Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “Is there any remedy, I wonder?” she asked herself one night in her little chamber, when preparing for bed, and the day had been a particularly trying day. She had ventured to ask for a few shillings for some purpose or other, and was told she could not have them: being Easter-Monday, Sally had had a holiday, and she had been kept at work like a slave in the girl’s place: Herbert Tanerton and his wife had come to invite her for a day or two to Timberdale, and a denial was returned to them without herself being consulted, or even allowed to see them. Yes, it had been a trying day. And in France Easter had always been kept as a fête.

  “Is there not a remedy?” she debated, as she slowly undressed. “I have no home but this; but — could I not find one?”

  She knew that she had no means of living, except by her own exertions; she had not even a rag to wear or a coin to spend, except what should come to her by Mrs. Lewis’s bounty. And, whether that lady possessed bounty or not, she seemed never to possess ready-money. It appeared to Anne that she had been hardly dealt by in more ways than one; that the world was full of nothing but injustice and trouble.

  “And I fancy,” added Anne, thinking out her thoughts, “that they will be glad to get rid of me; that they want me gone. So I dare say there will be no objection made here.”

  With morning light, she was up and busy. It fell to her lot to prepare the breakfast: and she must not keep the ladies waiting for it one minute. This morning, however, she had to keep them waiting; but not through any fault of hers.

  They grew impatient. Five minutes past nine: ten minutes past nine: what did Anne mean? Julia and Fanny were not much better dressed than when they got out of bed; old jackets on, rough and rumpled hair stuck up with hair-pins. In that respect they presented a marked contrast to Anne, who was ever trim and nice.

  “I’m sure she must be growing the coffee-berries!” cried Fanny, as she flung the door open. “Is that breakfast coming to-day, or to-morrow?”

  “In two minutes,” called back Anne.

  “Oh, what a dreary life it is out here!” groaned Mrs. Lewis. “Girls, I think we will go over to Worcester to-day, and arrange to stay a week at Lakes. And then you can go to the subscription ball at the Town Hall, that you are so wild over.”

  “Oh, do, do!” cried Julia, all animation now. “If I don’t go to that ball, I shall die.”

  “I shall run away, if we don’t; I have said all along I would not miss the Easter ball,” spoke Fanny. “Mamma, I cannot think why you don’t shut this miserable house up!”

  “Will you find the rent for another?” coolly asked Mrs Lewis. “What can that girl be at with the coffee?”

  It came in at last; and Anne was abused for her laziness. When she could get a word in, she explained that Sally had had an accident with the tea-kettle, and fresh water had to be boiled.

  More indignation: Julia’s egg turned out to be bad. What business had Anne to boil bad eggs? Anne, saying nothing, took it away, boiled another and brought it in. Then Mrs. Lewis fancied she could eat a thin bit of toasted bacon; and Anne must go and do it at the end of a fork. Altogether the breakfast was nearly at an end before she could sit down and eat her own bread-and-butter.

  “I have been thinking,” she began, in a hesitating tone, to Mrs. Lewis, “that I should like to go out. If you have no objection.”

  “Go out where?”

  “Into some situation.”

  Mrs. Lewis, in the act of conveying a piece of bacon to her mouth, held it suspended in mid-air, and stared at Anne in amazement.

  “Into what?”

  “A situation in some gentleman’s family. I have no prospect before me; no home; I must earn my own living.”

  “The girl’s daft!” cried Mrs. Lewis, resuming her breakfast. “No home! Why, you have a home here; your proper home. Was it not your father’s?”

  “Yes. But it is not mine.”

  “It is yours; and your days in it are spent usefully. What more can you want? Now, Anne, hold your tongue, and don’t talk nonsense. If you have finished your breakfast you can begin to take the things away.”

  “Mamma, why don’t you let her go?” whispered Fanny, as Anne went out with some plates.

  “Because she is useful to me,” said Mrs. Lewis. “Who else is there to see to our comforts? We should be badly off with that incapable Sally. And who would do all the needlework? recollect how much she gets through. No, as long as we are here, Anne must stay with us. Besides, the neighbourhood would have its say finely if we let her turn out. People talk, as it is, about the will, and are not so friendly as they might be. As if they would like me to fly in the face of my dear departed husband’s wishes, and tacitly reproach his judgment!”

  But Anne did not give up. When she had taken all the things away and folded up the table-cloth, she came in again and spoke.

  “I hope you will not oppose me in this, Mrs. Lewis. I should like to take a situation.”

  “And, pray, what situation do you suppose you could take?” ironically asked Mrs. Lewis. “You are not fitted to fill one in a gentleman’s family.”

  “Unless it be as cook,” put in Julia.

  “Or seamstress,” said Fanny. “By the way, I want some more cuffs made, Anne.”

  “I should like to try for a situation, notwithstanding my deficiencies. I could do something or other.”

  “There, that’s enough: must I tell you again not to talk nonsense?” retorted Mrs. Lewis. “And now you must come upstairs and see to my things, and to Julia’s and Fanny’s. We are going to Worcester by the half-past eleven train — and you may expect us home to tea when you see us.”

  They went off. As soon as their backs were turned, Anne came running into our house, finding me and Mrs. Todhetley at the piano. It was pleasant Easter weather, though March was not out: the Squire and Tod had gone to Dyke Manor on some business, and would not be home till late. Anne told all her doubts and difficulties to the mater, and asked her advice, as to whether there would be anything wrong in her seeking for a situation.

  “No, my dear,” said the mother, “it would be right, instead of wrong. If — —”

  “If people treated me as they treat you, Anne, I wouldn’t stay with them a day,” said I, hotly. “I don’t like toads.”

  “Oh, Johnny!” cried Mrs. Todhetley. “Never call names, dear. No obligation whatever, Anne, lies on you to remain in that home; and I think you would do well to leave it. You shall stay and dine with me and Johnny at one o’clock, Anne; and we will talk it over.”

  “I wish I could stay,” said poor Anne; “I hardly knew how to spare these few minutes to run here. Mrs. Lewis has left me a gown to unpick and turn, and I must hasten to begin it.”

  “So would I begin it!” I cried, going out with her as far as the gate. “And I should like to know who is a toad, if she’s not.”

  “Don’t you think I might be a nursery governess, Johnny?” she asked me, turning round after going through the gate. “I might teach French, and English, and German: and I am very fond of little children. The difficulty will be to get an introduction. I have thought of one person who might give it me — if I could only dare to ask him.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Sir Robert Tenby. He is of the great world, and must know every one in it. And he has always shown himself so very sociable and kind. Do you think I might venture to apply to him?”

  “Why not? He could not eat you for it.”

  She ran on, and I ran back. But, all that day, sitting over her work, Anne was in a state of doubt, not able to make up her mind. It was impossible to know how Sir Robert Tenby might take it.

  “I have made you a drop of coffee and a bit of hot toast and butter, Miss Anne,” said Sally, coming in with a small tray. “Buttered it well. She’s not here to see it.”

  Anne laughed, and thanked her; Mrs. Lewis had left them only cold bacon for dinner, and ordered them to wait tea until her return. But before the refreshment was well disposed of, she and the girls came i
n.

  “How soon you are back!” involuntarily cried Anne, hoping Mrs. Lewis would not smell the coffee. “And how are they all at Lake’s?”

  Mrs. Lewis answered by giving a snappish word to Lake’s, and ordered Anne to get tea ready. Fanny whispered the information that they were going to Worcester on the morrow to stay over the Easter ball; but not to Lake’s. Anne wondered at that.

  Upon arriving at Lake’s that morning, Miss Dinah had received them very coolly; and was, as Mrs. Lewis remarked afterwards, barely civil. The fact was, Miss Dinah, being just-minded, took up Anne’s cause rather warmly; and did not scruple to think that the beguiling poor weak-minded Dr. Lewis out of the will he made, was just a piece of iniquity, and nothing less. Perceiving Miss Dinah’s crusty manner, Mrs. Lewis inquired after Mrs. Lake. “Where’s Emma?” she asked.

  “Very much occupied to-day. Can I do anything for you?”

  “We are thinking of coming to you to-morrow for a week, Dinah; I and my two girls. They are wild to go to the Easter ball. Which rooms can you give us?”

  “Not any rooms,” spoke Miss Dinah, decisively. “We cannot take you in.”

  “Not take me in! When the servant opened the door to us she said the house was not full. I put the question to her.”

  “But we are expecting it to be full,” said Miss Dinah, curtly. “The Beales generally come over to the ball; and we must keep rooms for them.”

  “You don’t know that they are coming, I expect. And in a boarding-house the rule holds good, ‘First come, first served.’”

  “A boarding-house holds its own rules, and is not guided by other people’s. Very sorry: but we cannot make room this time for you and your daughters.”

  “I’ll soon see that,” retorted Mrs. Lewis, getting hot. “Where’s Emma Lake? I am her cousin, and shall insist on being taken in.”

  “She can’t take you in without my consent. And she won’t: that’s more. Look here, Mrs. Podd — I beg your pardon — the new name does not always come pat to me. When you were staying here before, and kept us so long out of our money, it put us to more inconvenience than you had any idea of. We — —”

  “You were paid at last.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Dinah; “with poor Dr. Lewis’s money, I expect. We made our minds up then, Mrs. Lewis, not to take you again. At least, I did; and Mrs. Lake agreed with me.”

  “You will not have to wait again: I have money in my pocket now. And the girls must go to the ball on Thursday.”

  “If your pockets are all full of money, it can make no difference to me. I’m sorry to say I cannot take you in, Mrs. Lewis: and now I have said all I mean to say.”

  Mrs. Lewis went about the house, looking for Mrs. Lake, and did not find her. She, not as strong-minded as Miss Dinah, had bolted herself into the best bedroom, just then unoccupied. So Mrs. Lewis, not to be baffled as to the ball, went out to look for other lodgings, and found them in Foregate Street.

  “But we shall be home on Saturday,” she said to Anne, as they were starting this second time for Worcester, on the Wednesday morning, the finery for the ball behind them in two huge trunks. “I have to pay a great deal for the rooms, and can’t afford to stay longer than that. And mind that you and Sally get the house in order whilst we are away; it’s a beautiful opportunity to clean it thoroughly down: and get on as quickly as you can with the needlework.”

  “Why, my dear young lassie, I am not able to help you in such a thing as this. You had better see the master himself.”

  Anne had lost no time. Leaving Sally to the cleaning, she dressed and walked over on the Wednesday afternoon to Bellwood, Sir Robert Tenby’s seat. She explained her business to Mrs. Macbean, the old family housekeeper, and asked whether she could help her into any good family.

  “Nae, nae, child. I live down here all my days, and I know nothing of the gentlefolks in the great world. The master knows them all.”

  “I did think once of asking if I might see Sir Robert; but my courage fails me now,” said Anne.

  “And why should it?” returned the old lady. “If there’s one man more ready than another to do a kindness, or more sociable to speak with, it’s Sir Robert Tenby. He takes after his mother for that, my late dear lady; not after his father. Sir George was a bit proud. I’ll go and tell Sir Robert what you want.”

  Sir Robert was in his favourite room; a small one, with a bright fire in it, its purple chairs and curtains bordered with gold. It was bright altogether, Anne thought as she entered: for he said he would see her. The windows looked out on a green velvet lawn, with beds of early flowers, and thence to the park; and, beyond all, to the chain of the Malvern Hills, rising against the blue sky. The baronet sat near one of the windows, some books on a small table at his elbow. He came forward to shake hands with Anne, and gave her a chair opposite his own. And, what with his good homely face and its smile of welcome, and his sociable, unpretending words, Anne felt at home at once.

  In her own quiet way, so essentially that of a lady in its unaffected truth, she told him what she wanted: to find a home in some good family, who would be kind to her in return for her services, and pay her as much as would serve to buy her gowns and bonnets. Sir Robert Tenby, no stranger to the gossip rife in the neighbourhood, had heard of the unjust will, and of Anne’s treatment by the new wife.

  “It is, I imagine, impossible for a young lady to get into a good family without an introduction,” said Anne. “And I thought — perhaps — you might speak for me, sir: you do know a little of me. I have no one else to recommend me.”

  He did not answer for the moment: he sat looking at her. Anne blushed, and went on, hoping she was not offending him.

  “No one else, I mean, who possesses your influence, and mixes habitually with the great world. I should not care to take service in an inferior family: my poor father would not have liked it.”

  “Take service,” said he, repeating the word. “It is as governess that you wish to go out?”

  “As nursery governess, I thought. I may not aspire to any better position, for I know nothing of accomplishments. But little children need to be taught French and German; I could do that.”

  “You speak French well, of course?”

  “As a native. German also. And I think I speak good English, and could teach it. And oh, sir, if you did chance to know of any family who would engage me, I should be so grateful to you.”

  “French, English, and German,” said he, smiling. “Well, I can’t tell what the great world, as you put it, may call accomplishments; but I think those three enough for anybody.”

  Anne smiled too. “They are only languages, Sir Robert. They are not music and drawing. Had my dear mamma suspected I should have to earn my own living, she would have had me educated for it.”

  “I think it is a very hard thing that you should have to earn it,” spoke Sir Robert.

  Anne glanced up through her wet eye-lashes: reminiscences of her mother always brought tears. “There’s no help for it, sir; I have not a shilling in the world.”

  “And no home but one that you are ill-treated in — made to do the work of a servant? Is it not so?”

  Anne coloured painfully. How did he know this? Generous to Mrs. Lewis in spite of all, she did not care to speak of it herself.

  “And if people did not think me clever enough to teach, sir,” she went on, passing over his question, “I might perhaps go out to be useful in other ways. I can make French cakes and show a cook how to make French dishes; and I can read aloud well, and do all kinds of needlework. Some old lady, who has no children of her own, might be glad to have me.”

  “I think many an old lady would,” said he. The remark put her in spirits. She grew animated.

  “Oh, do you! I am so glad. If you should know of one, sir, would you please to tell her of me?”

  Sir Robert nodded, and Anne rose to leave. He rose also.

  “If I could be so fortunate as to get into such a home as this, with some kind old lady for
my friend and mistress, I should be quite happy,” she said, in the simplicity of her heart. “How pleasant this room is! and how beautiful it is outside!” — pausing to look at the early flowers, as she passed the window.

  “Do you know Bellwood? Were you ever here before?”

  “No, sir, never.”

  Sir Robert put on his hat and went out with her, showing her some pretty spots about the grounds. Anne was enchanted, especially with the rocks and the cascades. Versailles, she thought, could not be better than Bellwood.

  “And when you hear of anything, sir, you will please to let me know?” she said, in parting.

  “Yes. You had better come again soon. This is Wednesday: suppose you call on Friday. Will you?”

  “Oh, I shall be only too glad. I will be sure to come. Good-bye, Sir Robert: and thank you very, very much.”

  She went home with a light heart: she had not felt so happy since her father died.

  “How good he is! how kind! a true gentleman,” she thought. “And what a good thing he fixed Friday instead of Saturday, for on Saturday they will be at home. But it is hardly possible that he will have heard of any place by that time, unless he has one in his eye.”

  It was Friday afternoon before Anne could get to Bellwood, and rather late, also. She asked, as before, for Mrs. Macbean, not liking to ask direct for Sir Robert Tenby. Sir Robert was out, but was expected in every minute, and Anne waited in Mrs. Macbean’s parlour.

  “Do you think he has heard of anything for me?” was one of the first questions she put.

  “Eh, my dear, and how should I know?” was the old lady’s reply. “He does not tell me of his affairs. Not but what he talks to me a good deal, and always like a friend: he does not forget that my late leddy, his mother, made more of a friend of me than a servant. Many’s the half-hour he keeps me talking in his parlour; and always bids me take the easiest seat there. I wish he would marry!”

  “Do you?” replied Anne, mechanically: for she was thinking more of her own concerns than Sir Robert’s.