"He can never have spoken to my father about coming here," thought Edith, "or he would not have seemed so uncertain about it;" and, with true feminine pride, the young girl forbore any farther mention of the one whom yet she found it impossible to forget.
Two months of the six had passed away, when Edith was called to bear another heavy trial. Her father died suddenly, leaving her unprovided for and alone in the world. Such an event was apparently the last in the world to be expected, as Mr. Frazier had always seemed to be a man in vigorous health, and with a fair prospect of long life. To a long life he had evidently looked forward, for he had made no arrangements for his cherished daughter, and had left no directions by which she might guide her future course.
In her desolation, Edith could think of but one person from whom she might expect protection; a half-sister of her father's, who resided in London. She had seen her aunt, Mrs. Burnleigh, but seldom, but knew that she was a widow in easy circumstances, with a large family of children. To her she accordingly applied, and received in return an invitation to come to her until she had decided on her future course.
With a sorrowful heart, Edith left the home where so many bright and happy years had been passed. As she sat alone waiting for the coach to pass that was to convey her to London, with no attendant but the gardener's boy, and no companion but her canary, a parting gift from Mr. Hildreth, sent to Hillcomb by him from Dover just before he embarked for France, the contrast between her present desolation and the warm, sheltering love in which she had so long lived, almost overcame her. But the lonely soon acquire the power of self-control, and Edith had already begun to learn the hard lesson of self-reliance. With an outward composure that hid the painful throbbings of her heart from her travelling companions, she took her seat in the coach, and in a few hours arrived safely at Mrs. Burnleigh's.
Edith found her aunt an apparently well-meaning, proper kind of a woman, kind and sympathizing in her manners, but who evidently had not the slightest intention of denying herself or her children the smallest luxury for the sake of her brother's orphaned daughter. For a few weeks Edith was left to the quiet indulgence of her grief, and then Mrs. Burnleigh, thinking that she had done all that society could possibly demand of her in the way of respect to her brother's memory or kindness to his child, began to sound Edith as to her intentions for the future.
The young girl, thrown so suddenly upon her own resources, had not yet begun to think for herself, and the idea of seeking a home among strangers made her heart sink within her. She begged her aunt to take upon herself the task of finding for her some position that she could fill creditably, but she hoped, she said, timidly, that it might be somewhere near her aunt, her only remaining relative.
This did not suit Mrs. Burnleigh exactly, who, being of that turn of mind that always foresees the possible evil in all cases, was not pleased with the idea that she might at any time be called upon to offer a home to her friendless relative. Like a prudent woman, however, she forbore saying anything that might reveal her true feelings, but was none the less resolved that, if two equally favorable situations offered themselves, it would be wiser for her to advise Edith to accept the one at the greatest distance.
She succeeded beyond her hopes. Coming in one day, she said to Edith, with unusual animation—
"My dear, I have found a most delightful situation for you. Two hundred pounds a year for teaching one little girl. You can speak French, can you not?"
"Yes, I have spent a year in France."