“The very best of news, thank you,” Lucy answered. For Charlie’s ship letter had been followed by others, posted at various ports, and all telling the same good tidings of revived health and strength. Indeed, the very last letter had hinted that the improvement was so marked and so stable that Charlie was sorely tempted to shorten his absence and return home by steamer. He wrote that he had suggested this to Grant, who “seemed very much cut up about it, but had raised no difficulty.”
In reply to that letter Lucy had written at once, urging her husband not to think of such a thing. The better he was, the better reason was there for carrying through the original plan. “Because the foundation is so good, there is the brighter prospect in building on it,” she said. And besides, Lucy confided to Charlie that Captain Grant’s wife, in writing to her, had said that the fee for Charlie’s trip would just enable her husband to pay off the last of his father’s debts, which he had honestly taken upon himself. “And when they have brought us such good luck in enabling you to take this voyage,” wrote Lucy, “we must not spoil any good luck that our share in the matter may have brought them. Let us be wise and patient,” wrote Lucy, crushing back a sneaking hope that Charlie might even have started homeward before he could get her reply to his letter. “In that case we must pay the Grants all the same,” she reflected, “though I am afraid they would not take it.” Then she proved to herself the sincerity of her counsels to Charlie by still resolutely withholding the story of her domestic changes, which she had meant to tell him at this time when she had pulled through so far. But if she did so, it might add the last link to the yearning that was pulling him home, and she would do nothing to strengthen a temptation whose force was revealed in her own heart.
She walked home rather soberly after her little conversation with the Kindergarten mistress. Certainly it strengthened her in the resolutions she had formed and had steadily carried out. But she could not refuse to know that she was living under considerable strain. Her teaching at the Institute was strenuous and exacting. Apart from the mental exertion, she was on her feet all the time. By the time she reached home, she was thoroughly exhausted, and was really fit for nothing but a nap, or at least an afternoon’s repose on the sofa, half dreaming over some simple book. But there could be no such rest for her. For this was the only time when Hugh could have a walk, and so off they went together. She often wondered whether he noticed that she was not quite so lively as she used to be, not so ready for a run, or so good at a game of ball. But a little child takes much on trust. Then they came home to tea, which generally refreshed her considerably. After that, Hugh sat at her side, with his bricks, his picture books, or his “transparent slate,” while she did all the household mending. Jane Smith never put a finger to this, not because she refused to do so, but because when she attempted it on one occasion, she ruined a pair of fine grey woollen hand-knitted stockings, by drawing a slightly-worn heel together with coarse white worsted, showing that she had not the most rudimentary idea of what darning should be.
Now this is just the kind of household work for which it would be a waste of time and power to hire help, especially in such a small family. Then as the washing was no longer done at home, Lucy had to prepare the account for the laundry, and to see that the things were sent home correctly, which as they scarcely ever were, led to correspondence and general worry.
By the time all these inevitable little tasks were accomplished, it was generally time for Hugh to go to bed. After that Lucy was free. Of course, in the winter nights, painting was impossible. But through the art dealers, Lucy had heard of an opening for pen-and-ink sketches, and it was this eventide that she had hoped to give to this work. She could reckon on about two hours’ solitude, and yet retire to rest early. She soon found out, however, that leisure is of little avail for such pursuits if energies and spirits are exhausted beforehand.
Yet Jane Smith was the very last person with whom Lucy could relax her vigilance in keeping Hugh to herself. She often shuddered to think how, had Mrs. Morison’s fair appearances held out a little longer, she might have been tempted to trust her boy with the nice motherly-looking widow—a misplaced confidence which might have ended in a terrible catastrophe. But Jane Smith offered no such temptation. She was so plainly nothing but the common professional servant, who does her work as well as any work can be done without genuine interest or any sense of what is fitting or pretty. After she had spread a tablecloth Mrs. Challoner generally had to straighten it; she drew the blinds up askew; she never noticed when a stair-rod slipped from its socket. Lucy herself always had to be watchful that clean sheets were well aired. Once she found them put quite damp upon the beds. Pollie had always fed the cat in the kitchen, and so had Mrs. Morison, and certainly the poor animal had thriven well under her brief régime, till that day of disgrace, when she dropped boiling gravy on it! But Lucy remarked that pussy, who had always come upstairs for “company,” now often came up mewing. Puss seemed getting thin, so Lucy took its meals into her own care. She asked Jane Smith if she neglected her. Jane Smith said “No,” but owned she “might have forgotten it sometimes.”
That was Jane Smith all over. She took her wages and did her work, but it was without any “head,” and also, Lucy was forced to admit, without any heart.
There was not much definite fault to be found with this Jane. The kitchen was fairly clean and tidy; it had only ceased to look snug and inviting. The public rooms were presentable—after Lucy had gone round everywhere, shaking out a curtain here, removing a chair from grazing the wall there, and lifting china bowls from perilous positions on the very edge of a shelf. As for the bedrooms, Jane did not seem to know how to make a bed comfortably, and did not seem able to learn. Lucy generally had much adjustment to do before she could happily court slumber.
Still Jane carried on what may be called “the ruck” of household labour after a fashion. Lucy did not dream of giving her notice to leave, not being one of those mistresses with whom that possibility is for ever present. Indeed with her strained nerves and strength it seemed really far easier to supplement Jane’s perfunctory work than to entertain any thought of once more facing change and a wrestle with the unknown.
Jane’s lover, the young carpenter, came regularly once a week, and stayed about two hours. Mrs. Challoner saw him once or twice, when household business took her to the kitchen, during his visits. He looked a dull, decent young man, with a shock of red hair and a smooth boyish face. He sat close beside the fire, even when the spring evenings had grown warm. Lucy addressed him with a cheerful “Good evening,” and made one or two slight remarks about the weather, to which he made little response save a movement of the lips, and a glance towards the area-window. He did not rise when Lucy entered the kitchen, but that rudeness seemed due only to shyness or slowness, for he always rose a few minutes afterwards and remained standing for the rest of her stay. Altogether, Lucy decided that he was not very bright; he was by no means one of those young working men who come to the front at evening colleges and clubs, and are the moving spirits of their trades’ union. All the more, he seemed a fit enough match for Jane, who would have been indeed a hopeless drag on the life of any rising man.