CHAPTER V.

TURNING A NEW LEAF.

My mistress being dead, and I once more alone, I had to look out for a new place. About this time I might be a little—a very little—shaken in nerves. I grant I was not looking well, but, on the contrary, thin, haggard, and hollow-eyed; like a sitter-up at night, like an overwrought servant, or a placeless person in debt. In debt, however, I was not; nor quite poor; for though Miss Marchmont had not had time to benefit me, as, on that last night, she said she intended, yet, after the funeral, my wages were duly paid by her second cousin, the heir, an avaricious-looking man, with pinched nose and narrow temples, who, indeed, I heard long afterwards, turned out a thorough miser¹: a direct contrast to his generous kinswoman, and a foil to her memory, blessed to this day by the poor and needy². The possessor, then, of fifteen pounds; of health, though worn, not broken, and of a spirit in similar condition; I might still; in comparison with many people, be regarded as occupying an enviable position. An embarrassing one it was, however, at the same time; as I felt with some acuteness on a certain day, of which the corresponding one in the next week was to see my departure from my present abode³, while with another I was not provided.

In this dilemma⁴ I went, as a last and sole resource, to see and consult an old servant of our family; once my nurse, now housekeeper⁵ at a grand mansion⁶ not far from Miss Marchmont’s. I spent some hours with her; she comforted, but knew not how to advise me. Still all inward darkness, I left her about twilight⁷; a walk of two miles lay before me; it was a clear, frosty night. In spite of my solitude⁸, my poverty, and my perplexity, my heart, nourished and nerved with the vigour⁹ of a youth that had not yet counted twenty-three summers, beat light and not feebly. Not feebly, I am sure, or I should have trembled in that lonely walk, which lay through still fields, and passed neither village nor farmhouse¹⁰, nor cottage: I should have quailed¹¹ in the absence of moonlight, for it was by the leading of stars only I traced the dim path; I should have quailed still more in the unwonted presence of that which to-night shone in the north, a moving mystery—the Aurora¹² Borealis. But this solemn stranger influenced me otherwise than through my fears. Some new power it seemed to bring. I drew in energy with the keen, low breeze that blew on its path. A bold thought was sent to my mind; my mind was made strong to receive it.

“Leave this wilderness¹³,” it was said to me, “and go out hence.”

“Where?” was the query¹⁴.

I had not very far to look; gazing from this country parish in that flat, rich middle of England—I mentally saw within reach what I had never yet beheld¹⁵ with my bodily eyes: I saw London.

The next day I returned to the hall, and asking once more to see the housekeeper, I communicated to her my plan.

Mrs. Barrett was a grave, judicious¹⁶ woman, though she knew little more of the world than myself; but grave and judicious as she was, she did not charge me with being out of my senses; and, indeed, I had a staid manner of my own which ere now had been as good to me as cloak and hood¹⁷ of hodden grey, since under its favour I had been enabled to achieve with impunity¹⁸, and even approbation¹⁹, deeds that, if attempted with an excited and unsettled air, would in some minds have stamped me as a dreamer and zealot.

The housekeeper was slowly propounding²⁰ some difficulties, while she prepared orange-rind for marmalade, when a child ran past the window and came bounding into the room. It was a pretty child, and as it danced, laughing, up to me—for we were not strangers (nor, indeed, was its mother—a young married daughter of the house—a stranger)—I took it on my knee.

Different as were our social positions now, this child’s mother and I had been schoolfellows, when I was a girl of ten and she a young lady of sixteen; and I remembered her, good-looking, but dull, in a lower class than mine.

I was admiring the boy’s handsome dark eyes, when the mother, young Mrs. Leigh, entered. What a beautiful and kind-looking woman was the good-natured and comely²¹, but unintellectual, girl become! Wifehood and maternity²² had changed her thus, as I have since seen them change others even less promising²³ than she. Me she had forgotten. I was changed too, though not, I fear, for the better. I made no attempt to recall myself to her memory; why should I? She came for her son to accompany her in a walk, and behind her followed a nurse, carrying an infant. I only mention the incident because, in addressing the nurse, Mrs. Leigh spoke²⁴ French (very bad French, by the way, and with an incorrigibly²⁵ bad accent, again forcibly reminding me of our school-days): and I found the woman was a foreigner. The little boy chattered²⁶ volubly in French too. When the whole party were withdrawn²⁸, Mrs. Barrett remarked that her young lady had brought that foreign nurse home with her two years ago, on her return from a Continental²⁹ excursion; that she was treated almost as well as a governess, and had nothing to do but walk out with the baby and chatter²⁷ French with Master Charles; “and,” added Mrs. Barrett, “she says there are many Englishwomen in foreign families as well placed as she.”

I stored up this piece of casual information, as careful housewives store seemingly worthless shreds³⁰ and fragments for which their prescient minds anticipate a possible use some day. Before I left my old friend, she gave me the address of a respectable old-fashioned inn in the City, which, she said, my uncles used to frequent in former days.

In going to London, I ran less risk and evinced less enterprise than the reader may think. In fact, the distance was only fifty miles. My means would suffice both to take me there, to keep me a few days, and also to bring me back if I found no inducement to stay. I regarded it as a brief holiday, permitted for once to work-weary faculties³¹, rather than as an adventure of life and death. There is nothing like taking all you do at a moderate estimate: it keeps mind and body tranquil³²; whereas grandiloquent³³ notions are apt to hurry both into fever.

Fifty miles were then a day’s journey (for I speak of a time gone by: my hair, which, till a late period, withstood the frosts of time, lies now, at last white, under a white cap, like snow beneath snow). About nine o’clock of a wet February night I reached London.

My reader, I know, is one who would not thank me for an elaborate reproduction of poetic³⁴ first impressions; and it is well, inasmuch as I had neither time nor mood to cherish such; arriving as I did late, on a dark, raw, and rainy evening, in a Babylon and a wilderness, of which the vastness and the strangeness tried to the utmost any powers of clear thought and steady self-possession with which, in the absence of more brilliant faculties, Nature might have gifted me.

When I left the coach, the strange speech of the cabmen and others waiting round, seemed to me odd as a foreign tongue. I had never before heard the English language chopped up in that way. However, I managed to understand and to be understood, so far as to get myself and trunk safely conveyed to the old inn whereof I had the address. How difficult, how oppressive, how puzzling seemed my flight! In London for the first time; at an inn for the first time; tired with travelling; confused with darkness; palsied with cold; unfurnished with either experience or advice to tell me how to act, and yet—to act obliged.

Into the hands of common sense I confided³⁵ the matter. Common sense, however, was as chilled and bewildered as all my other faculties, and it was only under the spur of an inexorable necessity that she spasmodically executed her trust. Thus urged, she paid the porter: considering the crisis, I did not blame her too much that she was hugely cheated; she asked the waiter for a room; she timorously³⁶ called for the chambermaid; what is far more, she bore, without being wholly overcome, a highly supercilious³⁷ style of demeanour from that young lady, when she appeared.

I recollect³⁸ this same chambermaid was a pattern of town prettiness and smartness. So trim her waist, her cap, her dress—I wondered how they had all been manufactured. Her speech had an accent which in its mincing³⁹ glibness⁴⁰ seemed to rebuke⁴¹ mine as by authority; her spruce attire⁴² flaunted⁴³ an easy scorn to my plain country garb⁴⁴.

“Well, it can’t be helped,” I thought, “and then the scene is new, and the circumstances; I shall gain good.”

Maintaining a very quiet manner towards this arrogant⁴⁵ little maid, and subsequently observing the same towards the parsonic-looking, black-coated, white-neckclothed waiter, I got civility from them ere long. I believe at first they thought I was a servant; but in a little while they changed their minds, and hovered⁴⁶ in a doubtful state between patronage⁴⁷ and politeness.

I kept up well till I had partaken of some refreshment⁴⁸, warmed myself by a fire, and was fairly shut into my own room; but, as I sat down by the bed and rested my head and arms on the pillow, a terrible oppression overcame me. All at once my position rose on me like a ghost. Anomalous⁴⁹, desolate⁵⁰, almost blank of hope it stood. What was I doing here alone in great London? What should I do on the morrow? What prospects⁵¹ had I in life? What friends had I on earth? Whence did I come? Whither should I go? What should I do?

I wet the pillow, my arms, and my hair, with rushing tears. A dark interval⁵² of most bitter thought followed this burst; but I did not regret the step taken, nor wish to retract⁵³ it. A strong, vague persuasion⁵⁴ that it was better to go forward than backward, and that I could go forward—that a way, however narrow and difficult, would in time open—predominated over other feelings: its influence hushed them so far, that at last I became sufficiently⁵⁵ tranquil to be able to say my prayers and seek my couch. I had just extinguished my candle and lain down, when a deep, low, mighty⁵⁶ tone swung through the night. At first I knew it not; but it was uttered twelve times, and at the twelfth colossal⁵⁷ hum and trembling knell⁵⁸, I said: “I lie in the shadow of St. Paul’s.”