Part 33 (2/2)

”That's an odd sort of young woman; there's something in her,” said he to himself. ”I'll get a kiss, though, by-and-by.”

Meanwhile Elizabeth, having forgotten all about her dinner, sat thinking, actually doing nothing but thinking, until within half an hour of the time when her mistresses might be expected back. They were to go direct to the hotel, breakfast, wait till the newly-married couple had departed, and then come home. They would be sure to be weary, and want their tea.

So Elizabeth made every thing ready for them, steadily putting Tom Cliffe out of her mind. One thing she was glad of, that talking so much about his own affairs, he had forgotten to inquire concerning hers, and was still quite ignorant even of her mistresses' name. He therefore could tell no tales of the Leaf family at s...o...b..ry. Still she determined at once to inform Miss Hilary that he had been here, but that, if she wished it, he should never come again. And it spoke well for her resolve, that while resolving she was startled to find how very sorry she should feel if Tom Cliffe never came again.

I know I am painting this young woman with a strangely tender conscience, a refinement of feeling, and a general moral sensitiveness which people say is seldom or never to be found in her rank of life. And why not? Because mistresses treat servants as servants, and not as women; because in the sharp, hard line they draw, at the outset, between themselves and their domestics, they give no chance for any womanliness to be developed. And therefore since human nature is weak, and without help from without, a long degraded cla.s.s can never rise, sweet-hearts will still come crawling through back entries and down at area doors; mistresses will still have to dismiss helpless and fallen, or brazen in iniquity, many a wretched girl who once was innocent; or, if nothing actually vicious results, may have many a good, respectable servant, who left to get married, return, complaining that her ”young man,” whom she knew so little about, has turned out a drunken scoundrel of a husband, who drives her back to her old comfortable ”place” to beg for herself and her starving babies a morsel of bread.

When, with a vivid blush that she could not repress, Elizabeth told her mistress that Tom Cliffe had been to see her, the latter replied at first carelessly, for her mind was preoccupied. Then, her attention caught by the aforesaid blush, Miss Hilary asked.

”How old is the lad?”

”Nineteen.”

”That's a bad age, Elizabeth. Too old to be a pet, and rather too young for a husband.”

”I never thought of such a thing,” said Elizabeth, warmly--and honestly, at the time.

”Did he want to come and see you again?”

”He said so.”

”Oh, well, if he is a steady, respectable lad there can be no objection. I should like to see him myself next time.”

And then a sudden sharp recollection that there would likely be no next time, in their service at least, made Miss Hilary feel quite a hypocrite.

”Elizabeth,” said she, ”we will speak about Tom Cliffe--is not that his name?--by-and-by. Now, as soon as tea is over, my sister wants to talk to you. When you are ready, will you come up stairs?”

She spoke in an especially gentle tone, so that by no possibility could Elizabeth fancy they were displeased with her.

Now, knowing the circ.u.mstances of the family, Elizabeth's conscience had often smitten her that she must eat a great deal, that her wages, paid regularly month by month, must make a great hole in her mistress's income. She was, alack! a sad expense, and she tried to lighten her cost in every possible way. But it never struck her that they could do without her, or that any need would arise for their doing so. So she went into the parlor quite unsuspiciously, and found Miss Leaf lying on the sofa, and Miss Hilary reading aloud the letter from India. But it was laid quietly aside as she said, ”Johanna, Elizabeth is here.”

Then Johanna, rousing herself to say what must be said, but putting it as gently and kindly as she could, told Elizabeth, what mistresses often think it below their dignity to tell to servants, the plain truth--namely, that circ.u.mstances obliged herself and Miss Hilary to retrench their expenses as much as they possibly could. That they were going to live in two little rooms at Richmond, where they would board with the inmates of the house.

”And so, and so--” Miss Leaf faltered. It was very hard to say it with those eager eyes fixed upon her.

Hilary took up the word-- ”And so, Elizabeth, much as it grieves us, we shall be obliged to part with you. We cannot any longer afford to keep a servant.”

No answer.

”It is not even as it was once before, when we thought you might do better for yourself. We know, if it were possible, you would rather stay with us, and we would rather keep you. It is like parting with one of our own family.” And Miss Hilary's voice too failed. ”However, there is no help for it; we must part.”

Elizabeth, recovered from her first bewildered grief, was on the point of bursting out into entreaties that she might do like many another faithful servant, live without wages, put up with any hards.h.i.+ps, rather than be sent away. But something in Miss Hilary's manner told her it would be useless--worse than useless, painful: and she would do any thing rather than give her mistress pain. When, utterly unable to control it, she gave vent to one loud sob, the expression of acute suffering on Miss Hilary's countenance was such that she determined to sob no more. She felt that, for some reason or other, the thing was inevitable; that she must take up her burden, as her mistress had done, even though it were the last grief of all--leaving that beloved mistress.

”That's right, Elizabeth,” said Miss Hilary, softly. ”All these changes are very bitter to us also, but we bear them. There is nothing lasting in this world, except doing right, and being good and faithful and helpful to one another.”

She sighed. Possibly there had been sad tidings in the letter which she still held in her hand, clinging to it as we do to something which, however sorely it hurts us, we would not part with for the whole world. But there was no hopelessness or despair in her tone, and Elizabeth caught the influence of that true courageous heart.

”Perhaps you may be able to take me back again soon, Ma'am,” said she, looking toward Miss Leaf. ”And meantime I might get a place; Mrs. Jones has told me of several;” and she stopped, afraid lest it might be found out how often Mrs. Jones had urged her to ”better herself,” and she had indignantly refused. ”Or,” (a bright idea occurred) ”I wonder if Miss Selina, that is, Mrs. Ascott, would take me in at Russell Square?”

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