."
"What would you have him say?" said Elizabeth, with a shrill note of
pain in her voice. "When he's living among gentlemen, would you have him
publish to all the lords and ladies that make much of him that he's a
cotter's son?"
"That would I, mother; it would be better for himself," said Dick, with
composure. "It may be grand to be a gentleman, when you have a right to
it, but pretending--what good can that do? and when there's something to
be found out, it's aye found out soon or late. I would rather be known
for what I am, and nothing to find out all my days."
"You?" said Elizabeth, with a certain contempt; "it's no' you that
anybody's thinking of"--and with this expression of impatience, which
sensible Dick took for what it meant and no more, she fell into silence;
and then was it not time to supper the cow?
After this there was nothing said all the rest of the evening. Both had
their work to do, and they went early to bed when that work was done,
for why should time be wasted and candles lighted for nothing? But when
the two separated for the night Elizabeth said, "It's a good thing
to-morrow is Saturday," and Dick replied, "That's true, mother." It was
all that was said.
Very early on Saturday morning, as was her wont, Elizabeth Murray took
her way down the long winding road with her heavy basket. Dick came with
her as far as the toll, where the cart passed that carried the heavier
part of her produce, and he said, "I wish ye speed," as he left her.
"Speed" might mean anything--success in her sale, as much as success
with more important matters. It was unnecessary for him to
particularise. She nodded her head solemnly in reply. By this time
Lily's danger had become the first thing in her mother's thoughts, and
the kindness and goodness of her brother in sending that warning. He
that had so many things to think of--he that was not like just a country
lad--even he, that had lost sight of his home, and was a gentleman, and
could not be expected to mind upon everything, as if he had never
stirred from Overbeck. So much had his mother's mind changed that this
was how it struck her now. Her heart swelled with pride and gratitude to
her boy. He was out of reach of their ordinary commonplace interests,
but yet he could bestir himself to save Lily, to serve herself. She was
nothing but grateful to Abel now--but Lily lay heavy on her mother's
heart. Elizabeth knew the ways of girls. There would be no harm in
Lily's thoughts, no meaning, no understanding of harm: but at the same
time nothing but harm could come from the gentleman lover. The young
squire, who was so much her superior, had perhaps caught Lily's heart.
Was her child to bear that burden of love impossible--love that could
never know an earthly close? Elizabeth sighed; she knew what it was. Had
not she been a rustic beauty, too, in days of which her children knew
nothing? and it might be, was followed and wooed like her child, before
good Abel came and stuck to her through thick and thin, and was married
for gratitude. Even at forty-five women have not forgotten such
incidents; and was it to happen over again to her child? "Oh, to have a
bonnie face, it's more a curse than a blessing!" Elizabeth said to
herself, as she went down the hill,--"at least for a poor lass." This
thought carried her far afield, far back into the past. She had been
happy enough as Abel Murray's wife, and very happy with his children.
Now was it all to begin again? and Lily, her one Lily, was she to bear
the burden too? But though her mind was heavy with this thought,
Elizabeth had to take her place in the market all the same, and get
through as usual the selling of her butter and her eggs. When that was
over she went to Miss Prentice's. She took with her a little offering--a
pound of her sweet fresh butter, and a pair of young chickens--and
before she could see Lily, which was her chief object, she had to
interview Miss Prentice, who was busy, as it was Saturday. "Good morning
to you, 'Lizabeth," she said; "I hope I see you in health. I am sure I
am much obliged to you for the chickens. I wish, though, it was not
Saturday, when we are all so busy, for I would have liked a word with
you about Lily."
"I hope she's giving satisfaction, and doing as you bid her," Elizabeth
said, forcing a smile, but with a very wistful, watchful look that
almost betrayed her anxiety. ("She has heard something," said Miss
Prentice to herself.)
"It's not exactly to find fault. Oh, yes, she gives me satisfaction.
There's not a word to say against her work. She's improving fast. I can
trust her to cut out a body and put it together; and she has what you
might call a real fine feeling for the trimmings," said Miss Prentice.
"But just you look here, 'Lizabeth Murray. What is a young woman to do
in the face o' that?"
"O' what?" said Elizabeth, growing pale. They were in Miss Prentice's
own room up-stairs, and the dressmaker had taken Lily's mother by the
shoulders, and pushing her towards the window, was pointing with her
finger at the other side of the village street. "Look for yourself," she
cried, excited. But all that Elizabeth saw when she looked out was a few
ordinary passengers going by from the market: to be sure, there was also
visible a gentleman riding slowly along the middle of the road. She
gazed at the foot-passengers first, and saw no harm in them,--they were
all very decent folk; but by-and-by Elizabeth saw that the gentleman
turned his horse, and came back riding very slowly, and looking down
from the elevation of his saddle to the window of Miss Prentice's
workroom, which was below.
"That what's happening 'most every day," said the dressmaker with
excitement; "it's no fault of hers. Whiles it's one and whiles it's
another. It's enough to turn anybody's head--me myself, that am an
elderly woman. They're all givin' each other the word, you would think,
to see them. I was thinking of sending for you, 'Lizabeth Murray, to
say, for no fault of hers, but just to keep her out of mischief, you
would do well to take your Lily away."
"But--you're sure it's a' for her?" said the mother, with flaming
cheeks. She was red, but not with shame--a little with pride, a little
with recollection. She could not be so angry as she ought. Poor lads!
was it not natural they should try their best to get a look at so bonny
a face? She had just seen her daughter on her way to Miss Prentice, and
Lily, all blushing and bright with the pleasure of seeing her, seemed to
the mother to be so well worth looking at; and then Elizabeth, too, had
been worth looking at, and knew what trouble it brought.
"There's not much doubt about that," said Miss Prentice. "You see they
think they're free to stare at _her_ when they would not stare at a
lady. It's not a very nice way to show that you're a gentleman, _that_;
but it's very common. I would not mind if it was just the strangers that
passed; but there's some that come often, too often. Some would say they
would never come without being encouraged; but I'm fond of Lily, and
she's a good girl, and I would not say that."
"She must not encourage them. Oh, that must never be--that can never
be!"
"Here she is, coming to speak for herself. Lily, you can take your
mother to your room and speak to her there; but, mind, young Mrs Weston
must have the children's frocks to-night; and I've given my word. Nay,
dinna scold her," said Miss Prentice, whispering in Elizabeth's ear;
"but give her a word of good advice. I'm aye at her, but she'll pay more
attention to you."
"Oh, Lily! what is all this I hear?" said the mother, when they were
up-stairs, another story farther up. Miss Prentice's was the highest
house in the village. This was an attic room with a sloping roof and a
skylight window, on each side of which was a bed. Here Lily had lain in
the early morning, when the occupant of the other bed was fast asleep,
and had looked at her locket in the dawning. She sat down upon her bed
now, having placed for her mother the only chair in the room; and when
she heard this question she first looked Elizabeth in the face with
audacious innocence, and then she slightly tossed her saucy head.
"I've done nothing wrong," she said, and then added after a moment, "If
there's anything wrong it's no' my fault."
"But there is something wrong. Oh, Lily! trust your mother. Who would
you tell if you did not tell me? My lass," said Elizabeth, passionately,
"you're like myself over again; and I know what it is. Oh, Lily! trust
to your mother. Nobody's angry at you; nobody says a word against you,
but--what's wrong?"
To this Lily for some time would answer nothing. She hung her beautiful
head; she folded hems in her apron; but she would not speak. By-and-by,
however, by judicious abandonment of the solemnity of her first address,
Elizabeth obtained a response. "It's nothing wrong at all," Lily said,
pouting; "it's--it's the lads--and the gentlemen----"
"The lads--I'm not afraid for the lads, Lily."
"I daresay no'," said Lily, with another toss of her head.
"But the gentlemen--that's another story. What have they to do with the
like of you? They have ladies of their own kind to spend their time
with. What business have they to come and vex and trouble a simple lass
like you?"
"Oh, they do no harm," said Lily, with a conscious smile upon her face.
"They canna but do harm," said her mother. "Oh, Lily! if I could but
tell you! Their ways are not like common folks' ways. You'll never bide
an honest lad coming courting to you--a good lad that will work for you
and give you a house of your own."
"That's what our forewoman says; as if I wanted a man and a house, and
all that! I'm young yet, and why should I not have my freedom like the
rest?"
In Lily's sphere it was thought quite innocent and natural that a girl
should have her freedom, and see the world, as well as a young man,
before she settled down. The wander-year was a sacred right to all.
"I'm saying nothing against that. Have I ever tried to stop your
freedom? I know my Lily, and I dinna fear. But hear what I was going to
tell you. The gentlefolk have winning ways. They take their hats off to
you, and they speak soft to you, and they make you think you're a queen;
but, Lily, that a' comes to an end, and how are you to bide a common
man, and a rough courting, and all our country ways after that?"
"I want no man nor courting either--if you would only let me be."
"But I cannot let you be. Who have I but you, Lily. There's Dick, a good
lad, more able to look after me than I'm able to look after him; and
Abel," said Elizabeth, lingering on the name, "Abel--he's a grand
gentleman, and wants nothing of his mother. But, Lily, a woman's glory
is her daughter. _My_ lass, I've none but you. It's you that's my crown
and my credit. And will you no' be a honour to me, Lily? Will you let
men and lads, even if they be gentlemen, make free with your bonnie
name?"
"Who's done that? There's none I know that would do that," cried Lily,
sharply, with a movement of anger and pain; and then she fell a-crying
and betrayed the existence of something more than the mere gazing and
admiration Miss Prentice was aware of. Elizabeth discovered with dismay
that the young squire had gone further than vague adoration of her
child's lovely looks, and that there had even been talk of marriage
between them. "He said it," Lily avowed--"not me. I did not promise, and
I would not promise. I thought you would say--what you've been saying,
mother; and me--do I want that? I was only joking; I was never
thinking. He said it; but I said nothing--neither one thing nor another.
I just laughed."
"But you'll have to give an answer; you'll have to say one thing or
another, Lily." Elizabeth was much alarmed, not believing in the young
squire; but she was somewhat impressed and solemnised too, for it was an
honour. Nobody could say but it was that.
"Not me!" said Lily, with a toss of her head.
And there was a pause, for so serious a position of affairs had not been
contemplated, and Elizabeth felt the necessity of thinking it over
before she could settle what to do.
"It was him then that passed the window, riding so slow, on a big black
horse?"
"That passed the window? There's always some one passing the window,"
said Lily, in a careless tone.
"And turning back to pass again, and staring in?"
"Oh, that's their ill-bred way; they're very ill-bred. But I know who
you mean, mother: that's somebody else. That's Sir Richard
Featherstonhaugh, from the other side of the water."
"Lily, Lily! Is this what it's come to? And you let them both speak, and
never trouble your head? Oh, Lily lass! do you see the way you're going?
You must come back with me; you must come home. There's no gentlemen
there to turn your head. Oh, he did well--he did well to give me
warning. He is the one of us all that knows the best!"
"Who has been telling upon me?" cried Lily, growing pale. As usual, she
was full of resentment against the betrayer, but thought little of those
evils of her own which were thus found out.
"One that thinks of what's best for you," said her mother, slowly; "one
that's far above both you and me. A gentleman, and more than a
gentleman."
Lily had grown slightly pale, and her lips parted with wonder. Who could
this be? She became doubly alarmed at the thought of some one watching
her who was worthy of so many praises. "I don't know who you can mean,"
she said.
"Who should I mean but your own brother? though I fear--I fear you're
no' worthy a thought of him----"
"Abel!" said Lily, under her breath. It gave her a shock, as if Abel had
been a spirit and could see her, while himself unseen. "How does Abel
know? Was Abel here?"
"He sent me a letter. He has a friend that has seen you, Lily. Think how
it must be when young lads, strangers, _gentlemen_, can make so free
with your name."
"I know, then, who it is!" cried Lily. "I never thought much of him--and
to spy upon a girl! He's the gentleman that is staying with Mr Landale,
and that looks so grave and never says a word."
"Oh, I would like to know that gentleman, Lily! I would like to ask him
about my boy." Elizabeth for the moment forgot one interest in another.
Lily was so far safe that her mother was by her side, and had warned her
at least of the danger. But Abel, where was he? And she had not seen him
for so many years!
That afternoon she passed him without knowing, without one thought. She
had left Miss Prentice's house full of difficulty and doubt. To take
Lily away instantly seemed out of the question. The dressmaker was very
busy, and frowned at the idea of losing a "hand," and Lily's fair face
clouded at the very thought. What could Elizabeth do? She asked Miss
Prentice to be careful, and entreated Lily, with her heart in her mouth,
as she said, "Oh, to mind what she was doing, and to let nobody make
free with her bonny name!" And then she went away sadly, her mind full
of thought, her heart full of care, and brushed against her son Abel in
the village street and never knew him. He recognised her in a moment,
and very strangely the young man looked to his friends, who thought he
had been taken ill. His countenance fell, and took upon it a ghastly
hue; large drops of perspiration hung on his forehead. He stumbled as he
crossed the street, and was like to fall. "It is a faintness," he said,
with a dismal smile. But Elizabeth went on her way straight, and with
her heart sore and full of thought. She was too full of care to see him,
though he was in her way.