Day after day appeared the advertisement, sometimes slightly altered, as hope or fear suggested; but no word, no letter, no answer of any kind reached the anxious women.
By-and-by, moved by their distress1, or perhaps feeling that the scape-grace would be safer got rid of if found and dispatched abroad in some decent manner, Mr. Ascott himself took measures for privately2 continuing the search. Every outward-bound ship was examined; every hospital visited; every case of suicide investigated: but in vain. The unhappy young man had disappeared, suddenly and completely, as many another has disappeared, out of the home circle, and been never heard of more.
It is difficult to understand how a family can possibly hear such a sorrow, did we not know that many have had to bear it, and have borne it, with all its load of agonizing3 suspense4, slowly dying hope,
"The hope that keeps alive despair," settling down into a permanent grief, compared to which the grief for loss by death is light and endurable.
The Leaf family went through all this. Was it better or worse for them that their anguish5 had to be secret? that there were no friends to pity, inquire, or console? that Johanna had to sit hour by hour and day by day in the solitary6 parlor7, Selina having soon gone back to her old ways of "gadding8 about," and her marriage preparations; and that, hardest of all, Hilary had on the Monday morning to return to Kensington and work, work, work, as nothing were amiss?
But it was natural that all this should tell upon her; and one day Miss Balquidder said, after a long covert9 observation of her face, "My dear, you look ill. Is there any thing troubling you? My young people always tell me their troubles, bodily or mental. I doctor both."
"I am sure of it," said Hilary, with a sad smile, but entered into no explanation, and Miss Balquidder had the wise kindliness10 to inquire no further. Nevertheless, on some errand or other she came to Kensington nearly every evening and took Hilary back with her to sleep at No. 15.
"Your sister Selina must wish to have you with her as much as possible till she is married." she said, as a reason for doing this.
And Hilary acquiesced11, but silently, as we often do acquiesce12 in what ought to be a truth, but which we know to be the saddest, most painful falsehood.
For Selina, it became plain to see, was one of the family no more. After her first burst of self-reproachful grief she took Mr. Ascott's view of her nephew's loss—that it was a good riddance; went on calmly with her bridal preparations, and seemed only afraid lest any thing should interfere13 to prevent her marriage.
But the danger was apparently14 tided over. No news of Ascott came. Even the daily inquiries15 for him by his creditors16 had ceased. His Aunt Selina was beginning to breathe freely, when, the morning before the wedding day, as they were all sitting in the midst of white finery, but as sadly and silently as if it were a funeral, a person was suddenly shown in "on business."
It was a detective officer sent to find out from Ascott Leaf's aunts whether a certain description of him, in a printed hand-bill, was correct. For his principal creditor17, exasperated18, had determined19 on thus advertising20 him in the public papers as having "absconded21."
Had a thunder-bolt fallen in the little parlor the three aunts could not have been more utterly22 overwhelmed. They made no "scene"—a certain sense of pride kept these poor gentlewomen from betraying their misery23 to a strange man; though he was a very civil man, and having delivered himself of his errand, like an automaton24, sat looking into his hat, and taking no notice of aught around him. He was accustomed to this sort of thing.
Hilary was the first to recover herself. She glanced round at her sisters, but they had not a word to say. In any crisis of family difficulty they always left her to take the helm.
Rapidly she ran over in her mind all the consequences that would arise from this new trouble—the public disgrace; Mr. Ascott's anger and annoyance25, not that she cared much for this, except so far as it would affect Selina; lastly, the death-blow it was to any possible hope of reclaiming26 the poor prodigal27. Who she did not believe was dead, but still, fondly trusted he would return one day from his wanderings and his swine's husks, to have the fatted calf28 killed for him and glad tears shed over him. But after being advertised as "absconded," Ascott never would, never could, come home any home.
Taking as cool and business-like a tone as she could, she returned the paper to the detective.
"This is a summary proceeding29. Is there no way of avoiding it?"
"One, Miss," replied the man, very respectfully. "If the family would pay the debt."
"Do you know how much it is?"
"Eighty pounds."
"Ah!"
That hopeless sigh of Johanna's was sufficient answer, though no one spoke31.
But in desperate cases some women acquire a desperate courage, or rather it is less courage than faith—the faith which is said to "remove mountains"—the belief that to the very last there must be something to be done, and, if it can be done, they will have strength to do it. True, the mountain may not be removed, but the mere32 act of faith, or courage sometimes teaches how to climb over it.
"Very well. Take this paper back to your employer. He must be aware that his only chance of payment is by suppressing it. If he will do that, in two days he shall hear from us, and we will make arrangements about paying the debt."
Hilary said this, to her sisters' utter astonishment33; so utter that they let her say it, and let the detective go away with a civil "Good morning," before they could interfere or contradict by a word.
"Paying the debt! Hilary, what have you promised? It is an impossibility."
"Like the Frenchman's answer to his mistress—'Madame, if it had been possible it would have been done already; if it is impossible, it shall be done.' It shall, I say."
"I wonder you can jest about our misfortunes," said Selina, in her most querulous voice.
"I'm not jesting. But where is the use of sitting down to moan! I mean what I say. The thing must be done."
Her eyes glittered—her small, red lips were set tightly together.
"If it is not done, sisters—if his public disgrace is not prevented, don't you see the result? Not as regards your marriage, Selina—the man must be a coward who would refuse to marry a woman he cared for, even though her nearest kinsman34 had been hanged at the Old Bailey—but Ascott himself. The boy is not a bad boy, though he has done wickedly; but there is a difference between a wicked act and a wicked nature. I mean to save him if I can."
"How?"
"By saving his good name; by paying the debt."
"And where on earth shall you get the money?"
"I will go to Miss Balquidder and—"
"Borrow it?"
"No, never! I would as soon think of stealing it."
Then controlling herself, Hilary explained that she meant to ask Miss Balquidder to arrange for her with the creditor to pay the eighty pounds by certain weekly or monthly installments35, to be deducted36 from her salary at Kensington.
"It is not a very great favor to ask of her: merely that she should say, 'This young woman is employed by me: I believe her to be honest, respectable, and so forth37; also, that when she makes a promise to pay, she will to the best of her power perform it.' A character which is at present rather a novelty in the Leaf family."
"Hilary!"
"I am growing bitter, Johanna; I know I am. Why should we suffer so much! Why should we be always dragged down—down—in this way? Why should we never have had any one to cherish and take care of us, like other women! Why—"
Miss Leaf laid her finger on her child's lips—
"Because it is the will of God."
Hilary flung herself on her dear old sister's neck and burst into tears.
Selina too cried a little, and said that she should like to help in paying the debt, if Mr. Ascott had no objection. And then she turned back to her white splendors38, and became absorbed in the annoyance of there being far too much clematis and far too little orange blossom in the bridal bonnet—which it was now too late to change. A little, also, she vexed39 herself about the risk of confiding40 in Miss Balquidder, lest by any chance the story might get round to Russell Square; and was urgent that at least nothing should be said or done until after to-morrow. She was determined to be married, and dreaded41 any slip between the cup and lip.
But Hilary was resolute42. "I said that in two days the matter should be arranged, and so it must be, or the man will think we too break our promises."
"You can assure him to the contrary," said Selina, with dignity. "In fact, why can't you arrange with him without going at all to Miss Balquidder?"
Again the fierce, bitter expression returned to Hilary's face.
"You forget, Miss Balquidder's honest name is his only guarantee against the dishonesty of ours."
"Hilary, you disgrace us—disgrace me—speaking in such a way. Are we not gentle women?"
"I don't know, Selina. I don't seem to know or to feel any thing, except that I would live on bread and water in order to live peaceably and honestly. Oh, will it ever, ever be?"
She walked up and down the parlor, disarranging the white draperies which lay about, feeling unutterable contempt for them and for her sister. Angry and miserable43, with every nerve quivering, she was at war with the whole world.
This feeling lasted even when, after some discussion, she gained her point and was on her way to call on Miss Balquidder. She went round and round the Square many times, trying to fix in her mind word for word what she meant to say; revealing no more of the family history than was absolutely necessary, and stating her business in the briefest, hardest, most matter-of-fact way—putting it as a transaction between employer and employed, in which there was no more favor asked or bestowed44 than could possibly be avoided. And as the sharp east wind blew across her at every corner, minute by minute she felt herself growing more fierce, and hard, and cold.
"This will never do. I shall be wicked by-and-by. I must go in and get it over."
Perhaps it was as well. Well for her, morally as physically45, that there should have been that sudden change from the blighting46 weather outside to the warm, well-lighted room where the good rich woman sat at her early and solitary tea.
Very solitary it looked—the little table in the centre of that large handsome parlor, with the one cup and saucer, the one easy-chair. And as Hilary entered she noticed, amidst all this comfort and luxury, the still, grave, almost sad expression which solitary people always get to wear.
But the next minute Miss Balquidder had turned round, and risen, smiling.
"Miss Leaf, how very kind of you to come and see me! Just the day before the wedding, too, when you must be so busy! Sit down and tell me all about it. But first, my dear, how wet your boots are! Let me take them off at once."
Which she did, sending for her own big slippers47, and putting them on the tiny feet with her own hands.
Hilary submitted—in truth she was too much surprised to resist.
Miss Balquidder had, like most folk, her opinions or "crotchets"—as they might be—and one of them was, to keep her business and friendly relations entirely48 distinct and apart. Whenever she went to Kensington or her other establishments she was always emphatically "the mistress"—a kindly49 and even motherly mistress, certainly, but still authoritative50, decided
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