There & Back by George MacDonald (books you have to read TXT) 📖

all you do, that you've done anything! The world is just as greedy of your work as before. I sometimes wish," she went on, with a laugh that had a touch of real merriment in it, "that ladies were made with hair like a cat, I am so tired of the everlasting bodice and skirt!-Only what would become of us then! It would only be more hunger for less weariness!-It's a downright dreary life, miss!"

"Have a care!" said Barbara solemnly, and Alice laughed.

"You see," she said, and paused a moment as if trying to say Barbara , "I'm used to think of ladies as if they were a different creation from us, and it seems rude to call you- Barbara !"

She spoke the name with such a lingering sweetness as made its owner thrill with a new pleasure.

"It seems," she went on, "like presuming to-to-to stroke an angel's feathers!"

"And much I'd give for the angel," cried Barbara, "that wouldn't like having his feathers stroked by a girl like you! He might fly for me, and go-where he'd have them singed!"

"Then I will call you Barbara; and I will answer any question you like to put to me!"

"And your mother, I daresay, is rather trying when you come home?" said Barbara, resuming her examination, and speaking from experience. "Mothers are-a good deal!"

"Well, you see, miss-Barbara, my mother wasn't used to a hard life like us, and Artie-that's my brother-and I have to do our best to keep her from feeling it; but we don't succeed very well-not as we should like to, that is. Neither of us gets much for our day's work, and we can't do for her as we would. Poor mamma likes to have things nice; and now that the money she used to have is gone-I don't know how it went: she had it in some bank, and somebody speculated with it, I suppose!-anyhow, it's gone, and the thing can't be done. Artie grows thinner and thinner, and it's no use! Oh, miss, I know I shall lose him! and when I think of it, the whole world seems to die and leave me in a brick-field!"

She wept a moment, very quietly, but very bitterly.

"I know he does his very best," she resumed, "but she won't see it! She thinks he might do more for her! and I'm sure he's dying!"

"Send him to me," said Barbara; "I'll make him well for you."

"I wish I could, miss-I mean Barbara! -Oh, ain't there a lot of nice things that can't ever be done!"

"Does your mother do nothing to help?"

"She don't know how; she 'ain't learned anything like us. She was brought up a lady. I remember her saying once she ought to 'a' been a real lady, a lady they say my lady to!"

"Indeed! How was it then that she is not?"

"I don't know. There are things we don't dare ask mamma about. If she had been proud of them, she would have told us without asking."

"What was your father, Alice?"

The girl hesitated.

"He was a baronet, Barbara.-But perhaps you would rather I said miss again!"

"Don't be foolish, child!" Barbara returned peremptorily.

"I suppose my mother meant that he promised to marry her, but never did. They say gentlemen think no harm of making such promises-without even meaning to keep them!-I don't know!-I've got no time to think about such things,-only-"

"Only you're forced!" supplemented Barbara. "I've been forced to think about them too-just once. They're not nice to think about! but so long as there's snakes, it's better to know the sort of grass they lie in!- Did he take your mother's money and spend it?"

"Oh, no, not that! He was a gentleman, a baronet, you know, and they don't do such things!"

"Don't they!" said Barbara. "I don't know what things gentlemen don't do!-But what happened to the money? There may be some way of getting it back!"

"There's no hope of that! I'll tell you how I think it was: my father didn't care to marry my mother, for he wanted a great lady; so he said good-bye to her, and she didn't mind, for he was a selfish man, she said. So she took the money, for of course she had to bring us up, and couldn't do it without-and what they call invested it. That means, you know, that somebody took charge of it. So it's all gone, and she gets no interest on it, and the shops won't trust us a ha'penny more. We can't always pay down for the kind of thing she likes, and must take what we can pay for, or go without; and she thinks we might do better for her if we would, and we don't know how. The other day-I don't like to tell it of her, even to you, Barbara, but I'm afraid she had been taking too much, for she went to Mrs. Harman and took me away, and said I could get much better wages, and she didn't give me half what my work was worth. I cried, for I couldn't help it, I was that weak and broken-like, for I had had no breakfast that morning-at least not to speak of, and I got up to go, for I couldn't say a word, and wanted my mother out of the place. But Mrs. Harman-she is a kind woman!-she interfered, and said my mother had no right to take me away, and I must finish my month. So I sat down again, and my mother was forced to go. But when she was gone, Mrs. Harman said to me, 'The best thing after all,' says she, 'that you can do, Ally, is to let your mother have her way. You just stop at home till she gets you a place where they'll pay you better than I do! She'll find out the sooner that there isn't a better place to be had, for it's a slack time now, and everybody has too many hands! When her pride's come down a bit, you come and see whether I'm able to take you on again.' Now wasn't that good of her?"

"M-m-m!" said Barbara. "It was a slack time!-So you went home to your mother?"

"Yes-and it was just as Mrs. Harman said: there wasn't a stitch wanted! I went from place to place, asking-I nearly killed myself walking about: walking's harder for one not used to it than sitting ever so long! So I went back to Mrs. Harman, and told her. She said she couldn't have me just then, but she'd keep her eye on me. I went home nearly out of my mind. Artie was growing worse and worse, and I had nothing to do. It's a mercy it was warm weather; for when you haven't much to eat, the cold is worse than the heat. Then in summer you can walk on the shady side, but in winter there ain't no sunny side. At last, one night as I lay awake, I made up my mind I would go and see whether my father was as hard-hearted as people said. Perhaps he would help us over a week or two; and if I hadn't got work by that time, we should at least be abler to bear the hunger! So the next day, without a word to mother or Artie, I set out and came down here."

"And you didn't see sir Wilton?"

"La, miss! who told you? Did I let out the name?"

"No, you didn't; but, though there are a good many baronets, they don't exactly crowd a neighbourhood! What did he say to you?"

"I 'ain't seen him yet, miss,-Barbara, I mean! I went up to the lodge, and the woman looked me all over, curious like, from head to foot; and then she said sir Wilton wasn't at home, nor likely to be."

"What a lie!" exclaimed Barbara.

"You know him then, Barbara?"

"Yes; but never mind. I must ask all my questions first, and then it will be your turn. What did you do next?"

"I went away, but I don't know what I did. How I came to be sitting on that stone inside that gate, I can't tell. I think I must have gone searching for a place to die in. Then Richard came. I tried hard to keep him from knowing me, but I couldn't."

"You knew that Richard was there?"

"Where, miss?"

"At the baronet's place-Mortgrange."

"Lord, miss! Then they've acknowledged him!"

"I don't know what you mean by that. He's there mending their books."

"Then I oughtn't to have spoken. But it don't matter-to you, Barbara! No; I knew nothing about him being there, or anywhere else, for I'd lost sight of him. It was a mere chance he found me. I didn't know him till he spoke to me. I heard his step, but I didn't look up. When I saw who it was, I tried to make him leave me-indeed I did, but he would take me! He carried me all the way to the cottage where you found me."

"Why didn't you want him to know you? What have you against him?"

"Not a thing, miss! He would be a brother to me if I would let him. It's a strange story, and I'm not quite sure if I ought to tell it."

"Are you bound in any way not to tell it?"

"No. She didn't tell me about it."

"You mean your mother?"

"No; I mean his mother."

"I am getting bewildered!" said Barbara.

"No wonder, miss! You'll be more bewildered yet when I tell you all!" She was silent. Barbara saw she was feeling faint.

"What a brute I am to make you talk!" she cried, and ran to fetch her a cup of milk, which she made her drink slowly.

"I must tell you everything !" said Alice, after lying a moment or two silent.

"You shall to-morrow," said Barbara.

"No; I must now, please! I must tell you about Richard!"

"Have you known him a long time?"

"I call him Richard," said Alice, "because my brother does. They were at school together. But it is only of late-not a year ago, that I began to know him. He came to see Arthur once, and then I went with Arthur to see him and his people. But his mother behaved very strangely to me, and asked me a great many questions that I thought she had no business to ask me. Before that, I had noticed that she kept looking from Arthur to Richard, and from Richard to Arthur, in the oddest way; I couldn't make it out. Then she asked me to go to her bedroom with her, and there she told me. She was very rough to me, I thought, but I must say the tears were in her own eyes! She said she could not have Richard keeping company with us, for she knew what my mother was, and who my father was, and we were not respectable people, and it would never do. If she heard of Richard going to our house once again, she would have to do something we shouldn't like. Then she cried quite, and said she was sorry to hurt me, for I seemed a good girl, and it wasn't my fault, but she couldn't help it; the thing would be a mischief. And there