The first course was nearly over ere Augustus had brought himself to ask—
“What did you think of the sermon today, Letty?”
“Not much,” answered Letty. “I am not fond of finery. I prefer simplicity.”
Augustus held his peace bitterly. For it was just finery in a sermon, without knowing it, that Letty was fond of: what seemed to him a flimsy syllabub of sacred things, beaten up with the whisk of composition, was charming to Letty; while, on the contrary, if a man such as they had been listening to was carried away by the thoughts that struggled in him for utterance, the result, to her judgment, was finery, and the object display. In excuse it must be remembered that she had been used to her father’s style, which no one could have aspersed with lack of sobriety. Presently she spoke again.
“Gus, dear, couldn’t you make up your mind for once to go with me to Lady Ashdaile’s tomorrow? I am getting quite ashamed of appearing so often without you.”
“There is another way of avoiding that unpleasantness,” remarked her husband drily.
“You cruel creature!” returned Letty playfully. “But I must go this once, for I promised Mrs. Holden.”
“You know, Letty,” said her husband, after a little pause, “it gets of more and more consequence that you should not fatigue yourself. By keeping such late hours in such stifling rooms you are endangering two lives—remember that, Letty. It you stay at home tomorrow, I will come home early, and read to you all the evening.”
“Gussy, that would be charming. You know there is nothing in the world I should enjoy so much. But this time I really mustn’t.”
She launched into a list of all the great nobodies and small somebodies who were to be there, and whom she positively must see: it might be her only chance.
Those last words quenched a sarcasm on Augustus’ lips. He was kinder than usual the rest of the evening, and read her to sleep with the Pilgrim’s Progress.
Phosy sat in a corner, listened, and understood. Or where she misunderstood, it was an honest misunderstanding, which never does much hurt. Neither father nor mother spoke to her till they bade her good night. Neither saw the hungry heart under the mask of the still face. The father never imagined her already fit for the modelling she was better without, and the stepmother had to become a mother before she could value her.
Phosy went to bed to dream of the Valley of Humiliation.
II
The next morning Alice gave her mistress warning. It was quite unexpected, and she looked at her aghast.
“Alice,” she said at length, “you’re never going to leave me at such a time!”
“I’m sorry it don’t suit you, ma’am, but I must.”
“Why, Alice? What is the matter? Has Sophy been troublesome?”
“No, ma’am; there’s no harm in that child.”
“Then what can it be, Alice? Perhaps you are going to be married sooner than you expected?”
Alice gave her chin a little toss, pressed her lips together, and was silent.
“I have always been kind to you,” resumed her mistress.
“I’m sure, ma’am, I never made no complaints!” returned Alice, but as she spoke she drew herself up straighter than before.
“Then what is it?” said her mistress.
“The fact is, ma’am,” answered the girl, almost fiercely, “I cannot any longer endure a state of domestic slavery.”
“I don’t understand you a bit better,” said Mrs. Greatorex, trying, but in vain, to smile, and therefore looking angrier than she was.
“I mean, ma’am—an’ I see no reason as I shouldn’t say it, for it’s the truth—there’s a worm at the root of society where one yuman bein’ ’s got to do the dirty work of another. I don’t mind sweepin’ up my own dust, but I won’t sweep up nobody else’s. I ain’t a goin’ to demean myself no longer! There!”
“Leave the room, Alice,” said Mrs. Greatorex; and when, with a toss and a flounce, the young woman had vanished, she burst into tears of anger and annoyance.
The day passed. The evening came. She dressed without Alice’s usual help, and went to Lady Ashdaile’s with her friend. There a reaction took place, and her spirits rose unnaturally. She even danced—to the disgust of one or two quick-eyed matrons who sat by the wall.
When she came home she found her husband sitting up for her. He said next to nothing, and sat up an hour longer with his book.
In the night she was taken ill. Her husband called Alice, and ran himself to fetch the doctor. For some hours she seemed in danger, but by noon was much better. Only the greatest care was necessary.
As soon as she could speak, she told Augustus of Alice’s warning, and he sent for her to the library.
She stood before him with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes.
“I understand, Alice, you have given your mistress warning,” he said gently.
“Yes, sir.”
“Your mistress is very ill, Alice.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t you think it would be ungrateful of you to leave her in her present condition? She’s not likely to be strong for some time to come.”
The use of the word “ungrateful” was an unfortunate one. Alice begged to know what she had to be grateful for. Was her work worth nothing? And her master, as everyone must who claims that which can only be freely given, found himself in the wrong.
“Well, Alice,” he said, “we won’t dispute that point; and if you are really determined on going, you must do the best you can for your mistress for the rest of the month.”
Alice’s sense of injury was soothed by her master’s forbearance. She had always rather approved of Mr. Greatorex, and she left the room more softly than she
