Certain pictures here present themselves in the shape of a medallion.
In the centre is the portrait of a beautiful girl-woman, as tall to
many a man with an eye for beauty as Rosalind was to Orlando; with
limbs perfectly moulded; with white and shapely hands; with flaxen
wavy hair and blue eyes tempered by a shade of silver grey; with teeth
that are almost transparent in their pearliness, and in whose fair
face youth's roses are blooming. This is the Duchess of Rosemary
Lane, in the springtime of her life.
Around the portrait of this girl-woman are certain others, associated
with her by sympathetic links, not all of which are in active play or
in harmony with her being.
The picture of one in whose cheeks, although she is but little over
twenty years of age, no roses are blooming. Her cheeks are sallow, and
wanting in flesh, her limbs are thin and ungraceful, her long black
hair has not a wave in it, her hands are large and coarse from too
much work. But her eyes are beautiful, and have in them the almost
pathetic light which is frequently seen in the eyes of a faithful dog.
This is Sally, grown to womanhood.
The picture of a working man, with large features, overhanging
forehead, and great grey eyes, all out of harmony with one another.
His hands are hard and horny, his chin is unshaven, and his hair is
almost white. This is Seth Dumbrick, going down the hill of life.
The picture of a woman, working in an attic in a poor neighbourhood,
within a mile of Rosemary Lane. Her fingers are long and supple,
streaks of silver are in her hair, and she has "quite a genteel
figure," according to the dictum of her neighbours, who are led to
that opinion by the circumstance of the woman being thin and graceful.
She is cunning with the needle, as the saying is, but not so cunning
as to be able by its aid to butter her bread at every meal; therefore,
very often she eats it dry. She is not contented; she is not resigned;
but she does not openly repine. She is merely passive. The fire and
enthusiasm of life are not dead within her soul, but by the exercise
of a hidden force, she keeps all traces of it from the eye of man; she
has dreams, but no human being shares them with her, or knows of them.
She speaks in a calm even tone, and her voice is low and sweet, but if
it expresses feeling or passion, the expression springs from a quality
belonging to itself, and not from the revealed emotions of the
speaker. She works hard from morning till night in a dull, listless
fashion, performing her task conscientiously, and receiving at the end
of the week, without thanks or murmurs, the pitiful payment for so
many thousands of yards of stitches from the hands of a man who lives
in a great house in Lancaster Gate and keeps a score of servants, and
a dozen horses in his town stables. This man is a contractor, and he
fattens on misery. He will undertake to clothe twenty thousand men in
a month, and patient, weak-eyed women who can scarcely get shoes to
their feet are working for him, upon starvation wages, through the
weary watches of the night. From their poverty and misery comes the
wherewithal to pay for his wine and his horses and his fine linen. He
was not born to riches; in his earlier years he experienced severe
hardships, and frequently had to live on a crust. Those times are
gone, never to return, and, strange to say, he has, in his present
high state, no feeling of compassion for his once comrades who are
suffering as he suffered, and who cannot escape from their bondage.
Then he was glad to eat his bread and meat, when he could get it, with
the help of a pocket-knife and his fingers; now he can dine off gold
plate if he chooses. There is a well-known saying that there is a tide
in the affairs of man, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.
It is a popular fallacy. Such a tide, with such a golden prize in its
flood, comes to not one man in a thousand, but it came to the
contractor for whom this woman works, and he took it at its flood. He
worked his way from small contracts to large, from large to larger.
Having been ground down himself when he was a young man, his sole aim
in the execution of his contracts was to grind others down, so that
his margin of profit would be broader. It was the truest political
economy. Buy in the cheapest market. And if you can by any means in
your power,--by any system of grinding-down, by any exercise of
terrorism over helpless people who, being unable without your aid to
obtain half a loaf in payment for their labour, snatch at the quarter
of a loaf you hold out to them (being from necessity compelled to keep
some life in their bodies)--if you can by any of these means cheapen
still further the cheapest market, do so. Success will attend you, and
the world, worshipping success, will look on and approve. An article
is only worth what it will fetch in the market, and labour is worth no
more than it receives. Such, for instance, as the labour of this
needlewoman, who works for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four, and
cannot get butter for her bread. Meantime, while she, the type of a
class, labours and starves, the contractor, out of her weary stitches,
shall die worth a plum, and a costly tombstone shall record his
virtues. He pays regularly, to be sure, but you must not defraud him
of a stitch. He gives the women constant employment, for in addition
to being a Government contractor, he is a large exporter of ready-made
clothing. She has worked for him for twelve years. Presenting herself
one morning in answer to an advertisement for needlewomen, in company
with a hundred other females who had labour to sell and no bread to
eat, he happened to pass through the office when her turn came to be
called. Although she had been one of the earliest arrivals among the
crowd of anxious applicants, she was the last of them all. Not having
the strength to push her way to the front, she had been hustled to the
rear, and bore the unfair treatment without a murmur. It was the way
of the world. The weakest to the wall.
"Name?" said the clerk.
"Mrs. Lenoir."
The contractor paused at the desk by the side of his clerk, and
looked at the applicant in a careless way, perhaps attracted to her
because her voice was softer than he was accustomed to hear from his
workpeople.
"French?" inquired the clerk.
"Yes, it is a French name."
"Yourself, I mean," said the clerk testily. "Are you French?"
"I am an English lady."
"Eh?" cried the contractor, in a harsh tone.
"I beg your pardon. I am an English woman."
"O," said the contractor, somewhat mollified.
"Married?" pursued the clerk, glancing at Mrs. Lenoir's left hand.
"My husband--" pausing, and gazing around uneasily.
"Your husband--" prompted the clerk.
"Is dead."
"Children?"
A quivering of the lips, which grew suddenly white. This, however, was
not apparent to the clerk, for Mrs. Lenoir wore a veil, and did not
raise it.
"Children?" repeated the clerk.
"I have none."
"References?"
She paused before she replied, and then slowly said:
"I was not aware that references were necessary."
To the clerk's surprise the contractor took up the burden
of the inquiry.
"We are very particular," he said, with a frown, "about the character
of the persons we employ, and references, therefore, _are_ necessary."
"I did not know," said Mrs. Lenoir, in so low a tone that the words
scarcely reached their ears; and turned to depart.
"Stop a moment," said the contractor; "what did you come here for?"
"For work," with a motion of the hands, deprecating the question as
unnecessary.
"You want it?"
"Else I should not be here."
It by no means displeased the contractor that this woman, suing to him
for work, should unconsciously have adopted in her last reply an air
of haughtiness.
"You want work badly, I infer?"
"I want it badly."
"You have applied elsewhere?"
"I have."
"Unsuccessfully?"
"Unsuccessfully."
"From what cause?"
"I do not know."
"You have no other means of support?"
"None."
"If you are unsuccessful in this application, what will you do?"
Mrs. Lenoir did not reply to this question. Had the contractor known
what was in the woman's mind, he would have been startled out of his
propriety. She had been in London for nearly six months, and although
she had been indefatigable in her endeavours, had not succeeded in
obtaining a day's work. All her resources were exhausted, and she saw
nothing but starvation before her. She was wearied and sick with
trying, and she pined for rest or work. She must obtain either the one
or the other. A vague fear oppressed her that if she were unsuccessful
in this application she would be compelled, when the night came, to
walk to the river, and gaze upon the restful waters. Then the end
would come; she felt that she had not strength to resist it.
The contractor resumed his questioning; it was a kind of angling he
seemed to enjoy.
"Have you no friends?"
"No."
"Relatives?"
"No."
"Money?"
"No."
"You are alone in the world?"
"I am alone in the world."
"Then if I employ you, I should be your only friend?"
"I suppose so."
"As a rule," proceeded the contractor, "we do not employ ladies in
this establishment, which gives employment to----how many persons do I
give employment to, Mr. Williams?" addressing the clerk.
"There are eleven hundred and seventy-two names upon the books, sir."
The hard taskmaster nodded his head with exceeding satisfaction.
"I provide bread for eleven hundred and seventy-two persons, and by
to-morrow this number will be increased by two hundred. I have given
employment to over two thousand persons at one time, I believe, Mr.
Williams?"
"You have, sir."
"And shall do so again, I have no doubt, before long. To repeat, I do
not employ ladies in this establishment. Common girls and women are
good enough for me--and bad enough. For there is absolutely no
gratitude to be found among the poorer classes, absolutely no
gratitude; not a particle."
This was said with so distinct an assertion of never having belonged
to the working classes, and of their small capacity for good and their
large capacity for evil, that it would have been remarkable were it
not common. There is no greater autocrat than the democrat when he
rises to power. There is no stronger despiser of the poor than the
poor man when he rises to wealth.
"I shall be grateful if you will give me employment," said Mrs.
Lenoir.
"You agree with me in what I say?"
"Certainly, sir."
It was a sure truth that her mind was a blank as to the value of his
words, and that she said she agreed with him from a kind of instinct
that by doing so her interest would be better served.
"And you are a lady," he said pompously.
"I ask your pardon," she said, faltering, "the word slipped from me."
"What you may have been has nothing to do with what you are. You are
not a lady now, you know."
"I know, sir."
"Lenoir is not an English name, and that is why Mr. Williams asked if
you were French. I keep a strict record of the antecedents of all
persons I employ, so far as I am able to obtain them. It is my
system, and that is the reason," he said, graciously explaining,
"of so many questions being asked. I have a gift in my power to
bestow--employment--and only the deserving should receive it. I have
been deceived frequently, but it is not the fault of the system that
the poorer classes are given to falsehood. The record has proved
valuable, in instances--valuable to the police, who, through my books,
which are always open to them, have traced persons who were wanted for
crimes, and who have imposed upon me by obtaining employment at this
establishment. The last remarkable case was that of a woman who was
wanted for child-murder. Correct me if I am wrong, Mr. Williams."
"You are stating the exact facts, sir."
"I went to the trial. The wretched woman, who was sentenced to death,
had nothing to say in her defence, absolutely nothing, except that she
had been betrayed and deserted, and that she had committed the act in
a fit of distraction. Betrayed and deserted!" he exclaimed harshly,
adding still another stone to the many he had flung during the days of
his prosperity at all classes of unfortunates. "My judgment teaches me
that it is the woman who betrays the man, not the man who betrays the
woman. This woman was traced through her handwriting in my books, for
all who work for me are expected to sign their names. You have been
well educated, doubtless."
Mrs. Lenoir gave a silent assent, and the contractor waved his hand
with a motion, which expressed, "I will not reproach you because you
have been well educated, and have come down in the world." As he waved
his hand, he was struck by the circumstance that while he was airing
his views to Mrs. Lenoir, she had kept her veil down, and he said
stiffly.
"It is usual for persons applying for employment to come unveiled."
Mrs. Lenoir raised her veil, and disclosed a face inexpressibly sad,
and which in years gone by had been surpassingly beautiful. Deathly
pale as she was--but this may have been produced by a recent
emotion--traces of rare beauty still remained, and signs of refinement
and delicacy were clearly depicted upon the face revealed to the two
men in the dingy office. Even Mr. Williams, who had worked at a desk
for forty years, and was not given to sentiment, was ready to admit
that this was an interesting experience.
"Without husband, children, friends or money," said the contractor,
betraying in his slightly altered tone some newly-born feeling of
deference for the applicant. "I will give you employment. Mr.
Williams, I will take the responsibility of this case upon myself.
Mrs. Lenoir can sign the book."
He watched the tremulous signing of the name, Louise Lenoir, and noted
the whiteness of the hand that wrote it, with undisguised curiosity,
and then Mrs. Lenoir, receiving her order for so many yards of
material, took her departure. From that day it became in some way an
understanding that whatever changes were made from time to time in the
number of workpeople on the establishment, Mrs. Lenoir's services were
always to be retained. For twelve years had she been employed by the
firm, and had been found faithful and attentive to her duties, the
performance of which provided her with the barest subsistence. The
contractor, during those years, never omitted to address a few words
to her if he happened to see her in Mr. Williams's dingy office. Once
she was sick, and unable to work, and this coming to his ears, he sent
her provisions and a small sum of money. What sympathetic chord in his
nature Mrs. Lenoir had touched was a mystery which he did not, perhaps
could not, reveal. It may have pleased him that she, a lady, as he was
satisfied in his mind she was, should be dependent upon him for
subsistence. He made use of her occasionally at his dinner-parties at
Lancaster Gate--for this once common man entertained the magnates of
the land--when some phase of social politics was being discussed,
referring to the circumstance that among his workpeople was a lady who
earned probably twelve shillings a week, and whose beauty and
education would in her earlier days have fitted her for a duke's
establishment.
She sits now in her poorly furnished attic, stitching steadily through
the hours. It is not contractor's work upon which her fingers are
busy. She is finishing a girl's dress, and appears to take more than
ordinary interest in her work. It is twelve o'clock at night before
the last stitches are put in. She sets aside her needle and thread and
spreading the dress upon her bed, gazes upon it in silence for many
minutes, standing with her thin white fingers interlaced before her.
Once or twice she pats it softly as though it contained a living form,
and once she kneels by the bed, and buries her face in the soft folds
of the dress, kissing it, and shedding quiet tears upon it. Presently
she rises with a sigh, and folding the dress over her arm, steps
softly downstairs. The house is still and quiet, not a soul but
herself is stirring. She pauses at a door on the second landing, and
listens, hearing no sound.
"May I come in?" she whispers.
There is no reply, and she turns the handle of the door.
"Oh, who is there?" cries a frightened voice in the dark.
"It is only I, Lizzie," replies Mrs. Lenoir; "I have finished your
dress."
The female leaps from the bed with an exclamation of delight, and
quickly lights a candle. Then it is seen that the room is but slightly
better furnished than that of Mrs. Lenoir, and that its female
occupant is young and fair.
"I left my door unlocked," says the girl, "because you said the dress
would be finished some time to-night. I thought you would bring it in.
How good of you, Mrs. Lenoir!"
A graceful figure has Lizzie, and bright and full of joy are the eyes
which gaze upon the dress. It is a silver-grey barege, soft and
pretty, with ribbons and bits of lace and everything else about it
that art and fancy can devise to render it attractive. Early to-morrow
morning Lizzie starts for an excursion into the country--an excursion
lasting from morning to night--and as Some One who is constantly in
Lizzie's thoughts is to be there, she has a very particular desire to
appear to the best advantage.
"How good of you, Mrs. Lenoir," she repeats; "may I try it on?"
"Yes, Lizzie, if you are not too sleepy."
Lizzie laughs blithely. Too sleepy for such a task! The idea! At her
age, and with such love in her heart for Some One who is at this very
moment thinking of her!
Mrs. Lenoir assists her with the dress, and pulls it out here, and
smoothes it there, while Lizzie, with innocent vanity, surveys herself
in the glass. The delighted girl throws her arm round Mrs. Lenoir's
neck, and kisses her rapturously.
"No one in the world can make a dress like you, Mrs. Lenoir!"
A singular contrast are these two females, who by their ages might be
mother and daughter; but there is really no kinship between them. The
girl so glowing, so full of happiness the woman so sombre, so fraught
with sadness. The girl, all sparkle and animation; the woman with not
a smile upon her face.
"It fits you perfectly, Lizzie."
"It's the loveliest, loveliest dress that ever was seen! How can I
thank you?"
If passion found a place in Mrs. Lenoir's breast, it found none in her
face.
"I want no thanks, Lizzie; it was a pleasure to me to make the dress
for you. Let me sit by your bedside a little--in the dark. Take off
the dress; I am glad you like it--there, that will do. Now jump into
bed. You have to get up early in the morning."
She arranges the dress over the back of a chair, and blowing out the
light, sits by the bed in darkness.
"I don't think I shall sleep any more to-night, Mrs. Lenoir."
"Yes, you will, Lizzie. Sleep comes to the young and happy."
"You speak so sadly--but it is your way."
"Yes, Lizzie, it is my way."
"You don't sleep well yourself, Mrs. Lenoir."
"Not always."
"It must be dreadful not to be able to sleep. One has such happy
dreams. Do not you?"
"I dream but seldom, Lizzie; and when I do, I wake up with the prayer
that I had died in my sleep. When I was as young as you, I used to
have happy dreams, but they never came true."
"I wish I could do something to make you feel less sorrowful," says
Lizzie, overflowing with pity and gratitude.
"You can do nothing, Lizzie. When you are married----"
"O, Mrs. Lenoir!"
"As I hope you will be soon, I will make you a prettier dress than
this."
"It's not possible--nothing _could_ be prettier."
"Charles--your lover, Lizzie--is not much older than you."
"Oh, yes, he is; ever so much! I am nearly nineteen; he is
twenty-three."
"He truly loves you, Lizzie?"
"Truly, truly. I think no one ever loved as much. Am I not a fortunate
girl! When I am working--you don't mind my rattling on?"
"Say what is in your heart, Lizzie."
"When I am at work, I whisper to myself, 'Charlie! Charlie!' and I
talk to him just as though he was next to me. And Charlie tells me he
does the same by me--so that we're always together. The moon is
shining through the window, Mrs. Lenoir. Is it a watery moon? Go and
see if it is sure to be fine to morrow."
Mrs. Lenoir goes to the window and draws the curtain aside. A shudder
passes over her as she sees how bright and clear and beautiful the
night is.
"Is it a fine night, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"Clear and bright, Lizzie. There is no sign of rain. To-morrow will be
a lovely day."
"I am so happy!"
Mrs. Lenoir resumes her seat by the bedside.
"Do not take any notice of me, Lizzie. I will sit here quite quietly,
and when you are asleep, I will go to my room."
So long a silence follows--or it seems so long to the happy girl--that
she falls into a doze, to be but partially aroused by Mrs. Lenoir's
voice, calling very softly:
"Lizzie!"
"Yes, Charlie!" Thus betraying herself.
"It is not Charlie; it is I, Mrs. Lenoir."
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lenoir. What a foolish girl you must
think me--and how ungrateful!"
"Not at all, Lizzie; it is I who am inconsiderate in keeping you
awake. I will say goodnight."
"No, no," cries Lizzie, understanding instinctively the woman's need
for sympathy, "don't go, or I shall think you are angry. You were
going to speak to me."
The girl raises her arm, and draws Mrs. Lenoir's head to her pillow.
"Remember, I have no mother." She presses her lips to Mrs. Lenoir's
face, which is wet with tears. "Mrs. Lenoir, you have been crying."
"It is nothing, Lizzie; I often cry when I am alone."
"But you are not alone now; I am with you, and I love you."
"It is kind of you to say so; you are in the mood to love, and to
believe all things fair and good."
"And do not you believe so, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"Once I did. There was a time----" What reminiscence was in the
speaker's mind remained there unexpressed. "Lizzie, you lost your
mother when you were a child."
"Yes."
"How old were you when she died?"
"Not quite five years."
"And you remember her?"
"Yes."
"With love?"
"Oh, yes."
"If," says Mrs. Lenoir, with almost painful hesitation, "she had died,
or you had lost her earlier, do you think you would have forgotten
her?"
"Oh, no, Mrs. Lenoir; I should have always remembered her, have always
loved her."
"She was kind to you Lizzie."
"She loved me more than all the world."
"You mean," says Mrs. Lenoir, with fierce eagerness, "she loved as a
mother loves, as a woman loves--as only a woman loves!"
"Mrs. Lenoir," asks Lizzie slowly, "do not men love as faithfully as
women?"
"Ask your own heart. You love Charlie and he loves you. Which do you
suppose is the stronger love, the most constant, the most likely to
endure?"
"I do not know," replies Lizzie, her sadder tone denoting that Mrs.
Lenoir's sadness is contagious. "I do not want to think that Charlie's
love is not as strong as mine, and yet--and yet--I do not believe he
can love me as much as I love him."
"It need not distress you, Lizzie, to think so; it is in the nature of
things. It is impossible for a man to love with the whole soul as a
woman loves--often, alas! unhappily for her."
"And often, too, happily for her," remonstrates Lizzie, with sudden
and tender cheerfulness. "A moment ago I felt inclined to regret the
thought you put into my mind--that a woman's love is naturally
stronger than a man's; but when I think of it, as I am thinking now, I
would not have it altered if I could. It is far better for us that it
should be so. If I loved Charlie less, I should be less happy; and it
makes me glad to think that I can give him more love than he can give
me."
"God forbid," says Mrs. Lenoir, "that I should endeavour to shake your
faith in Charlie. I was speaking out of the experience of a woman with
whose sad history I am acquainted. I am tired, Lizzie. Good night. A
happy day to-morrow!"
But Lizzie's fond arms cling to Mrs. Lenoir's neck; she is loth to let
her go without obtaining from her a mark of affection which has been
withheld.
"Mrs. Lenoir, I have kissed you twenty times."
"Well, Lizzie."
"And will kiss you twenty times more--there, and there, there! O, Mrs.
Lenoir, will you not give me one kiss?--you have not kissed me once."
Mrs. Lenoir gently extricates herself from Lizzie's affectionate
embrace.
"I made a vow years ago, Lizzie, never to press my lips to human face
until I met with one that my eyes may never behold. Good night."