Common as were the small fends¹ between Ascott and his Aunt Selina, they seldom reached such a catastrophe² as that described in my last chapter. Hilary had to fly to the rescue, and literally³ drag the furious lad back into the school-room; while Johanna, pale and trembling, persuaded Selina to quit the field and go and lie down. This was not difficult; for the instant she saw what she had done, how she had disgraced herself and insulted her nephew. Selina felt sorry. Her passion ended in a gush⁴ of "nervous" tears under the influence of which she was led up stairs and put to bed, almost like a child—the usual termination of these pitiful outbreaks.  
For the time nobody thought of Elizabeth. The hapless cause of all stood "spectatress of the fray⁵" beside her kitchen fire. What she thought history saith not. Whether in her own rough home she was used to see brothers and sisters quarrelling, and mothers boxing their childrens' ears, can not be known; whether she was or was not surprised to see the same proceedings⁶ among ladies and gentlemen, she never betrayed, but certain it is that the little servant became uncommonly⁷ serious; yes, serious rather than sulky, for her "black" looks vanished gradually, as soon as Miss Selina left the kitchen.
 
On the reappearance of Miss Hilary it had quite gone. But Hilary took no notice of her; she was in search of Johanna, who, shaking and cold with agitation⁸, came slowly down stairs.
 
"Is she gone to bed?"
 
"Yes, my dear. It was the best thing for her; she is not at all well to-day."
 
Hilary's lip curled a little, but she replied not a word. She had not the patience with Selina that Johanna had. She drew her elder sister into the little parlor⁹, placed her in the arm-chair, shut the door, came and sat beside her, and took her hand. Johanna pressed it, shed a quiet tear or two, and wiped them away. Then the two sisters remained silent, with hearts sad and sore.
 
Every family has its skeleton in the house: this was theirs. Whether they acknowledged it or not, they knew quite well that every discomfort¹⁰ they had, every slight jar which disturbed the current of household peace, somehow or other originated with "poor Selina." They often called her "poor" with a sort of pity—not unneeded. Heaven knows! for if the unhappy are to be pitied, ten times more so are those who make others miserable¹¹.
 
This was Selina's case, and had been all her life. And, sometimes, she herself knew it. Sometimes, after an especially bad outbreak, her compunction and remorse¹³ would be almost as terrible as her passion; forcing her sisters to make every excuse for her; she "did not mean it," it was only "ill health," or "nerves," or her "unfortunate way of taking things."
 
But they knew in their hearts that not all their poverty and the toils¹⁴ it entailed¹⁵, not all the hardships and humiliation¹⁶ of their changed estate, were half so bitter to bear as this something—no moral crime, and yet in its results as fatal as crime—which they called Selina's "way."
 
Ascott was the only one who did not attempt to mince¹⁷ matters. When a little boy he had openly declared he hated Aunt Salina; when he grew up he as openly defied her, and it was a most difficult matter to keep even decent peace between them. Hilary's wrath¹⁸ had never gone further than wishing Selina was married, that appearing the easiest way of getting rid of her. Latterly she had ceased this earnest aspiration¹⁹; it might be, because, learning to think more seriously of marriage, she felt that a woman who is no blessing²⁰ in her own household, is never likely much to bless a husband's; and that, looking still farther forward, it was, on the whole, a mercy of Providence²¹, which made Selina not the mother of children.
 
Yet her not marrying had been somewhat a surprise; for she had been attractive in her day, handsome and agreeable in society. But perhaps, for all that, the sharp eye of the opposite sex had discovered the cloven foot; since, though she had received various promising²² attentions, poor Selina had never had an offer. Nor, fortunately, had she ever been known to care for any body; she was one of those women who would have married as a matter of course, but who never would have been guilty of the weakness of falling in love. There seemed small probability of shipping²³ her off, to carry into a new household the restlessness, the fretfulness, the captious²⁴ fault-finding with others, the readiness to take offence at what was done and said to herself, which made poor Selina Leaf the unacknowledged grief and torment²⁵ of her own.
 
Her two sisters sat silent. What was the use of talking? It would be only going ever and over again the old thing; trying to ease and shift a little the long familiar burden which they knew must be borne. Nearly every household has, near or remote, some such burden, which Heaven only can lift off or help to bear. And sometimes, looking round the world outside, these two congratulated themselves, in a half sort of way, that theirs was as light as it was; that Selina was after all, a well-meaning well-principled woman, and, in spite of her little tempers, really fond of her family, as she truly was, at least as fond as a nature which has its centre in self can manage to be.
 
Only when Hilary looked, as to-night, into her eldest²⁶ sister's pale face, where year by year the lines were deepening, and saw how every agitation such as the present shook her more and more—she who ought to have a quiet life and a cheerful home, after so many hard years—then Hilary, fierce in the resistance of her youth, felt as if what she could have borne for herself she could not bear for Johanna, and at the moment, sympathized with Ascott in actually "hating" Aunt Selina.
 
"Where is that boy? He ought to be spoken to," Johanna said, at length, rising wearily.
 
"I have spoken to him; I gave him a good scolding. He is sorry, and promises never to be so rude again."
 
"Oh no; not till the next time," replied Miss Leaf. hopelessly. "But
Hilary." with a sudden consternation²⁷, "what are we to do about
Elizabeth?"
The younger sister had thought of that. She had turned over in her mind all the pros²⁹ and cons²⁸, the inevitable³⁰ "worries" that would result from the presence of an additional member of the family, especially one from whom the family skeleton could not be hid, to whom it was already only too fatally revealed.
 
But Hilary was a clear headed girl, and she had the rare faculty³¹ of seeing things as they really were, undistorted by her own likings or dislikings—in fact, without reference to herself at all. She perceived plainly that Johanna ought not to do the housework, that Selina would not, and that she could not: ergo, they must keep a servant. Better, perhaps, a small servant, over whom they could have the same influence as over a child, than one older and more independent, who would irritate her mistresses at home, and chatter³² of them abroad. Besides, they had promised Mrs. Hand to give her daughter a fair trial. For a month, then, Elizabeth was bound to stay; afterward³³, time would show. It was best not to meet troubles half way.
 
This explained, in Hilary's cheerful voice, seemed greatly to reassure³⁴ and comfort her sister.
 
"Yes, love, you are right; she must remain her month out, unless she does something very wrong. Do you think that really was a lie she told?"
 
"About the cat? I don't quite know what to think. Let us call her, and put the question once more. Do you put it, Johanna. I don't think she could look at you and tell you a story."
 
Other people, at sight of that sweet, grave face, its bloom faded, and hairs silvered long before their time, yet beautiful, with an almost childlike simplicity³⁵ and childlike peace—most other people would have been of Hilary's opinion.
 
"Sit down; I'll call her. Dear me, Johanna, we shall have to set up a bell as well as a servant, unless we had managed to combine the two."
 
But Hilary's harmless little joke failed to make her sister smile; and the entrance of the girl seemed to excite positive apprehension³⁶. How was it possible to make excuse to a servant for her mistress's shortcomings? how scold for ill-doing this young girl, to whom, ere she had been a night in the house, so bad an example had been set? Johanna half expected Elizabeth to take a leaf out of Selina's book and begin abusing herself and Hilary.
 
No: she stood very sheepish, very uncomfortable, but not in the least bold or sulky—on the whole, looking rather penitent³⁷ and humble³⁸.
 
Her mistress took courage.
 
"Elizabeth I want you to tell me the truth about that unfortunate breakage. Don't be afraid. I had rather you broke every thing in the house than have told me what was not true."
 
"It was true; it was the cat."
 
"How could that be possible? You were coming down stairs with the ewer³⁹ in your hand."
 
"Her got under my feet, and throwed me down, and so I tumbled, and smashed the thing agin the floor."
 
The Misses Leaf glanced at each other. This version of the momentous⁴⁰ event was probable enough, and the girl's eager, honest manner gave internal confirmatory evidence pretty strong.
 
"I am sure she is telling the truth." said Hilary. "And remember what her mother said about her word being always reliable."
 
This reference was too much for Elizabeth. She burst out, not into actual crying, but into a smothered⁴¹ choke.
 
"If you donnot believe me, missus, I'd rather go home to mother."
 
"I do believe you," said Miss Leaf, kindly⁴² then waited till the pinafore, used as a pocket handkerchief, had dried up grief and restored composure.
 
"I can quite well understand the accident now; and I am sure if you had put it as plainly at first, my sister would have understood it too. She was very much annoyed, and no wonder. She will be equally glad to find she was mistaken."
 
Here Miss Leaf paused, somewhat puzzled how to express what she felt it her duty to say, so as to be comprehended by the servant, and yet not let down the dignity of the family Hilary came to her aid.
 
"Miss Selina is sometimes hasty; but she means kindly always. You must take care not to vex⁴³ her, Elizabeth; and you must never answer her back again, however sharply she speaks. It is not your business; you are only a child, and she is your mistress."
 
"Is her? I thought it was this 'un."
 
The subdued⁴⁴ clouding of Elizabeth's face, and her blunt pointing to Miss Leaf as "this 'un." were too much for Hilary's gravity She was obliged to retreat to the press, and begin an imaginary search for a book.
 
"Yes, I am the eldest, and I suppose you may consider me specially¹² as your mistress," said Johanna, simply."
 
"Remember always to come to me in any difficulty; and above all, to tell me every thing outright⁴⁵, as soon as it happens. I can forgive you almost any fault, if you are truthful⁴⁶ and honest; but there is one thing I never could forgive, and that is deception⁴⁷. Now go with Miss Hilary, and she will teach you how to make the porridge for supper."
 
Elizabeth obeyed silently; she had apparently⁴⁸ a great gift for silence. And she was certainly both obedient and willing; not stupid, either, though a nervousness of temperament⁴⁹ which Hilary was surprised to find in so big and coarse-looking a girl, made her rather awkward at first. However, she succeeded in pouring out and carrying into the parlor, without accident, three platefuls of that excellent condiment⁵⁰ which formed the frugal⁵¹ supper of the family; but which they ate, I grieve to say, in an orthodox southern fashion, with sugar or treacle⁵², until Mr. Lyon—greatly horrified⁵³ thereby—had instituted his national custom of "supping" porridge with milk.
 
It may be a very unsentimental thing to confess, but Hilary, who even at twenty was rather practical than poetical⁵⁴, never made the porridge without thinking of Robert Lyon, and the day when he first staid to supper, and ate it, or as he said and was very much laughed at, ate "them" with such infinite relish⁵⁵ Since then, whenever he came, he always asked for his porridge, saying it carried him back to his childish days. And Hilary, with that curious pleasure that women take in waiting upon any one unto whom the heart is ignorantly beginning to own the allegiance, humble yet proud, of Miranda to Ferdinand:
 
    "To be your fellow
     You may deny me; but I'll be your servant
     Whether you will or no."
Hilary always contrived⁵⁶ to make his supper herself.
 
Those pleasant days were now over. Mr. Lyon was gone. As she stool alone over the kitchen fire, she thought—as now and then she let herself think for a minute or two in her busy prosaic⁵⁷ life—of that August night, standing⁵⁸ at the front door, of his last "good-by," and last hand-clasp, tight, warm, and firm; and somehow she, like Johanna, trusted in him.
 
Not exactly in his love; it seemed almost impossible that he should love her, at least till she grew much more worthy⁵⁹ of him than now; but in himself, that he would never be less himself, less thoroughly⁶⁰ good and true than now. That, some time, he would be sure to come back again, and take up his old relations with them, brightening their dull life with his cheerfulness; infusing in their feminine household the new element of a clear, strong, energetic, manly⁶¹ will, which sometimes made Johanna say that instead of twenty-five the young man might be forty; and, above all, bringing into their poverty the silent sympathy of one who had fought his own battle with the world—a hard one, too, as his face sometimes showed—though he never said much about it.
 
Of the results of this pleasant relation—whether she being the only truly marriageable person in the house. Robert Lyon intended to marry her, or was expected to do so, or that society would think it a very odd thing if he did not do so—this unsophisticated Hilary never thought at all. If he had said to her that the present state of things was to go on forever; she to remain always Hilary Leaf, and he Robert Lyon, the faithful friend of the family, she would have smiled in his face and been perfectly⁶² satisfied.
 
True, she had never had any thing to drive away the smile from that innocent face; no vague jealousies⁶³ aroused; no maddening rumors⁶⁴ afloat in the small world that was his and theirs. Mr. Lyon was grave and sedate⁶⁵ in all his ways; he never paid the slightest attention to, or expressed the slightest interest in, any woman whatsoever⁶⁶.
 
And so this hapless girl loved, him—just himself; without the slightest reference to his "connections," for he had none; or his "prospects," which, if he had any, she did not know of. Alas⁶⁷! to practical and prudent⁶⁸ people I can offer no excuse for her; except, perhaps what Shakspeare gives in the creation of the poor Miranda.
 
When the small servant re-entered the kitchen, Hilary, with a half sigh, shook off her dreams, called Ascott out of the school-room, and returned to the work-a-day world and the family supper.
 
This being ended, seasoned with a few quiet words administered to Ascott, and which on the whole he took pretty well, it was nearly ten o'clock.
 
"Far too late to have kept up such a child as Elizabeth; we must not do it again," said Miss Leaf, taking down the large Bible with which she was accustomed to conclude the day—Ascott's early hours at school and their own house-work making it difficult of mornings. Very brief the reading was, sometimes not more than half a dozen verses, with no comment thereon; she thought the Word of God might safely be left to expound⁶⁹ itself Being a very humble-minded woman, she did not feel qualified⁷⁰ to lead long devotional "exercises," and she disliked formal written prayers. So she merely read the Bible to the family, and said after it the Lord's Prayer.
 
But, constitutionally shy as Miss Leaf was to do even this in presence of a stranger cost her some effort; and it was only a sense of duty that made her say "yes" to Hilary's suggestion, "I suppose we ought to call in Elizabeth?"
 
Elizabeth came.
 
"Sit down," said her mistress: and she sat down, staring uneasily round about her, as if wondering what was going to befall her next. Very silent was the little parlor; so small, that it was almost filled up by its large square piano, its six cane-bottomed chairs, and one easy chair, in which sat Miss Leaf with the great Book in her lap.
 
"Can you read, Elizabeth?"
 
"Yes, ma'am."
 
"Hilary, give her a bible."
 
And so Elizabeth followed, guided by her not too clean finger, the words, read in that soft, low voice, somewhere out of the New Testament⁷¹; words simple enough for the comprehension of a child or a heathen. The "South Sea Islander," as Ascott persisted in calling her, then, doing as the family did, turned round to kneel down; but in her confusion she knocked over a chair, causing Miss Leaf to wait a minute till reverent⁷² silence was restored. Elizabeth knelt, with her eyes fixed⁷³ on the wall: it was a green paper, patterned with bunches of nuts. How far she listened, or how much she understood, it was impossible to say; but her manner was decent and decorous.
 
"Forgive us our trespasses⁷⁴ as we forgive those that trespass⁷⁵ against us." Unconsciously Miss Leaf's gentle voice rested on these words, so needed in the daily life of every human being, and especially of every family. Was she the only one who thought of "poor Selina?"
 
They all rose from their knees, and Hilary out the Bible away. The little servant "hung about," apparently uncertain what was next to be done, or what was expected of her to do. Hilary touched her sister.
 
"Yes," said Miss Leaf. recollecting⁷⁶ herself, and assuming the due authority, "it is quite time for all the family to be in bed. Take care of your candle, and mind and be up at six tomorrow morning."
 
This was addressed to the new maiden⁷⁷, who dropped a courtesy, and said, almost cheerfully, "Yes, ma'am."
 
"Very well, Good night. Elizabeth."
 
And following Miss Leaf's example, the other two, even Ascott, said civilly and kindly, "Good night, Elizabeth."