Chapter VII: A Burdened Soul

FAIRBANK FARM lay about five miles from Chelmsford, and one mile beyond the village of Danesbury. The farmhouse in which Lizzie Austen was born, and where with the exception of two years her life had been passed, was a low, two-storied house, with ivy growing thickly about it. It stood in the midst of fields, but was visible from the Chelmsford Road, from which the length of a meadow separated it. The shortest way to the house was by the footpath which slanted across the meadow from the stile at one corner to the garden gate. The road for vehicles ran beside the hedge of the cornfield beyond.

Neat iron palings enclosed the house and garden. Only a strip of gravel and a couple of flower-beds lay in front of the house, but the garden stretched beside the meadow to some distance to the left of the house, and covered a large area. It was a grand old garden, where from month to month bloomed almost every flower named in the gardener's almanac. It had a reputation in the country-side. Lizzie's mother had been an enthusiastic lover of flowers, and justly proud of the success that attended her gardening operations. Mrs. Austen's hyacinths, roses, orchids, asters, and chrysanthemums were alike famous, and had taken many a prize at Chelmsford flower-shows.

But now for five summers Mrs. Austen's comely form had been missing from the garden where she had been wont to spend many hours, moving to and fro in her large straw hat, scissors or rake in hand, as she watched and tended with utmost care the plants that were so dear to her. In the old churchyard at Danesbury there was a mound of earth always kept bright with flowers for her sake.

The high character of the garden was maintained after her death. Farmer Austen, without sharing his wife's enthusiasm for flowers, had been proud of her successful horticulture, and in his deep mourning for her loss, it seemed to him due to her memory to preserve with jealous care the plants and shrubs which she had planted, and as far as possible to keep the garden as she would have liked to see it. His daughter Lizzie tried to carry out his wishes, and, though she had never cared for gardening, gave much time and attention to "dear mother's flowers," and to such good purpose that the garden continued to produce some of the finest specimens of each season's flowers that could be found in the neighbourhood.

A silent, sad-faced woman was Lizzie Austen after her mother's death. She had been the brightest, prettiest girl to be seen for many a mile round, but from that time, she was another being. She had the look of a woman with a sad history, yet to her acquaintance at Danesbury, her life-story seemed simple enough.

A high-spirited, somewhat perverse young girl was Lizzie, when, attracted by her pretty face, Mark Warren, the wealthy owner of Danesbury Mill, had come courting her. Her parents would have liked the match well, but Lizzie would not look with favour on her suitor, for Mark, though worthy in character, was rough in manner and blunt of speech, and Lizzie's imagination, excited by indiscriminate course of novel-reading, craved a more romantic lover. His wooing vexed her, and she was beginning to weary of the monotony of rural life. So she begged her parents to let her leave home and go to London for a while, to learn millinery and to see a little of the world.

Farmer Austen had married late in life, and from her infancy, his only child had been to him a perpetual wonder and delight. He could deny her nothing. Nor was easy-tempered Mrs. Austen more successful in the assertion of parental authority. Lizzie always contrived to get her own way, and in this instance, though at first her parents refused their consent, Lizzie by coaxing and pleading at last persuaded them to let her go to London.

Old John Austen won plenty of blame for allowing his daughter to leave home, but he knew how to reply to every hint of disapproval. It was well that Lizzie should go away for a time; well both for her and for Mark Warren. She was going to his cousin, a prosperous milliner at the West End, whom he knew would take good care of Lizzie. Not that he was afraid to trust his girl anywhere. She had a head on her shoulders, and could bold her own with any one. There were not many girls, though he said it that should not, to be compared with his Lizzie. But whilst he spoke thus it was evident that the old man missed his daughter sadly, and was longing for her return.

Lizzie went away early in the year, and in harvest-time she came back, but only for a brief visit. She told those who questioned her that she loved London, and had no mind to settle down to country life again. She looked prettier than ever in her fashionable hat and feathers and her London-made gown. But there was a change in her demeanour that saddened Mark Warren, and made what little hope he had still cherished die out of his heart. She was flippant in speech and restless in manner, and treated almost with indifference the parents who loved her as the light of their life.

Lizzie returned to London, and many months passed ere she was again seen at Danesbury. Her acquaintance did not forget to inquire for her, and always the answer was the same. Lizzie was well and happy, and was coming home-soon. But another spring and summer passed without bringing her, although it was known that her cousin had died, and the millinery business had passed into other hands.

Farmer Austen was beginning to grow feeble, and it was observed that the cloud which was now ever on his brow deepened when any one named his daughter. Mrs. Austen's comely face, too, was losing somewhat of its colour and roundness, and the corners of her mouth had a discontented droop. Then it was rumoured that John Austen had told some one that Lizzie had gone to Paris, to perfect her skill in millinery and acquire the French language. But that she would certainly come home to spend Christmas with her parents. Christmas, however, came and went without bringing Lizzie to her old home.

Early in the year, when the snow lay deep upon the farm, Mrs. Austen fell ill with an attack of acute bronchitis. Till lately, she had enjoyed fair health, and the news that the doctor had pronounced her case hopeless came upon all the neighbours as a shock. A hasty summons was sent to Lizzie. And at last, she returned home, but only in time to be with her mother for an hour or two before she died.

Many persons attended the funeral, for the Austens were widely known and much respected in the neighbourhood.

Curious glances were cast at Lizzie to see what changes time had wrought in her, and how she appeared to bear the stroke of bereavement. It was to be expected that she would look pale and sorrowful, but the change the neighbours saw in her was such as startled them. Could that wan, despairing-looking woman be the Lizzie Austen whose pretty girlish form they had known so well? The rosiness had vanished from her face, her cheeks were thin and hollow. Her eyes looked washed out with weeping, her hair had lost its brightness, and the indefinable charm of girlhood was gone. She was a woman now—a weary, sorrow-stricken woman.

Had a few days of grief had power thus to change her? Was it remorse for neglecting her mother that weighed so heavily upon her heart?

"Depend upon it, she can't forgive herself for staying away so long," the gossips said. "It must have been a dreadful shock to come home and find her mother at the point of death."

Yet, severe though the shock was, it scarcely seemed enough to account for the utter dejection that marked Lizzie's bearing. She did not rouse from it as the days went on.

The friends who came to condole with her declared that they could not make her out. Lizzie had been frank and free of speech in the days that were gone, but now she had hardly a word to say. Their well-meant condolences were received by her with an air of passive endurance, and the questions which they did not hesitate to put obtained but the briefest replies. It was plain that she shrank from each allusion to her past life. When her friends assumed that she would remain with her father for the future, Lizzie said nothing, and her silence was taken as assent.

Lizzie went back to London, however, but only for a week. At the end of that time she returned, bringing her boxes with her; and it was understood that she would not leave her father again.

Her melancholy did not pass away as time went on. No daughter could have been more tender and devoted than she was, but her old father often watched her wistfully, longing to see again the Lizzie of former days. If only she would smile as she used to smile, or utter one of the merry, saucy sayings which once fell so often from her lips!

"Poor Lizzie does fret sorely after her mother," he would say to a sympathizing neighbour; "she's another girl from what she was."

There was no need to tell that to any one who had known her in earlier years.

Lizzie had plenty of work, and no one could accuse her of lack of industry. In addition to the care of the house and garden, the superintendence of the dairy devolved on her. The dairy was a large one, for it was now the most important branch of the farming at Fairbank. John Austen, like most of the farmers in the neighbourhood, had suffered from the bad harvests and general agricultural depression, but he had the good sense to turn as much of his land as possible into pasturage, and was able to make a fair profit by supplying milk to the London market.

Lizzie showed herself a good woman of business, and gradually her father allowed her to undertake more and more of the practical management of affairs. He continued to look after his men and to attend the Chelmsford markets. But, when there was business to be done in London, he was willing that Lizzie, who had no fear of the din and bustle of the city, and was more used to town ways than he, should attend to it.

But though Lizzie was ready to go to London whenever required, it was observed that these visits did not make her more cheerful. If possible, her face was more sad and her manner more hopeless when she came back. And she never took advantage of her journey to town to get a new fashion or a pretty ornament. No one would suppose that she had any skill in millinery, people said, to see the plain, Quaker-like bonnet she always wore. Did she wear it as a penance?

In time, the neighbours grew impatient of Lizzie Austen's continued depression and reserve. Why did she hold herself apart from every one, refusing each invitation to tea-drinking or harvesting, and going nowhere, save that on Sunday mornings she accompanied her father to the little chapel at Danesbury, in which he had held the office of deacon, until, after his wife's death, he felt himself too old and infirm longer to fulfil its duties? As they noted her strange ways and dreamy looks, they began to speak of Lizzie as "peculiar," using the word in a way that might lead those unacquainted with her to imagine that Miss Austen's melancholy had reached the extreme of mental derangement.

Lizzie troubled herself not at all about what the neighbours might think or say of her. There had been a time when she had thought much of their opinion, but now the heavy weight of trouble which clouded her life could hardly be lightened or deepened by words of theirs. Alike in the bright days of summer and the dark days of winter, her heart was full of bitterness. Life might be more endurable on some days than on others, that was all.

Happiness, peace, content—such words had no meaning for Lizzie Austen. To wake at early morn to a sense of hopeless misery, and wish the day over before it had begun; to set about its round of duty with a weary, aching heart that gave its weariness to head and limbs; to give herself no rest, but fill every moment with toil, in the vain hope of escaping from thoughts which yet mingled their bitterness with every action,—such was Lizzie's day.

What greater misery is there for a human soul than to know that one's life is spoiled, utterly spoiled, and that it is one's own wilful folly that has wrecked it; to look along the coming years, whilst their number still seems great, and see no ray of hope, no possibility of escape from the pitiless torture of remorse; and at the same time to remember with painful vividness the happier days that are for ever gone and the good that might have been but for one fatal step; to know, too, that the bitter consequences of one's folly are not suffered by oneself alone, but that another innocent life is blighted by them?

God pity all spirits bowed beneath this intolerable burden! Such an one was Lizzie Austen.