THE SLAVE OF THE NEEDLE.
Perhaps no employment is more confining and more poorly compensated than
that of sewing. The narrow choice allowed to women, who are compelled to
labor for their livelihood, leads to an unhealthy and disastrous
competition in this department of toil, and enables employers to
establish a disgracefully low scale of prices.[1] Fifteen hours out of
the twenty-four are sometimes spent in unremitting labor, the results of
which will scarcely keep soul and body together. The cook or house-maid
enjoys a degree of comfort, and commands an income (including board)
absolutely unattainable by the slave of the needle.
Footnote 1:
The reader is referred to an interesting series of papers, entitled
“Needle and Garden,” published in the “Atlantic Monthly” during the
year 1865.
Hard work and an absence of nourishing food were beginning to tell on
the delicate frame of Martha Grey. An expert needle-woman, she
commanded, in good times, an abundant supply of work. But times had
changed. The shops gave out less work, while the number who desired it
seemed rather to have increased than diminished. The natural result
followed,—a reduction in the compensation, already disgracefully low.
Many could not obtain a chance to work at any price. Martha was allowed
her usual supply, but at prices twenty per cent. lower than she had
before received. The heart of the poor seamstress sank within her, as
she walked home with a bundle of work, for which she was to be paid at
the new rate. How was she to economize? It seemed before as if her wants
were reduced to the minimum, and yet she had been able to lay by
nothing. In addition to this, her health, never very firm, had shown
some indications of failure. She was troubled with occasional dizziness
and frequent nervous headaches, which rendered her enforced slavery to
the needle a torture, but one from which she could not deliver herself.
But one alternative presented itself. She must contract her necessary
expenditures, or increase her hours of work. She did not know how to
compass the one, while the other would probably lead to sickness. She
attempted a middle course. On a scantier diet she strove to work an hour
more daily. The result was what might have been anticipated. Nature
succumbed. One morning Helen, on returning from rehearsal, entered
Martha’s room unceremoniously, as was her wont. Great was her dismay on
discovering her friend lying insensible on the floor. Her work, on which
she had been engaged up to the moment of her attack, had fallen from her
hands, and lay beside her.
Helen was not unused to such cases. Though quite terrified, she had
sufficient self-possession to apply the proper restoratives.
Martha soon opened her eyes, and, recognizing Helen, smiled faintly.
“How do you feel, Martha?” inquired Helen, anxiously.
“I am afraid I am going to be sick,” said Martha.
“When did you first feel it?”
“It has been coming on for several days. I have not been free from the
headache for a week.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” asked Helen, reproachfully.
“Because you could have done me no good, my dear child.”
“Let me help you to the bed. Now you must lie down, and try to rest. I
suppose you have worked just as usual, too, you imprudent Martha.”
“I can’t afford to lie still, you know.”
“You can afford to lie still better than to ruin your health.”
By this time Martha was lying on the bed.
“If you will pass me my work, Helen, I think I can sew while I am lying
down.”
“No, Martha,” said Helen, shaking her head; “I shall not allow it. You
are wholly unfit for work. You must have a good long rest.”
“But, Helen——”
“I know what you would say,—that you can’t afford to lie still. Just as
if you had no friends, you unreasonable child. For a week to come, you
must not touch your needle. During that time I will bring in your meals
to you.”
“But, Helen——”
“Now don’t be perverse, Martha. Papa says I am a tyrant, and I mean to
be in this case. To make sure that you don’t touch your work, I shall
carry it away with me, and finish it myself.”
“But, Helen, you have your father to care for. I cannot consent to
become a burden upon you.”
“Are you aware, Martha, how rich I am? For some weeks past, I have spent
scarcely more than half my income. You see, therefore, that I am
abundantly able to do what little I propose. But I sha’n’t allow you to
talk any more. Try to go to sleep, and I will come in pretty soon. Mind
I find you better.”
Helen left the room with the work in her hand. Martha ceased her
opposition. She felt that the time had come when labor was no longer
possible. She must have rest. How grateful the thought that, for a week,
she should be free from the drudgery of the needle,—that her busy
fingers might be folded in idleness, without the troubled thought that
her bread depended upon her exertions. She lay back, and a sense of
delicious rest came to her. She did not try to look beyond the week of
rest. That seemed a long and blissful eternity. She was almost too weary
to think. The sharp pain became less poignant, and at last she fell
asleep. She slept for three hours, and, when she woke, it was to see the
kind face of Helen bending over her.
“How do you feel now, Martha?”
“Better, much better.”
“Have you slept well?”
“Yes, I have slept nearly all the time since you were in? How long is
that?”
“I came in at eleven. It is now nearly three.”
“Is it so long?”
“I thought you must be hungry, Martha, so I have brought in some
chicken-broth for you. I hope you will like it.”
“Some chicken-broth? O Helen, I am afraid you have made it on purpose
for me.”
“Well, and if I have?”
“I can’t bear to think I am making you so much trouble.”
“Then I will relieve you by saying that I didn’t make it expressly for
you. Papa and I had it for dinner, and papa seemed to relish it
amazingly. I don’t know when he has eaten so hearty a dinner.”
“I am glad of that. I think I shall like it, too. The smell of it quite
revives me. I will get up immediately.”
“No, you shall stay where you are. Wait a moment and I will bring back a
pillow from our room. Then I can prop you up in bed, and you shall eat
in bed as the French do. Really, Martha, you are getting to be quite a
fashionable lady.”
Martha’s sickness had been the result in part of a lack of proper food.
The chicken-broth was relished as much as Helen could desire.
“I knew you would like it, Martha. Why, you are beginning to look better
already.”
“I think I shall be able to go to work to-morrow.”
“Not to-morrow, nor this week. It will take you at least a week to
recover.”
“But, Helen——”
“That is the third time you have said ‘But, Helen.’ Do you know, you
unreasonable creature, that I allow no disobedience? I have undertaken
to cure you, and I mustn’t have you interfering.”
“But it will not take a week for me to get well.”
“Don’t tell me that. I know the meaning of those pale cheeks. I ought to
have noticed them before. In a few days, when you are strong enough, we
will all take an excursion together, that is, papa and you and I, and
perhaps Herbert—I mean Mr. Coleman—will go too. I want to see a little
color in those cheeks.”
“How kind you are, Helen!” said Martha, gratefully.
“Wouldn’t you be as kind to me, if I were sick instead of you? tell me
that, Martha?”
“Yes, I hope I should.”
“Then you see there is no reason for thanking me. I dare say I shall
take a fancy to fall sick some day when you are quite well, and call you
in to take care of me. I warn you beforehand that I shall make a
dreadfully cross patient.”
Martha smiled. There was something contagious in Helen’s light heart and
exuberance of cheerfulness. The world seemed a great deal brighter to
her than it had done a few hours before.
“Now, Martha, as it must be dreadfully tiresome lying there staring at
that white-washed wall, I will tell you what I am going to do. I was
passing a circulating library just now, when I thought I would run in
and get something to read to you. Shall you like it?”
“Very much. It is a long time since I have had a chance to read
anything.”
“It will interest me, too. If you feel like it, I will sit down, and
commence it now.”
“I wish you would.”
Helen drew a chair up to the bedside and began to read.
The book was a work of fiction, the heroine one who had to struggle with
life very much as they had done. It was the work of a superior writer,
and written with a charm of style that made it additionally attractive.
Helen read fifty pages, when the approach of evening made it necessary
for her to pause.
“I will come in to-morrow morning, and read a little while,” she said.
“Good night, Martha. I suppose I must be getting ready for the theatre.”
It was on this evening that Mr. Sharp had the memorable interview with
Lewis Rand, which resulted in restoring to Helen and her father a
magnificent fortune.