Part 23 (2/2)

Another bitterness (and who shall blame it, for when love is really love, have not the lovers a right to be one another's first thought?)--what would Robert Lyon say? To his honest Scotch nature poverty was nothing; honor every thing. She knew his horror of debt was even equal to her own. This, and her belief in his freedom from all false pride, had sustained her against many doubts lest he might think the less of her because of her present position--might feel ashamed could he see her sitting at her ledger in that high desk, or even occasionally serving in the shop.

Many a time things she would have pa.s.sed over lightly on her own account she had felt on his; felt how they would annoy and vex him.

The exquisitely natural thought which Tennyson has put into poetry--

”If I am dear to some one else, Then I should be to myself more dear”--

had often come, prosaically enough perhaps, into her head, and prevented her from spoiling her little hands with unnecessarily rough work, or carelessly pa.s.sing down ill streets and by-ways, where she knew Robert Lyon, had he been in London, would never have allowed her to go. Now what did such things signify? What need of taking care of herself? These were all superficial, external disgraces, the real disgrace was within. The plague-spot had burst out anew; it seemed as if this day were the recommencement of that bitter life of penury, misery, and humiliation, familiar through three generations to the women of the Leaf family.

It appeared like a fate. No use to try and struggle out of it, stretching her arms up to Robert Lyon's tender, honest, steadfast heart, there to be sheltered, taken care of, and made happy. No happiness for her! Nothing but to go on enduring and enduring to the end.

Such was Hilary's first emotion; morbid perhaps, yet excusable. It might have lasted longer--though in her healthy nature it could not have lasted very long--had not the reaction come, suddenly and completely, by the opening of the parlor door, and the appearance of Miss Leaf.

Miss Leaf--pale, indeed; but neither alarmed nor agitated, who hearing somehow that her child had arrived, had hastily dressed herself, and come down stairs, in order not to frighten Hilary. And as she took her in her arms, and kissed her with those mother-like kisses, which were the sweetest Hilary had as yet ever known--the sharp anguish went out of the poor girl's heart.

”Oh, Johanna! I can bear any thing as long as I have you”

And so in this simple and natural way the miserable secret about Ascott came out.

Being once out, it did not seem half so dreadful; nor was its effect nearly so serious as Miss Hilary and Elizabeth had feared.--Miss Leaf bore it wonderfully; she might almost have known it beforehand; they would have thought she had, but that she said decidedly she had not.

”Still you need not have minded telling me; though it was very good and thoughtful of you Elizabeth. You have gone through a great deal for our sakes, my poor girl.”

Elizabeth burst into one smothered sob the first and the last.

”Nay,” said Miss Leaf, very kindly; for this unwonted emotion in their servant moved them both. ”You shall tell me the rest another time. Go down now, and get Miss Hilary some breakfast.”

When Elizabeth had departed the sisters turned to one another. They did not talk much; where was the use of it? They both knew the worst, both as to facts and fears.

”What must be done. Johanna?”

Johanna, after a long pause, said, ”I see but one thing--to get him home.”

Hilary started up, and walked to and fro along the room.

”No, not that. I will never agree to it.--We can not help him. He does not deserve helping. If the debts were for food now, or any necessaries; but for mere luxuries, mere fine clothes; it is his tailor who has arrested him, you know. I would rather have gone in rags! I would rather see us all in rags!--It's mean, selfish, cowardly, and I despise him for it. Though he is my own flesh and blood, I despise him.”

”Hilary!”

”No.” and the tears burst from her angry eyes, ”I don't mean that I despise him. I'm sorry for him: there is good in him, poor dear lad; but I despise his weakness; I feel fierce to think how much it will cost us all, and especially you, Johanna. Only think what comforts of all sorts that thirty pounds would have brought to you!”

”G.o.d will provide,” said Johanna, earnestly. ”But I know, my dear, this is sharper to you than to me. Besides, I have been more used to it.”

She closed her eyes, with a half shudder, as if living over again the old days--when Henry Leaf's wife and eldest daughter used to have to give dinner parties upon food that stuck in their throats, as if every morsel had been stolen; which in truth it was, and yet they were helpless, innocent thieves; when they and the children had to wear clothes that seemed to poison them like the s.h.i.+rt of Dejanira; when they durst not walk along special streets, nor pa.s.s particular shops, for the feeling that the shop people must be staring, and pointing, and jibing at them, ”Pay me what thou owest!”

”But things can not again be so bad as those days, Hilary. Ascott is young; he may mend. People can mend, my child; and he had such a different bringing up from what his father had, and his grandfather, too. We must not be hopeless yet. You see,” and making Hilary kneel down before her, she took her by both hands, as if to impart something of her own quietness to this poor heart, struggling as young, honest, upright hearts do struggle with something which their whole nature revolts against, and loathes, and scorns--”you see, the boy is our boy; our own flesh and blood. We were very foolish to let him away from us for so long. We might have made him better if we had kept him at s...o...b..ry. But he is young; that is my hope of him; and he was always fond of his aunts, and is still, I think.”

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