She was a person easy enough to be overlooked. She never put herself forward, not even now, when Miss Hilary's absence caused the weight of housekeeping and domestic management to fall chiefly upon her. She went about her duties as soberly and silently as she had done in her girlhood; even Miss Leaf could not draw her into much demonstrativeness: she was one of those people who never "come out" till they are strongly needed, and then— But it remained to be proved what this girl would be.
Years afterward1 Hilary remembered with what a curious reticence2 Elizabeth used to go about in those days: how she remained as old-fashioned as ever; acquired no London ways, no fripperies of dress or flippancies of manner. Also, that she never complained of anything; though the discomforts3 of her lodging-house life must have been great—greater than her mistresses had any idea of at the time. Slowly, out of her rough, unpliant girlhood, was forming that character of self-reliance and self-control, which, in all ranks, makes of some women the helpers rather than the helped, the laborers4 rather than the pleasure-seekers; women whose constant lot it seems to be to walk on the shadowed side of life, to endure rather than to enjoy.
Elizabeth had very little actual enjoyment5. She made no acquaintances, and never asked for holidays. Indeed she did not seem to care for any. Her great treat was when, on a Sunday afternoon, Miss Hilary sometimes took her to Westminster Abbey or St. Paul's; when her pleasure and gratitude6 always struck her mistress—may, even soothed7 her, and won her from her own many anxieties. It is such a blessing8 to be able to make any other human being, even for an hour or two, entirely9 happy.
Except these bright Sundays, Elizabeth's whole time was spent in waiting upon Miss Leaf, who had seemed to grow suddenly frail10 and old. It might be that living without her child six days out of the seven was a greater trial than had at first appeared to the elder sister, who until now had never parted with her since she was born; or it was perhaps a more commonplace and yet natural cause, the living in London lodgings11, without even a change of air from room to room; and the want of little comforts and luxuries, which, with all Hilary's care, were as impossible as ever to their limited means.
For Selina's engagement, which, as a matter of decorum, she had insisted should last six months, did not lessen12 expenses. Old gowns were shabby, and omnibuses impossible to the future Mrs. Ascott of Russell Square; and though, to do her justice, she spent as little as to her self-pleasing nature was possible, still she spent something.
"It's the last; I shall never cost you any more," she would say, complacently13; and revert14 to that question of absorbing interest, her trousseau, an extremely handsome one, provided liberally by Mr. Ascott. Sorely had this arrangement jarred upon the pride of the Leaf family; yet it was inevitable15. But no personal favors would the other two sisters have accepted from Mr. Ascott, even had he offered them—which he did not—save a dress each for the marriage, and a card for the marriage breakfast, which, he also arranged, was to take place at a hotel.
So, in spite of the expected wedding, there was little change in the dull life that went on at No. 15. Its only brightness was when Miss Hilary came home from Saturday to Monday. And in those brief glimpses, when, as was natural, she on her side, and they on theirs, put on their best face, so to speak, each trying to hide from the other any special care, it so fell out that Miss Hilary never discovered a thing which, week by week, Elizabeth resolved to speak to her about, and yet never could. For it was not her own affair; it seemed like presumptuously16 middling in the affairs of the family. Above all, it involved the necessity of something which looked like tale-bearing and backbiting17 of a person she disliked, and there was in Elizabeth—servant as she was—an instinctive18 chivalrous19 honor which made her especially anxious to be just to her enemies.
Enemy, however, is a large word to use; and yet day by day her feelings grew more bitter toward the person concerned—namely. Mr. Ascott Leaf. It was not from any badness in him: he was the sort of young man always likely to be a favorite with what would be termed his "inferiors;" easy, good-tempered, and gentlemanly, giving a good deal of trouble certainly, but giving it so agreeably that few servants would have grumbled20, and paying for it—as he apparently21 thought every thing could be paid for—with a pleasant word and a handful of silver.
But Elizabeth's distaste for him had deeper roots. The principal one was his exceeding indifference22 to his aunts' affairs, great and small, from the marriage, which he briefly23 designated as a "jolly lark," to the sharp economies which, even with the addition of Miss Hilary's salary, were still requisite24.—None of these latter did he ever seem to notice, except when they pressed upon himself; when he neither scolded nor argued, but simply went out and avoided them.
He was now absent from home more than ever, and apparently tried as much as possible to keep the household in the dark as to his movements—leaving at uncertain times, never saying what hour he would be back, or if he said so, never keeping to his word. This was the more annoying as there were a number of people continually inquiring for him, hanging about the house, and waiting to see him "on business;" and some of these occasionally commented on the young gentleman in such unflattering terms that Elizabeth was afraid they would reach the ear of Mrs. Jones, and henceforward tried always to attend to the door herself.
But Mrs. Jones was a wide awake woman. She had not let lodgings for thirty years for nothing. Ere long she discovered, and took good care to inform Elizabeth of her discovery, that Mr. Ascott Leaf was what is euphuistically termed "in difficulties."
And here one word, lest in telling this poor lad's story I may be supposed to tell it harshly or uncharitably, as if there was no crime greater than that which a large portion of society seems to count as none; as if, at the merest mention of the ugly word debt, this rabid author flew out, and made all the ultra virtuous26 persons whose history is here told fly out, like turkeys, after a bit of red cloth which is a very harmless scrap27 of red cloth after all.
Most true, some kind of debt deserves only compassion28. The merchant suddenly failing; the tenderly reared family who by some strange blunder or unkind kindness have been kept in ignorance of their real circumstances, and been spending pounds for which there was only pence to pay; the individuals, men or women, who, without any laxity of principle, are such utter children in practice, that they have to learn the value and use of money by hard experience, much as a child does, and are little better than children in all that concerns L. S. D. to the end of their days.
But these are debtors29 by accident, not error. The deliberate debtor30, who orders what he knows he has no means of paying for; the pleasure loving debtor, who can not renounce31 one single luxury for conscience' sake; the well-meaning, lazy debtor, who might make "ends meet," but does not, simply because he will not take the trouble; upon such as these it is right to have no mercy—they deserve none.
To which of these classes young Ascott Leaf belonged his story will show. I tell it, or rather let it tell itself, and point its own moral; it is the story of hundreds and thousands.
That a young fellow should not enjoy his youth would be hard; that it should not be pleasant to him to dress well, live well, and spend with open hand upon himself as well as others, no one will question. No one would ever wish it otherwise. Many a kindly32 spendthrift of twenty-one makes a prudent33 paterfamilias at forty, while a man who in his twenties showed a purposeless niggardliness34, would at sixty grow into the most contemptible35 miser36 alive. There is something even in the thoughtless liberality of youth to which one's heart warms, even while one's wisdom reproves.—But what struck Elizabeth was that Ascott's liberalities were always toward himself, and himself only.
Sometimes when she took in a parcel of new clothes, while others yet unpaid37 for were tossing in wasteful38 disorder39 about his room, or when she cleaned indefinite pairs of handsome boots, and washed dozens of the finest cambric pocket-handkerchiefs, her spirit grew hot within her to remember Miss Hilary's countless40 wants and contrivances in the matter of dress, and all the little domestic comforts which Miss Leaf's frail health required—things which never once seemed to cross the nephew's imagination. Of course not, it will be said; how could a young man be expected to trouble himself about these things?
But they do though. Answer, many a widow's son; many a heedful brother of orphan41 sisters; many a solitary42 clerk living and paying his way upon the merest pittance43; is it not better to think of others than one's self? Can a man, even a young man, find his highest happiness in mere25 personal enjoyment?
However, let me cease throwing these pebbles44 of preaching under the wheels of my story; as it moves on it will preach enough for itself.
Elizabeth's annoyances45, suspicions, and conscience-pricks as to whether she ought or ought not to communicate both, came to an end at last. Gradually she made up her mind that, even if it did look like tale bearing, on the following Saturday night Miss Hilary must know all.
It was an anxious week; for Miss Leaf had fallen ill. Not seriously; and she never complained until her sister had left, when she returned to her bed and did not again rise. She would not have Miss Hilary sent for, nor Miss Selina, who was away paying a ceremonious prenuptial visit to Mr. Ascott's partner's wife at Dulwich.
"I don't want any thing that you can not do for me. You are becoming a first rate nurse. Elizabeth," she said, with that passive, peaceful smile which almost frightened the girl; it seemed as if she were slipping away from this world and all its cares into another existence. Elizabeth felt that to tell her any thing about her nephew's affairs was perfectly46 impossible. How thankful she was that in the quiet of the sick-room her mistress was kept in ignorance of the knocks and inquiries47 at the door, and especially of a certain ominous48 paper which had fallen into Mrs. Jones's hands, and informed her, as she took good care to inform Elizabeth, that any day "the bailiffs" might be after her young master.
"And the sooner the whole set of you clear out of my house the better; I am a decent respectable woman," said Mrs. Jones, that very morning; and Elizabeth had had to beg her as a favor not to disturb her sick mistress, but to wait one day, till Miss Hilary came home.
Also, when Ascott, ending with a cheerful and careless countenance49 his ten minutes' after breakfast chat in his aunt's room, had met Elizabeth on the staircase, he had stopped to bid her say if any body wanted him he was gone to Birmingham, and would not be home till Monday. And on Elizabeth's hesitating, she having determined50 to tell no more of these involuntary lies, he had been very angry, and then stooped to entreaties51, begging her to do as he asked, or it would be the ruin of him. Which she understood well enough when, all the day, she—grown painfully wise, poor girl!—watched a Jewish-looking man hanging about the house, and noticing every body that went in or out of it.
Now, sitting at Miss Leaf's window, she fancied she saw this man disappear into the gin-palace opposite, and at the same moment a figure darted52 hurriedly round the street corner, and into the door of No. 15. Elizabeth looked to see if her mistress were asleep, and then crept quietly out of the room, shutting the door after her. Listening, she heard the sound of the latch-key, and of some one coming stealthily up stairs.
"Hollo!—Oh, it's only you, Elizabeth."
"Shall I light your candle, sir?"
But when she did the sight was not pleasant. Drenched53 with rain, his collar pulled up, and his hat slouched, so as in some measure to act as a disguise, breathless and trembling—hardly any body would have recognized in this discreditable object that gentlemanly young man, Mr. Ascott Leaf.
He staggered into his room and threw himself across the bed.
"Do you want anything, Sir?" said Elizabeth, from the door.
"No—yes—stay a minute. Elizabeth, are you to be trusted?"
"I hope I am, Sir."
"The bailiffs are after me. I've just dodged54 them. If they know I'm here the game's all up—and it will kill my aunt."
Shocked as she was, Elizabeth was glad to hear him say that—glad to see the burst of real emotion with which he flung himself down on the pillow, muttering all sorts of hopeless self-accusations.
"Come, Sir, 'tis no use taking on so," said she, much as she would have spoken to a child, for there was something childish rather than man like in Ascott's distress55. Nevertheless, she pitied him, with the unreasoning pity a kind heart gives to any creature, who, blameworthy or not, has fallen into trouble. "What do you mean to do?"
"Nothing. I'm cleaned out. And I haven't a friend in the world."
He turned his face to the wall in perfect despair.
Elizabeth tried hard not to sit in judgment56 upon what the catechism would call her "betters;" and yet her own strong instinct of almost indefinite endurance turned with something approaching contempt from this weak, lightsome nature, broken by the first touch of calamity57.
"Come, it's no use making things worse than they are. If no body knows that you are here, lock your door and keep quiet. I'll bring you some dinner when I bring up Missis' tea, and not even Mrs. Jones will be any the wiser."
"You're a brick, Elizabeth—a regular brick!" cried the young fellow, brightening up at the least relief. "That will be capital.—Get me a good slice of beef, or ham, or something. And mind you, don't forget!—a regular stunning58 bottle of pale ale."
"Very well, Sir."
The acquiescence59 was somewhat sullen60, and had he watched Elizabeth's face he might have seen there an expression not too flattering. But she faithfully brought him his dinner, and kept his secret, even though, hearing from over the staircase Mrs. Jones resolutely61 deny that Mr. Leaf had been at home since morning, she felt very much as if she were conniving62 at a lie. With a painful, half-guilty consciousness she waited for her mistress's usual question. "Is my nephew come home?" but fortunately it was not asked.—
Miss Leaf lay quiet and passive, and her faithful nurse settled her for the night with a strangely solemn feeling, as if she were leaving her to her last rest, safe and at peace before the overhanging storm broke upon the family.
But all shadow of this storm seemed to have passed away from him who was its cause. As soon as the house was still Ascott crept down and fell to his supper with as good an appetite as possible. He even became free and conversational63.
Ascott will fork out; he couldn't help it. I'm to be his nephew you
know. Oh, that was a clever catch of Aunt Selina's. If only Aunt
Hilary would try another like it."
"If you please, Sir, I'm going to bed."
"Off with you, then, and I'll not forget the gown at Christmas. You're a sharp young woman, and I'm much obliged to you." And for a moment he looked as if he were about to make the usual unmannerly acknowledgment of civility from a young gentleman to a servant maid, viz., kissing her, but he pulled a face and drew back. He really couldn't; she was so very plain. At this moment there came a violent ring, and "Fire!" was shouted through the key-hole of the door. Terrified, Elizabeth opened it, when, with a burst of laughter, a man rushed in and laid hands upon Ascott.
It was the sheriff's officer.
When his trouble came upon him Ascott's manliness65 returned. He turned very white, but he made no opposition66; had even enough of his wits about him—or something better than wits—to stop Mrs. Jones from rushing up in alarm and indignation to arouse Miss Leaf.
"No; she'll know it quite soon enough.—Let her sleep till morning. Elizabeth, look here." He wrote upon a card the address of the place he was to be taken to. "Give Aunt Hilary this. Say if she can think of a way to get me out of this horrid67 mess; but I don't deserve—Never mind. Come on, you fellows."
He pulled his hat over his eyes, jumped into the cab, and was gone.
The whole thing had not occupied five minutes.
Stupefied, Elizabeth stood and considered what was best to be done. Miss Hilary must be told; but how to get at her in the middle of the night, thereby68 leaving her mistress to the mercy of Mrs. Jones. It would never do. Suddenly she thought of Miss Balquidder.—She might send a message. No, not a message—for the family misery69 and disgrace must not be betrayed to a stranger—but a letter to Kensington. With an effort Elizabeth composed herself sufficiently70 to write one—her first—to her dear Miss Hilary.
"HONORED MADAM,—Mr. Leaf has got himself into trouble, and is taken away somewhere; and I dare not tell missis; and I wish you was at home, as she is not well, but better than she has been, and she shall know nothing about it till you come.—Your obedient and affectionate servant, ELIZABETH HAND."
Taking Ascott's latch-key she quitted the house and slipped out into the dark night, almost losing her way among the gloomy squares, where she met not a creature except the solitary policeman, plashing steadily71 along the wet pavement. When he turned the glimmer72 of his bull's eye upon her she started like a guilty creature, till she remembered that she really was doing nothing wrong, and so need not be afraid of any thing. This was her simple creed73, which Miss Hilary had taught her, and it upheld her, even till she knocked at Miss Balquidder's door. There, poor girl, her heart sank, especially when Miss Balquidder, in an anomalous74 costume and a severe voice, opened the door herself, and asked who was there, disturbing a respectable family at this late hour?
Elizabeth answered, what she had before determined to say, as sufficiently explaining her errand, and yet betraying nothing that her mistress might wish concealed75.
"Please, ma'am, I'm Miss Leaf's servant. My missis is ill, and I want a letter sent at once to Miss Hilary."
"Oh! come in, then. Elizabeth, I think, your name is?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What made you leave home at this hour of the night? Did your mistress send you?"
"No."
"Is she so very ill? It seems sudden. I saw Miss Hilary to-day, and she knew nothing at all about it."
Elizabeth shrank a little before the keen eye that seemed to read her through.
"There's more amiss than you have told me, young woman. Is it because your mistress is in serious danger that you want to send for her sister?"
"No."
"What is it then? You had better tell me at once. I hate concealment76."
It was a trial; but Elizabeth held her ground.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am; but I don't think missis would like any body to know, and therefore I'd rather not tell you."
Now the honest Scotswoman, as she said, hated any thing underhand, but she respected the right of every human being to maintain silence if necessary. She looked sharply in Elizabeth's face, which apparently re-assured her, for she said, not unkindly,
"Very well, child, keep your mistress's secrets by all means. Only tell me what you want. Shall I take a cab and fetch Miss Hilary at once?"
Elizabeth thanked her, but said she thought that would not do; it would be better just to send the note the first thing to-morrow morning, and then Miss Hilary would come home just as if nothing had happened, and Miss Leaf would not be frighted by her sudden appearance.
"You are a good, mindful girl," said Miss Balquidder. "How did you learn to be so sensible?"
At the kindly word and manner, Elizabeth, bewildered and exhausted77 with the excitement she had gone through, and agitated78 by the feeling of having, for the first time in her life, to act on her own responsibility, gave way a little. She did not exactly cry, but she was very near it.
Miss Balquidder called over the stair-head, in her quick, imperative79 voice—
"David, is your wife away to her bed yet?"
"No, ma'am."
"Then tell her to fetch this young woman to the kitchen and give her some supper. And afterward, will you see her safe home, poor lassie? She's awfully80 tired, you see."
"Yes, ma'am."
And following David's gray head, Elizabeth, for the first time since she came to London, took a comfortable meal in a comfortable kitchen, seasoned with such stories of Miss Balquidder's goodness and generosity81, that when, an hour after, she went home and to sleep, it was with a quieter and more hopeful than she could have believed possible under the circumstances.
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1
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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presumptuously
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| adv.自以为是地，专横地，冒失地 | |
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backbiting
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| 背后诽谤 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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niggardliness
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contemptible
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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60
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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conniving
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| v.密谋 ( connive的现在分词 )；搞阴谋；默许；纵容 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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69
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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