Part 7 (1/2)

The one desire left to her at present was to become an absolutely independent woman. This meant that she should work hard for her living in her own way, and that she should do what seemed good and pleasant to her, because it seemed good and pleasant, not because it was the way of the world, or the way of a house, or the routine of a relative or an employer. It meant that she should keep her mother under her own eye, in comfort and decency, not lodged with strangers to mope out her life in dreary solitude. It meant also that she should not be a burden on Sydney--or, in plain terms, that she should not take Sydney's money, either for herself or her mother.

Indeed, the consciousness that she had to work for another, and to be her protection and support, was not only bracing but cheering in its effects, and Lettice now turned towards her writing-table with an energy which had been wanting when her efforts were for herself alone.

The Rectory household had been reduced as much as possible during the last few months, and only two servants remained at the time of the rector's death: one, an elderly cook, who was content for the love of ”Miss Lettice” to do the work of a general servant; and a young girl of eighteen, who had lived at the Rectory and been trained for domestic service under Mrs. Campion's eye ever since her parents' death, which had occurred when she was fifteen years of age. Emily, or Milly Harrington, as she was generally called, was a quick, clever girl, very neat-handed and fairly industrious; and it seemed to Lettice, when she decided upon going to London, that she could not do better than ask Milly to go too. The girl's great blue eyes opened with a flash of positive rapture. ”Go with you to London? Oh, Miss Lettice!”

”You would like it, Milly?” said Lettice, wondering at her excitement, and thinking that she had never before noticed how pretty Millie Harrington had grown of late.

”Oh, of all things in the world, miss, I've wanted to go to London!”

said Milly, flus.h.i.+ng all over her face through the clear white skin which was one of her especial beauties. There was very little trace of commonness in Milly's good looks. Three years of life at the Rectory had refined her appearance, as also her manners and ways of speech; and Lettice thought that it would be far pleasanter to keep Milly about her than to go through the agonies of a succession of pert London girls. Yet something in Milly's eagerness to go, as well as the girl's fresh, innocent, country air, troubled her with a vague sense of anxiety. Was not London said to be a place of temptation for inexperienced country girls? Could she keep Milly safe and innocent if she took her away from Angleford?

”You would have all the work of the house to do, and to look after Mrs.

Campion a little as well,” she said seeking to put her vague anxiety into the form of a warning or an objection. But Milly only smiled.

”I'm very strong, Miss Lettice. I am sure I can do all that you want.

And I should like to go to London with you. One hears such fine tales of London--and I don't want to leave mistress and you.” Though this was evidently an afterthought.

”You will see very little of London, Milly; I shall live in a very quiet part,” said Lettice. ”And I shall want you to be very good and steady, and take care of my mother when I am busy. I shall have to work hard now, you know; quite as hard as you.”

Milly looked up quickly; there was inquiry in her eyes. But she answered only by protestations of good behavior and repeated desires to go with her young mistress; and Lettice gave her a promise, subject to the consent of Milly's grandmother, who lived at Birchmead, that she would take the girl with her when she went away.

Old Mrs. Harrington had no objection at all to Milly's going to London.

”Indeed, Miss Lettice,” she said, ”I'm only too glad to think of your looking after her, for Milly's not got much sense, I'm afraid, although she's a woman grown.”

”I always thought her unusually clever and sensible,” said Lettice, in some surprise.

”Clever, miss, she always was, but sensible's a different affair. Her head's filled with foolishness, all along of her reading story books, I tell her; and she's got an idea that her pretty face will bring her a rich husband, and I don't know what beside. I shall be obliged to you, miss, if you'll kindly keep a sharp eye and a tight hand over Milly. Not but what she's a good kind-hearted girl,” said the old woman, relenting a little, as she saw a rather startled expression on Miss Campion's face, ”and I don't think there's any harm in her, but girls are always better for being looked after, that is all.”

”I'll try to take care of Milly,” said Lettice, as she rose to go. ”But my care will be of very little use if she does not take care of herself.”

She was fated on the same day to hear a remonstrance from the doctor's wife, Mrs. Budworth, on the subject of her choice of a servant. Mrs.

Budworth was a noted busybody, who knew everybody's business better than the rest of the world.

”Oh, Lettice, dear,” she said, ”I do hope it's not true that you are going to take that silly girl, Milly Harrington, up to London with you.”

”Why not? You cannot know anything against her,” said Lettice, who was becoming a little angry.

”Well, perhaps not--only she is so very pretty, and London is so full of temptations for a pretty girl of that cla.s.s!”

”We shall live so quietly that she will have no more temptations there than here, Mrs. Budworth.”

”You can't tell that, my dear--once you get a girl away from her friends and relations. However, she has only her old grandmother to fall back on, and she seems a well-meaning girl enough, and perhaps she won't be considered so pretty in London as she has the name of being here. I hope she will keep straight, I'm sure; it would be such a worry to you, Lettice, if anything went wrong.”

”Poor Milly!” said Lettice to herself, as she walked home in a state of blazing indignation; ”how easily that woman would undermine your reputation--or that of anybody else! Milly is a dear, good little girl; and as for her being so pretty--well, it is not her fault, and I don't see why it should be her misfortune! I will look well after her when we are in London, and it will be for her good, I believe, to stay with us.

What an absurd fuss to make about such a trifle!”