Months slipped by; the trees in Burton Crescent had long been all bare; the summer cries of itinerant1 vegetable dealers2 and flower sellers had vanished out of the quiet street.—The three sisters almost missed them, sitting in that one dull parlor3 from morning till night, in the intense solitude4 of people who, having neither heart nor money to spend in gayeties, live forlorn in London lodgings5, and knowing nobody, have nobody to visit, nobody to visit them.
Except Mr. Ascott, who still called, and occasionally stayed to tea. The hospitalities, however, were all on their side. The first entertainment—to which Selina insisted upon going, and Johanna thought Hilary and Ascott had better go too—was splendid enough, but they were the only ladies present; and though Mr. Ascott did the honors with great magnificence, putting Miss Selina at the head of his table, where she looked exceedingly well, still the sisters agreed it was better that all further invitations to Russell Square should be declined. Miss Selina herself said it would be more dignified6 and decorous.
Other visitors they had none. Ascott never offered to bring any of his friends; and gradually they saw very little of him. He was frequently out, especially at meal times, so that his aunts gave up the struggle to make the humble7 dinners better and more to his liking8, and would even have hesitated to take the money which he was understood to pay for his board, had he ever offered it, which he did not. Yet still whenever he did happen to remain with them a day, or an evening, he was good and affectionate, and always entertained them with descriptions of all he would do as soon as he got into practice.
Meantime they kept house as economically as possible upon the little ready money they had, hoping that more would come in—that Hilary would get pupils.
But Hilary never did. To any body who knows London this will not be surprising.—The wonder was in the Misses Leaf being so simple as to imagine that a young country lady, settling herself in lodgings in an obscure metropolitan9 street, without friends or introduction, could ever expect such a thing. No thing but her own daring, and the irrepressible well-spring of hope that was in her healthy youth, could have sustained her in what, ten years after, would have appeared to her, as it certainty was, downright insanity10. But Heaven takes care of the mad, the righteously and unselfishly mad, and Heaven took care of poor Hilary.
The hundred labors11 she went through—weariness of body and travail12 of soul, the risks she ran, the pitfalls13 she escaped—what need to record here? Many have recorded the like, many more have known them, and acknowledged that when such histories are reproduced in books how utterly14 imagination fades before reality. Hilary never looked back-upon that time herself without a shuddering15 wonder how she could have dared all and gone through all. Possibly she never could, but for the sweet old face, growing older yet sweeter every day, which smiled upon her the minute she opened the door of that dull parlor, and made even No. 15 look like home.
When she told, sometimes gayly, sometimes with burning, bursting tears, the tale of her day's efforts and day's failures, it was always comfort to feel Johanna's hand on her hair Johanna's voice whispering over her, "Never mind, my child, all will come right in time All happens for good."
And the face, withered16 and worn, yet calm as a summer sea, full of the "peace which passeth all understanding," was a living comment on the truth of these words.
Another comfort Hilary had—Elizabeth.—During her long days of absence, wandering from one end of London to the other, after advertisements that she had answered, or governess institutions that she had applied18 to the domestic affairs fell almost entirely19 into the hands of Elizabeth. It was she who bought in, and kept a jealous eye, not unneeded, over provisions; she who cooked and waited, and sometimes even put a helping20 hand, coarse, but willing, into the family sewing and mending. This had now become so vital a necessity that it was fortunate Miss Leaf had no other occupation, and Miss Selina no other entertainment, than stitch, stitch, stitch, at the ever-beginning, never-ending wardrobe wants which assail21 decent poverty every where, especially in London.
"Clothes seem to wear out frightfully fast," said Hilary one day, when she was putting on her oldest gown, to suit a damp, foggy day, when the streets were slippery with the mud of settled rain.
"I saw such beautiful merino dresses in a shop in Southampton Row," insinuated22 Elizabeth; but her mistress shook her head.
"No, no; my old black silk will do capitally, and I can easily put on two shawls. Nobody knows me; and people may wear what they like in London. Don't look so grave, Elizabeth. What does it signify if I can but keep myself warm? Now, run away."
Elizabeth obeyed, but shortly reappeared with a bundle—a large, old fashioned thick shawl.
"Mother gave it me; her mistress gave it her; but we've never worn it, and never shall. If only you didn't mind putting it on, just this once—this terrible soaking day!"
The scarlet23 face, the entreating24 tones—there was no resisting them. One natural pang25 Hilary felt—that in her sharp poverty she had fallen so low as to be indebted to her servant, and then she too blushed, less for shame at accepting the kindness than for her own pride that could not at once receive it as such.
"Thank you, Elizabeth," she said, gravely and gently, and let herself be wrapped in the thick shawl. Its gorgeous reds and yellows would, she knew, make her noticeable, even though "people might wear any thing in London." Still, she put it on with a good grace, and all through her peregrinations that day it warmed not only her shoulders, but her heart.
Coming home, she paused wistfully before a glittering shoe shop; her poor little feet were so soaked and cold. Could she possibly afford a new pair of boots? It was not a matter of vanity—she had passed that. She did not care now how ugly and shabby looked the "wee feet" that had once been praised; but she felt it might be a matter of health and prudence26. Suppose she caught cold—fell ill—died: died, leaving Johanna to struggle alone; died before Robert Lyon came home. Both thoughts struck sharp. She was too young still, or had not suffered enough, calmly to think of death and dying.
"It will do no harm to inquire the price. I might stop it out in omnibuses."
For this was the way that every new article of dress had to be procured—"stopping it cut" of something else.
After trying several pairs-with a fierce, bitter blush at a small hole which the day's walking had worn in her well darned stockings, and which she was sure the shopman saw, as well as an old lady who sat opposite—Hilary bought the plainest and stoutest27 of boots. The bill overstepped her purse by six pence, but she promised that sum on delivery, and paid the rest. She had got into a nervous horror of letting any account stand over for a single day.
Look tenderly, reader, on this picture of struggles so small, of sufferings so uninteresting and mean. I paint it not because it is original, but because it is so awfully28 true. Thousands of women, well born, well reared, know it to be true—burned into them by the cruel conflict of their youth; happy they if it ended in their youth, while mind and body had still enough vitality29 and elasticity30 to endure! I paint it, because it accounts for the accusation31 sometimes made—especially by men—that women are naturally stingy. Possibly so: but in many instances may it not have been this petty struggle with petty wants this pitiful calculating of penny against penny, how best to save here and spend there, which narrows a woman's nature in spite of herself? It sometimes takes years of comparative ease and freedom from pecuniary32 cares to counteract33 the grinding, lowering effects of a youth of poverty.
And I paint this picture, too, literally34, and not on its picturesque35 side—it, indeed, poverty has a picturesque side—in order to show another side which it really has—high, heroic, made up of dauntless endurance, self sacrifice, and self control Also, to indicate that blessing36 which narrow circumstances alone bestow37, the habit of looking more to the realities than to the shows of things, and of finding pleasure in enjoyments38 mental rather than sensuous39, inward rather than external. When people can truly recognize this they cease either to be afraid or ashamed of poverty.
Hilary was not ashamed:—not even now, when hers smote40 sharper and harder than it had ever done at Stowbury. She felt it a sore thing enough; but it never humiliated41 nor angered her. Either she was too proud or not proud enough; but her low estate always seemed to her too simply external a thing to affect her relations with the world outside. She never thought of being annoyed with the shopkeeper, who, though he trusted her with the sixpence, carefully took down her name and address: still less to suspecting the old lady opposite, who sat and listened to the transaction—apparently a well-to-do customer, clad in a rich black silk and handsome sable42 furs—of looking down upon her and despising her. She herself never despised any body, except for wickedness.
So she waited contentedly43, neither thinking of herself, nor of what others thought of her; but with her mind quietly occupied by the two thoughts, which in any brief space of rest always recurred44, calming down all annoyances45, and raising her above the level of petty pains—Johanna and Robert Lyon. Under the influence of these her tired face grew composed, and there was a wishful, far away, fond look in her eyes, which made it not wonderful that the said old lady—apparently an acute old soul in her way—should watch her, as we do occasionally watch strangers in whom we have become suddenly interested.
There is no accounting46 for these interests, or to the events to which they give rise. Sometimes they are pooh-pooh-ed as "romantic," "unnatural," "like a bit in a novel;" and yet they are facts continually occurring, especially to people of quick intuition, observation, and sympathy. Nay47, even the most ordinary people have known or heard of such, resulting in mysterious, life-long loves; firm friendships; strange yet often wonderful happy marriages; sudden revolutions of fortune and destiny: things utterly unaccountable for, except by the belief in the inscrutable Providence48 which
"Shapes our ends,
Rough-how them as we will."
When Hilary left the shop she was startled by a voice at her elbow.
"I beg your pardon, but if your way lies up Southampton Row, would you object to give an old woman a share of that capital umbrella of yours?"
"With pleasure," Hilary answered, though the oddness of the request amused her. And it was granted really with pleasure; for the old lady spoke49 with those "accents of the mountain tongue" which this foolish Hilary never recognized without a thrill at the heart.
"May be you think an old woman ought to take a cab, and not be intr............