Part 14 (1/2)

”I must have made some mistake. Still we will find out Mr. Ascott's number, and inquire.”

No, there was no mistake. Mr. Ascott Leaf had lodged there for three months, but had given up his rooms that very morning.

”Where had he gone to?”

The servant--a London lodging house servant all over--didn't know; but she fetched the landlady, who was after the same pattern of the dozen London landladies with whom Hilary had that day made acquaintance, only a little more c.o.c.kney, smirking, dirty, and tawdrily fine.

”Yes, Mr. Leaf had gone, and he hadn't left no address. Young College gentlemen often found it convenient to leave no address. P'raps he would if he'd known there would be a young lady a calling to see him.”

”I am Mr. Leaf's aunt,” said Hilary, turning as hot as fire.

”Oh, in-deed,” was the answer, with civil incredulousness.

But the woman was sharp of perception--as often-cheated London landladies learn to be. After looking keenly at mistress and maid, she changed her tone; nay, even launched out into praises of her late lodger: what a pleasant gentleman he was; what good company he kept, and how he had promised to recommend her apartments to his friends.

”And as for the little some'at of rent, Miss--tell him it makes no matter, he can pay me when he likes. If he don't call soon p'raps I might make bold to send his trunk and his books over to Mr. Ascott's of--dear me, I forget the number and the square.”

Hilary unsuspiciously supplied both.

”Yes, that's it--the old gen'leman as Mr. Leaf went to dine with every other Sunday, a very rich old gentleman, who, he says, is to leave him all his money. Maybe a relation of yours, Miss?”

”No,” said Hilary; and adding something about the landlady's hearing from Mr. Leaf very soon, she hurried out of the house, Elizabeth following.

”Won't you be tired if you walk so fast, Miss Hilary?”

Hilary stopped, choking. Helplessly she looked up and down the forlorn, wide, glaring, dusty street; now sinking into the dull shadow of a London afternoon.

”Let us go home!” And at the word a sob burst out--just one pa.s.sionate pent up sob. No more. She could not afford to waste strength in crying.

”As you say, Elizabeth, I am getting tired, and that will not do. Let me see; something must be decided.” And she stood still, pa.s.sing her hand over her hot brow and eyes. ”I will go back and take the lodgings, leave you there to make all comfortable, and then fetch my sisters from the hotel. But stay first, I have forgotten something.”

She returned to the house in Gower Street, and wrote on one of her cards an address--the only permanent address she could think of--that of the city broker who was in the habit of paying them their yearly income of 50.

”If any creditors inquire for Mr. Leaf, give them this. His friends may always hear of him at the London University.”

”Thank you, ma'am,” replied the now civil landlady. ”Indeed, I wasn't afraid of the young gentleman giving us the slip. For though he was careless in his bills he was every inch the gentleman. And I wouldn't object to take him in again. Or p'raps you yourself, ma'am, might be a-wanting rooms.”

”No, I thank you. Good morning.” And Hilary hurried away.

Not a word did she say to Elizabeth, or Elizabeth to her, till they got into the dull, dingy parlor--henceforth, to be their sole apology for ”home:” and then she only talked about domestic arrangements--talked fast and eagerly, and tried to escape the affectionate eyes which she knew were so sharp and keen. Only to escape them--not to blind them; she had long ago found out that Elizabeth was too quick-witted for that, especially in any thing that concerned ”the family.” She felt convinced the girl had heard every syllable that pa.s.sed at Ascott's lodgings: that she knew all that was to be known, and guessed what was to be feared as well as Hilary herself.

”Elizabeth”--she hesitated long, and doubted whether she should say the thing before she did say it--”remember we are all strangers in London, and family matters are best kept within the family. Do not mention either in writing home, or to any body here, about--about--”

She could not name Ascott; she felt so horribly ashamed.

CHAPTER X.

Living in lodgings, not temporarily, but permanently, sitting down to make one's only ”home” in Mrs. Jones's parlor or Mrs. Smith's first floor, of which not a stick or a stone that one looks at is one's own, and whence one may be evicted or evade, with a week's notice or a week's rent, any day--this sort of life is natural and even delightful to some people. There are those who, like strawberry plants, are of such an errant disposition, that grow them where you will, they will soon absorb all the pleasantness of their habitat, and begin casting out runners elsewhere; may, if not frequently transplanted, would actually wither and die. Of such are the pioneers of society--the emigrants, the tourists, the travelers round the world; and great is the advantage the world derives from them, active, energetic, and impulsive as they are. Unless, indeed, their talent for incessant locomotion degenerates into rootless restlessness, and they remain forever rolling stones, gathering no moss, and acquiring gradually a smooth, hard surface, which adheres to nothing, and to which n.o.body dare venture to adhere.

But there are others possessing in a painful degree this said quality of adhesiveness, to whom the smallest change is obnoxious; who like drinking out of a particular cup, and sitting in a particular chair; to whom even a variation in the position of furniture is unpleasant.

Of course, this peculiarity has its bad side, and yet it is not in itself mean or ign.o.ble. For is not adhesiveness, faithfulness, constancy--call it what you will--at the root of all citizens.h.i.+p, clans.h.i.+p, and family love? Is it not the same feeling which, granting they remain at all, makes old friends.h.i.+ps dearer than any new? Nay, to go to the very sacredest and closest bond, is it not that which makes an old man see to the last in his old wife's faded face the beauty which perhaps n.o.body ever saw except himself, but which he sees and delights in still, simply because it is familiar and his own.