"Oh, blest with temper whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day:
* * * * And can hear
Sighs for a sister with unwounded ear."
POPE.--_Characters of Women._
Early in the morning, before it was light, while the wintry twilight
gleamed through the curtainless window, Lettice was up, dressing
herself by the scanty gleam cast from the street lamps into the room,
for she could not afford the extravagance of a candle.
She combed and did up her hair with modest neatness; put on her brown
stuff only gown, and then going to the chest of drawers--opening one
with great precaution, lest she should make a noise, and disturb Myra,
who still slumbered --drew out a shawl, and began to fold it as if to
put it on.
Alas! poor thing, as she opened it, she became first aware that the
threadbare, time-worn fabric had given way in two places. Had it been in
one, she might have contrived to conceal the injuries of age: but it was
in two.
She turned it; she folded and unfolded: it would not do. The miserable
shawl seemed to give way under her hands. It was already so excessively
shabby that she was ashamed to go out in it; and it seemed as if it was
ready to fall to pieces in sundry other places, this dingy, thin, brown,
red, and green old shawl. Mend it would not: besides, she was pressed
for time; so, with the appearance of considerable reluctance, she put
her hand into the drawer, and took out another shawl.
This was a different affair. It was a warm, and not very old, plaid
shawl, of various colors, well preserved and clean looking, and, this
cold morning, _so_ tempting.
Should she borrow it? Myra was still asleep, but she would be horridly
cold when she got up, and she would want her shawl, perhaps; but then
Lettice must go out, and must be decent, and there seemed no help for
it.
But if she took the shawl, had she not better light the fire before she
went out? Myra would be so chilly. But then, Myra seldom got up till
half-past eight or nine, and it was now not seven.
An hour and a half's, perhaps two hour's, useless fire would never do.
So after a little deliberation, Lettice contented herself with "laying
it," as the housemaids say; that is, preparing the fire to be lighted
with a match: and as she took out coal by coal to do this, she perceived
with terror how very, very low the little store of fuel was.
"We must have a bushel in to-day," she said. "Better without meat and
drink than fire, in such weather as this."
However, she was cheered with the reflection that she should get a
little more than usual by the work that she had finished. It had been
ordered by a considerate and benevolent lady, who, instead of going to
the ready-made linen warehouses for what she wanted, gave herself a good
deal of trouble to get at the poor workwomen themselves who supplied
these houses, so that they should receive the full price for their
needle-work, which otherwise must of necessity be divided.
What she should get she did not quite know, for she had never worked for
this lady before; and some ladies, though she always got more from
private customers than from the shops, would beat her down to the last
penny, and give her as little as they possibly could.
Much more than the usual price of such matters people can not, I
suppose, habitually give; they should, however, beware of driving hard
bargains with the very poor.
* * * * *
Her bonnet looked dreadfully shabby, as poor little Lettice took it out
from one of the dilapidated band-boxes that stood upon the chest of
drawers; yet it had been carefully covered with a sheet of paper, to
guard it from the injuries of the dust and the smoke-loaded air.
The young girl held it upon her hand, turning it round, and looking at
it, and she could not help sighing when she thought of the miserably
shabby appearance she should make; and she going to a private house,
too: and the errand!--linen for the trousseau of a young lady who was
going to be married.
What a contrast did the busy imagination draw between all the fine
things that young lady was to have and her own destitution! She must
needs be what she was--a simple-hearted, God-fearing, generous girl, to
whom envious comparisons of others with herself were as impossible as
any other faults of the selfish--not to feel as if the difference was,
to use the common word upon such occasions, "very hard."
She did not take it so. She did not think that it was very _hard_ that
others should be happy and have plenty, because she was poor and had
nothing. They had not robbed _her_. What they had was not taken from
_her_. Nay, at this moment their wealth was overflowing toward her. She
should gain in her little way by the general prosperity. The thought of
the increased pay came into her mind at this moment in aid of her good
and simple-hearted feelings, and she brightened up, and shook her
bonnet, and pulled out the ribbons, and made it look as tidy as she
could; bethinking herself that if it possibly could be done, she would
buy a bit of black ribbon, and make it a little more spruce when she got
her money.
And now the bonnet is on, and she does not think it looks so _very_ bad,
and Myra's shawl, as reflected in the little threepenny glass, looks
quite neat. Now she steals to the bed in order to make her apologies to
Myra about the shawl and fire, but Myra still slumbers. It is half-past
seven and more, and she must be gone.
The young lady for whom she made the linen lived about twenty miles from
town, but she had come up about her things, and was to set off home at
nine o'clock that very morning. The linen was to have been sent in the
night before, but Lettice had found it impossible to get it done. It
must _per force_ wait till morning to be carried home. The object was to
get to the house as soon as the servants should be stirring, so that
there would be time for the things to be packed up and accompany the
young lady upon her return home.
Now, Lettice is in the street. Oh, what a morning it was! The wind was
intensely cold the snow was blown in buffets against her face; the
street was slippery: all the mud and mire turned into inky-looking ice.
She could scarcely stand; her face was blue with the cold; her hands, in
a pair of cotton gloves, so numbed that she could hardly hold the parcel
she carried.
She had no umbrella. The snow beat upon her undefended head, and
completed the demolition of the poor bonnet; but she comforted herself
with the thought that its appearance would now be attributed to the bad
weather having spoiled it. Nay (and she smiled as the idea presented
itself), was it not possible that she might be supposed to have a better
bonnet at home?
So she cheerfully made her way; and at last she entered
Grosvenor-square, where lamps were just dying away before the splendid
houses, and the wintry twilight discovered the garden, with its trees
plastered with dirty snow, while the wind rushed down from the Park
colder and bitterer than ever. She could hardly get along at all. A few
ragged, good-for-nothing boys were almost the only people yet to be seen
about; and they laughed and mocked at her, as, holding her bonnet down
with one hand, to prevent its absolutely giving way before the wind, she
endeavored to carry her parcel, and keep her shawl from flying up with
the other.
The jeers and the laughter were very uncomfortable to her. The things
she found it the most difficult to reconcile herself to in her fallen
state were the scoffs, and the scorns, and the coarse jests of those
once so far, far beneath her; so far, that their very existence, as a
class, was once almost unknown, and who were now little, if at all,
worse off than herself.
The rude brutality of the coarse, uneducated, and unimproved Saxon, is a
terrible grievance to those forced to come into close quarters with
such.
At last, however, she entered Green-street, and raised the knocker, and
gave one timid, humble knock at the door of a moderate-sized house, upon
the right hand side as you go up to the Park.
Here lived the benevolent lady of whom I have spoken, who took so much
trouble to break through the barriers which in London separate the
employers and the employed, and to assist the poor stitchers of her own
sex, by doing away with the necessity of that hand, or those many hands,
through which their ware has usually to pass, and in each of which
something of the recompense thereof must of necessity be detained.
She had never been at the house before; but she had sometimes had to go
to other genteel houses, and she had too often found the insolence of
the pampered domestics harder to bear than even the rude incivility of
the streets.
So she stood feeling very uncomfortable; still more afraid of the effect
her bonnet might produce upon the man that should open the door, than
upon his superiors.
But "like master, like man," is a stale old proverb, which, like many
other old saws of our now despised as _childish_ ancestors, is full of
pith and truth.
The servant who appeared was a grave, gray-haired man, of somewhat above
fifty. He stooped a little in his gait, and had _not_ a very fashionable
air; but his countenance was full of kind meaning, and his manner so
gentle, that it seemed respectful even to a poor girl like this.
Before hearing her errand, observing how cold she looked, he bade her
come in and warm herself at the hall stove; and shutting the door in the
face of the chill blast, that came rushing forward as if to force its
way into the house, he then returned to her, and asked her errand.
"I come with the young lady's work. I was so sorry that I could not
possibly get it done in time to send it in last night; but I hope I have
not put her to any inconvenience. I hope her trunks are not made up. I
started almost before it was light this morning."
"Well, my dear, I hope not; but it was a pity you could not get it done
last night. Mrs. Danvers likes people to be exact to the moment and
punctual in performing promises, you must know. However, I'll take it up
without loss of time, and I dare say it will be all right."
"Is it come at last?" asked a sweet, low voice, as Reynolds entered the
drawing-room. "My love, I really began to be frightened for your pretty
things, the speaker went on, turning to a young lady who was making an
early breakfast before a noble blazing fire, and who was no other a
person than Catherine Melwyn.
"Oh, madam! I was not in the least uneasy about them, I was quite sure
they would come at last."
"I wish, my love," said Mrs. Danvers, sitting down by the fire, "I could
have shared in your security. Poor creatures! the temptation is
sometimes so awfully great. The pawnbroker is dangerously near. So easy
to evade all inquiry by changing one miserably obscure lodging for
another, into which it is almost impossible to be traced. And, to tell
the truth, I had not used you quite well, my dear; for I happened to
know nothing of the previous character of these poor girls, but that
they were certainly very neat workwomen; and they were so out of all
measure poor, that I yielded to temptation. And that you see, my love,
had its usual effect of making me suspicious of the power of temptation
over others."
Mrs. Danvers had once been one of the loveliest women that had ever been
seen: the face of an angel, the form of the goddess of beauty herself;
manners the softest, the most delightful. A dress that by its exquisite
good taste and elegance enhanced every other charm, and a voice so sweet
and harmonious that it made its way to every heart.
Of all this loveliness the sweet, harmonious voice alone remained. Yet
had the sad eclipse of so much beauty been succeeded by a something so
holy, so saint-like, so tender, that the being who stood now shorn by
sorrow and suffering of all her earthly charms, seemed only to have
progressed nearer to heaven by the exchange.
Her life had, indeed, been one shipwreck, in which all she prized had
gone down. Husband, children, parents, sister, brother--all!--every one
gone. It had been a fearful ruin. That she could not survive this wreck
of every earthly joy was expected by all her friends: but she had lived
on. She stood there, an example of the triumph of those three: faith,
hope, and charity, but the greatest of these was charity.
In faith she rested upon the "unseen," and the world of things "seen"
around her shrunk into insignificance. In hope she looked forward to
that day when tears should be wiped from all eyes, and the lost and
severed meet to part never again. In charity--in other words, love--she
filled that aching, desolate heart with fresh affections, warm and
tender, if not possessing the joyous gladness of earlier days.
Every sorrowing human being, every poor sufferer, be they who they
might, or whence they might, found a place in that compassionate heart.
No wonder it was filled to overflowing: there are so many sorrowing
sufferers in this world.
She went about doing good. Her whole life was one act of pity.
Her house was plainly furnished. The "mutton chops with a few greens and
potatoes"--laughed at in a recent trial, as if indifference to one's own
dinner were a crime--might have served her. She often was no better
served. Her dress was conventual in its simplicity. Every farthing she
could save upon herself was saved for her poor.
You must please to recollect that she stood perfectly alone in the
world, and that there was not a human creature that could suffer by this
exercise of a sublime and universal charity. Such peculiar devotion to
one object is only permitted to those whom God has severed from their
kind, and marked out, as it were, for the generous career.
Her days were passed in visiting all those dismal places in this great
city, where lowly want "repairs to die," or where degradation and
depravity, the children of want, hide themselves. She sat by the bed of
the inmate of the hospital, pouring the soft balm of her consolations
upon the suffering and lowly heart. In such places her presence was
hailed as the first and greatest of blessings. Every one was melted, or
was awed into good behavior by her presence. The most hardened of
brandy-drinking nurses was softened and amended by her example.
The situation of the young women who have to gain their livelihood by
their needle had peculiarly excited her compassion, and to their welfare
she more especially devoted herself. Her rank and position in society
gave her a ready access to many fine ladies who had an immensity to be
done for them: and to many fine dress-makers who had this immensity to
do.
She was indefatigable in her exertions to diminish the evils to which
the young ladies--"improvers," I believe, is the technical term--are in
too many of these establishments exposed. She it was who got the
work-rooms properly ventilated, and properly warmed. She it was who
insisted upon the cruelty and the wretchedness of keeping up these poor
girls hour after hour from their natural rest, till their strength was
exhausted; the very means by which they were to earn their bread taken
away; and they were sent into decline and starvation. She made fine
ladies learn to allow more time for the preparation of their dresses;
and fine ladies' dress makers to learn to say, "No."
One of the great objects of her exertions was to save the poor
plain-sewers from the necessary loss occasioned by the middlemen. She
did not say whether the shops exacted too much labor, or not, for their
pay; with so great a competition for work, and so much always lying
unsold upon their boards, it was difficult to decide. But she spared no
trouble to get these poor women employed direct by those who wanted
sewing done; and she taught to feel ashamed of themselves those indolent
fine ladies who, rather than give themselves a little trouble to
increase a poor creature's gains, preferred going to the ready-made
shops, "because the other was such a bore."
In one of her visits among the poor of Mary-lebone, she had accidentally
met with these two sisters, Lettice Arnold and Myra. There was something
in them both above the common stamp, which might be discerned in spite
of their squalid dress and miserable chamber; but she had not had time
to inquire into their previous history--which, indeed, they seemed
unwilling to tell. Catherine, preparing her wedding clothes, and well
knowing how anxious Mrs. Danvers was to obtain work, had reserved a good
deal for her; and Mrs. Danvers had entrusted some of it to Lettice, who
was too wretchedly destitute to be able to give any thing in the form of
a deposit. Hence her uneasiness when the promised things did not appear
to the time.
And hence the rather grave looks of Reynolds, who could not endure to
see his mistress vexed.
"Has the workwoman brought her bill with her, Reynolds?" asked Mrs.
Danvers.
"I will go and ask."
"Stay, ask her to come up; I should like to inquire how she is going on,
and whether she has any other work in prospect."
Reynolds obeyed; and soon the door opened, and Lettice, poor thing, a
good deal ashamed of her own appearance, was introduced into this warm
and comfortable breakfast-room, where, however, as I have said, there
was no appearance of luxury, except the pretty, neat breakfast, and the
blazing fire.
"Good morning, my dear," said Mrs. Danvers, kindly; "I am sorry you have
had such a wretched walk this morning. Why did you not come last night?
Punctuality, my dear, is the soul of business, and if you desire to form
a private connection for yourself, you will find it of the utmost
importance to attend to it. This young lady is just going off, and there
is barely time to put up the things."
Catherine had her back turned to the door, and was quietly continuing
her breakfast. She did not even look round as Mrs. Danvers spoke, but
when a gentle voice replied:
"Indeed, madam, I beg your pardon. Indeed, I did my very best, but--"
She started, looked up, and rose hastily from her chair. Lettice
started, too, on her side, as she did so; and, advancing a few steps,
exclaimed, "Catherine!"
"It must--it is--it is you!" cried Catherine hastily, coming forward and
taking her by the hand. She gazed with astonishment at the worn and
weather-beaten face, the miserable attire, the picture of utter
wretchedness before her. "You!" she kept repeating, "Lettice! Lettice
Arnold! Good Heavens! where are they all? Where is your father? Your
mother? Your sister?"
"Gone!" said the poor girl. "Gone--every one gone but poor Myra!"
"And she--where is _she_? The beautiful creature, that used to be the
pride of poor Mrs. Price's heart. How lovely she was! And you, dear,
dear Lettice, how can you, how have you come to this?"
Mrs. Danvers stood like one petrified with astonishment while this
little scene was going on. She kept looking at the two girls, but said
nothing.
"Poor, dear Lettice!" Catherine went on in a tone of the most
affectionate kindness, "have you come all through the streets and alone
this most miserable morning? And working--working for me! Good Heavens!
how has all this come about?"
"But come to the fire first," she continued, taking hold of the almost
frozen hand.
Mrs. Danvers now came forward.
"You seem to have met with an old acquaintance, Catherine. Pray come to
the fire, and sit down and warm yourself; and have you breakfasted?"
Lettice hesitated. She had become so accustomed to her fallen condition,
that it seemed to her that she could no longer with propriety sit down
to the same table with Catherine.
Catherine perceived this, and it shocked and grieved her excessively.
"Do come and sit down," she said, encouraged by Mrs. Danvers's
invitation, "and tell us, have you breakfasted? But though you have, a
warm cup of tea this cold morning must be comfortable."
And she pressed her forward, and seated her, half reluctant, in an
arm-chair that stood by the fire: then she poured out a cup of tea, and
carried it to her, repeating,
"Won't you eat? Have you breakfasted?"
The plate of bread-and-butter looked delicious to the half-starved girl:
the warm cup of tea seemed to bring life into her. She had been silent
from surprise, and a sort of humiliated embarrassment; but now her
spirits began to revive, and she said, "I never expected to have seen
you again, Miss Melwyn!"
"_Miss Melwyn!_ What does that mean? Dear Lettice, how has all this come
about?"
"My father was ill the last time you were in Nottinghamshire, do you not
recollect, Miss Melwyn? He never recovered of that illness; but it
lasted nearly two years. During that time, your aunt, Mrs. Montague,
died; and her house was sold, and new people came; and you never were at
Castle Rising afterward."
"No--indeed--and from that day to this have never chanced to hear any
thing of its inhabitants. But Mrs. Price, your aunt, who was so fond of
Myra, what is become of her?"
"She died before my poor father."
"Well; but she was rich. Did she do nothing?"
"Every body thought her rich, because she spent a good deal of money;
but hers was only income. Our poor aunt was no great economist--she made
no savings."
"Well; and your mother? I can not understand it. No; I can not
understand it," Catherine kept repeating. "So horrible! dear, dear
Lettice--and your shawl is quite wet, and so is your bonnet, poor, dear
girl. Why did you not put up your umbrella?"
"For a very good reason, dear Miss Melwyn; because I do not possess
one."
"Call me Catherine, won't you? or I will not speak to you again." But
Mrs. Danvers's inquiring looks seemed now to deserve a little attention.
She seemed impatient to have the enigma of this strange scene solved.
Catherine caught her eye, and, turning from her friend, with whom she
had been so much absorbed as to forget every thing else, she said:
"Lettice Arnold is a clergyman's daughter, ma'am."
"I began to think something of that sort," said Mrs. Danvers; "but, my
dear young lady, what can have brought you to this terrible state of
destitution?"
"Misfortune upon misfortune, madam. My father was, indeed, a clergyman,
and held the little vicarage of Castle Rising. There Catherine," looking
affectionately up at her, "met me upon her visits to her aunt, Mrs.
Montague."
"We have known each other from children," put in Catherine.
The door opened, and Reynolds appeared--
"The cab is waiting, if you please, Miss Melwyn."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! I can't go just this moment. Bid the man wait."
"It is late already," said Reynolds, taking out his watch. "The train
starts in twenty minutes."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! and when does the next go? I can't go by this. Can
I, dear Mrs. Danvers? It is impossible."
"Another starts in an hour afterward."
"Oh! that will do--tell Sarah to be ready for that. Well, my dear, go
on, go on--dear Lettice, you were about to tell us how all this
happened--but just another cup of tea. Do you like it strong?"
"I like it any way," said Lettice, who was beginning to recover her
spirits, "I have not tasted any thing so comfortable for a very long
time."
"Dear me! dear me!"
"You must have suffered very much, I fear, my dear young lady," said
Mrs. Danvers, in a kind voice of interest, "before you could have sunk
to the level of that miserable home where I found you."
"Yes," said Lettice. "Every one suffers very much, be the descent slow
or rapid, when he has to fall so far. But what were my sufferings to
poor Myra's!"
"And why were your sufferings as nothing in comparison with poor
Myra's?"
"Ah, madam, there are some in this world not particularly favored by
nature or fortune, who were born to be denied; who are used to it from
their childhood--it becomes a sort of second nature to them, as it were.
They scarcely feel it. But a beautiful girl, adored by an old relation,
accustomed to every sort of indulgence and luxury! They doated upon the
very ground she trod on. Oh! to be cast down to such misery, that _is_
dreadful."
"I don't see--I don't know," said Catherine, who, like the world in
general, however much they might admire, and however much too many might
flatter Myra, greatly preferred Lettice to her sister.
"I don't know," said she, doubtingly.
"Ah! but you would know if you could see!" said the generous girl. "If
you could see what she suffers from every thing--from things that I do
not even feel, far less care for--you would be so sorry for her."
Mrs. Danvers looked with increasing interest upon the speaker. She
seemed to wish to go on with the conversation about this sister, so much
pitied; so she said, "I believe what you say is very true. Very true,
Catherine, in spite of your skeptical looks. Some people really do
suffer very much more than others under the same circumstances of
privation."
"Yes, selfish people like Myra," thought Catherine, but she said
nothing.
"Indeed, madam, it is so. They seem to feel every thing so much more.
Poor Myra--I can sleep like a top in our bed, and she very often can not
close her eyes--and the close room, and the poor food. I can get
along--I was made to rough it, my poor aunt always said--but Myra!"
"Well but," rejoined Catherine, "do pray tell us how you came to this
cruel pass? Your poor father--"
"His illness was very lingering and very painful--and several times a
surgical operation was required. My mother could not bear--could any of
us?--to have it done by the poor blundering operator of that remote
village. To have a surgeon from Nottingham was very expensive; and then
the medicines; and the necessary food and attendance. The kindest and
most provident father can not save much out of one hundred and ten
pounds a year, and what was saved was soon all gone."
"Well, well," repeated Catherine, her eyes fixed with intense interest
upon the speaker.
"His deathbed was a painful scene," Lettice went on, her face displaying
her emotion, while she with great effort restrained her tears: "he
trusted in God; but there was a fearful prospect before us, and he could
not help trembling for his children. Dear, dear father! he reproached
himself for his want of faith, and would try to strengthen us, 'but the
flesh,' he said, 'was weak.' He could not look forward without anguish.
It was a fearful struggle to be composed and confiding--he could not
help being anxious. It was for us, you know, not for himself."
"Frightful!" cried Catherine, indignantly; "frightful! that a man of
education, a scholar, a gentleman, a man of so much activity in doing
good, and so much power in preaching it, should be brought to this. One
hundred and ten pounds a year, was that all? How could you exist?"
"We had the house and the garden besides, you know, and my mother was
such an excellent manager; and my father! No religious of the severest
order was ever more self-denying, and there was only me. My aunt Price,
you know, took Myra--Myra had been delicate from a child, and was so
beautiful, and she was never made to rough it, my mother and my aunt
said. Now I seemed made expressly for the purpose," she added, smiling
with perfect simplicity.
"And his illness, so long! and so expensive!" exclaimed Catherine, with
a sort of cry.
"Yes, it was--and to see the pains he took that it should not be
expensive. He would be quite annoyed if my mother got any thing nicer
than usual for his dinner. She used to be obliged to make a mystery of
it; and we were forced almost to go down upon our knees to get him to
have the surgeon from Nottingham. Nothing but the idea that his life
would be more secure in such hands could have persuaded him into it. He
knew how important that was to us. As for the pain which the bungling
old doctor hard by would have given him, he would have borne that rather
than have spent money. Oh, Catherine! there have been times upon times
when I have envied the poor. They have hospitals to go to; they are not
ashamed to ask for a little wine from those who have it; they can beg
when they are in want of a morsel of bread. It is natural. It is
right--they feel it to be right. But oh! for those, as they call it,
better born, and educated to habits of thought like those of my poor
father!... Want is, indeed, like an armed man, when he comes into
_their_ dwellings."
"Too true, my dear young lady," said Mrs. Danvers, whose eyes were by
this time moist; "but go on, if it does not pain you too much, your
story is excessively interesting. There is yet a wide step between where
your relation leaves us, and where I found you."
"We closed his eyes at last in deep sorrow. Excellent man, he deserved a
better lot! So, at least, it seems to me--but who knows? Nay, he would
have reproved me for saying so. He used to say of _himself_, so
cheerfully, 'It's a rough road, but it leads to a good place.' Why could
he not feel this for his wife and children? He found that so very
difficult!"
"He was an excellent and a delightful man," said Catherine. "Well?"...
"Well, my dear, when he had closed his eyes, there was his funeral. We
_could_ not have a parish funeral. The veriest pauper has a piety toward
the dead which revolts at that. We did it as simply as we possibly
could, consistently with common decency; but they charge so enormously
for such things: and my poor mother would not contest it. When I
remonstrated a little, and said I thought it was right to prevent others
being treated in the same way, who could no better afford it than we
could, I shall never forget my mother's face: 'I dare say--yes, you are
right, Lettice; quite right--but not this--not _his_. I can not debate
that matter. Forgive me, dear girl; it is weak--but I can not.'
"This expense exhausted all that was left of our little money: only a
few pounds remained when our furniture had been sold, and we were
obliged to give up possession of that dear, dear, little parsonage, and
we were without a roof to shelter us. You remember it, Catherine!"
"Remember it! to be sure I do. That sweet little place. The tiny house,
all covered over with honey-suckles and jasmines. How sweet they _did_
smell. And your flower-garden, Lettice, how you used to work in it. It
was that which made you so hale and strong, aunt Montague said. She
admired your industry so, you can't think. She used to say you were
worth a whole bundle of fine ladies."
"Did she?" and Lettice smiled again. She was beginning to look cheerful,
in spite of her dismal story. There was something so inveterately
cheerful in that temper, that nothing could entirely subdue it. The
warmth of her generous nature it was that kept the blood and spirits
flowing.
"It was a sad day when we parted from it. My poor mother! How she kept
looking back--looking back--striving not to cry; and Myra was drowned in
tears."
"And what did you do?"
"I am sure I don't know; I was so sorry for them both; I quite forget
all the rest."
"But how came you to London?" asked Mrs. Danvers. "Every body, without
other resource, seem to come to London. The worst place, especially for
women, they can possibly come to. People are so completely lost in
London. Nobody dies of want, nobody is utterly and entirely destitute
of help or friends, except in London."
"A person we knew in the village, and to whom my father had been very
kind, had a son who was employed in one of the great linen-warehouses,
and he promised to endeavor to get us needle-work; and we flattered
ourselves, with industry, we should, all three together, do pretty well.
So we came to London, and took a small lodging, and furnished it with
the remnant of our furniture. We had our clothes, which, though plain
enough, were a sort of little property, you know. But when we came to
learn the prices they actually paid for work, it was really frightful!
Work fourteen hours a day apiece, and we could only gain between three
and four shillings a week each--sometimes hardly that. There was our
lodging to pay, three shillings a week, and six shillings left for
firing and food for three people; this was in the weeks of _plenty_. Oh!
it was frightful!"
"Horrible!" echoed Catherine.
"We could not bring ourselves down to it at once. We hoped and flattered
ourselves that by-and-by we should get some work that would pay better;
and when we wanted a little more food, or in very cold days a little
more fire, we were tempted to sell or pawn one article after another. At
last my mother fell sick, and then all went; she died, and she _had_ a
pauper's funeral," concluded Lettice, turning very pale.
They were all three silent. At last Mrs. Danvers began again.
"That was not the lodging I found you in?"
"No, madam, that was too expensive. We left it, and we only pay
one-and-sixpence a week for this, the furniture being our own."
"The cab is at the door, Miss Melwyn," again interrupted Reynolds.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear! I can't go, indeed, Mrs. Danvers, I can't go;" with
a pleading look, "may I stay one day longer?"
"Most gladly would I keep you, my dearest love; but your father and
mother.... And they will have sent to meet you."
"And suppose they have, John must go back, but stay, stay, Sarah shall
go and take all my boxes, and say I am coming to-morrow; that will do."
"And you travel alone by railway? Your mother will never like that."
"I am ashamed," cried Catherine, with energy, "to think of such mere
conventional difficulties, when here I stand in the presence of real
misery. Indeed, my dear Mrs. Danvers, my mother will be quite satisfied
when she hears why I staid. I must be an insensible creature if I could
go away without seeing more of dear Lettice."
Lettice looked up so pleased, so grateful, so happy.
"Well, my love, I think your mother will not be uneasy, as Sarah goes;
and I just remember Mrs. Sands travels your way to-morrow, so she will
take care of you; for taken care of you must be, my pretty Catherine,
till you are a little less young, and somewhat less handsome."
And she patted the sweet, fall, rosy cheek.
Catherine was very pretty indeed, if you care to know that, and so it
was settled.
And now, Lettice having enjoyed a happier hour than she had known for
many a long day, began to recollect herself, and to think of poor Myra.
She rose from her chair, and taking up her bonnet and shawl, which
Catherine had hung before the fire to dry, seemed preparing to depart.
Then both Catherine and Mrs. Danvers began to think of her little bill,
which had not been settled yet. Catherine felt excessively awkward and
uncomfortable at the idea of offering her old friend and companion
money; but Mrs. Danvers was too well acquainted with real misery, had
too much approbation for that spirit which is not above _earning_, but
is above begging, to have any embarrassment in such a case.
"Catherine, my dear," she said, "you owe Miss Arnold some money. Had you
not better settle it before she leaves?"
Both the girls blushed.
"Nay, my dears," said Mrs. Danvers, kindly; "why this? I am sure,"
coming up to them, and taking Lettice's hand, "I hold an honest hand
here, which is not ashamed to labor, when it has been the will of God
that it shall be by her own exertions that she obtains her bread, and
part of the bread of another, if I mistake not. What you have nobly
earned as nobly receive. Humiliation belongs to the idle and the
dependent, not to one who maintains herself."
The eyes of Lettice glistened, and she could not help gently pressing
the hand which held hers.
Such sentiments were congenial to her heart. She had never been able to
comprehend the conventional distinctions between what is honorable or
degrading, under the fetters of which so many lose the higher principles
of independence--true honesty and true honor. To work for her living had
never lessened her in her own eyes; and she had found, with a sort of
astonishment, that it was to sink her in the eyes of others. To deny
herself every thing in food, furniture, clothing, in order to escape
debt, and add in her little way to the comforts of those she loved, had
ever appeared to her noble and praiseworthy. She was as astonished, as
many such a heart has been before her, with the course of this world's
esteem, too often measured by what people _spend_ upon themselves,
rather than by what they spare. I can not get that story in the
newspaper--the contempt expressed for the dinner of one mutton chop,
potatoes, and a few greens--out of my head.
Catherine's confusion had, in a moment of weakness, extended to Lettice.
She had felt ashamed to be paid as a workwoman by one once her friend,
and in social rank her equal; but now she raised her head, with a noble
frankness and spirit.
"I am very much obliged to you for recollecting it, madam, for in truth
the money is very much wanted; and if--" turning to her old friend, "my
dear Catherine can find me a little more work, I should be very greatly
obliged to her."
Catherine again changed color. Work! she was longing to offer her money.
She had twenty pounds in her pocket, a present from her godmother, to
buy something pretty for her wedding. She was burning with desire to put
it into Lettice's hand.
She stammered--she hesitated.
"Perhaps you _have_ no more work just now," said Lettice. "Never mind,
then; I am sure when there is an opportunity, you will remember what a
pleasure it will be to me to work for you; and that a poor needlewoman
is very much benefited by having private customers."
"My dear, dear Lettice!" and Catherine's arms were round her neck. She
could not help shedding a few tears.
"But to return to business," said Mrs. Danvers, "for I see Miss Arnold
is impatient to be gone. What is your charge, my dear? These slips are
tucked and beautifully stitched and done."
"I should not get more than threepence, at most fourpence, at the shops
for them. Should you think ninepence an unreasonable charge? I believe
it is what you would pay if you had them done at the schools."
"Threepence, fourpence, ninepence! Good Heavens!" cried Catherine; "so
beautifully done as these are; and then your needles and thread, you
have made no charge for them."
"We pay for those ourselves," said Lettice.
"But my dear," said Mrs. Danvers, "what Catherine would have to pay for
this work, if bought from a linen warehouse, would at least be fifteen
pence, and not nearly so well done, for these are beautiful. Come, you
must ask eighteen pence; there are six of them; nine shillings, my
dear."
The eyes of poor Lettice quite glistened. She could not refuse. She felt
that to seem over delicate upon this little enhancement of price would
be really great moral indelicacy. "Thank you," said she, "you are very
liberal; but it must only be for this once. If I am to be your
needlewoman in ordinary, Catherine, I must only be paid what you would
pay to others."
She smiled pleasantly as she said this; but Catherine could not answer
the smile. She felt very sad as she drew the nine shillings from her
purse, longing to make them nine sovereigns. But she laid the money at
last before Lettice upon the table.
Lettice took it up, and bringing out an old dirty leathern purse, was
going to put it in.
"At least, let me give you a better purse," said Catherine, eagerly,
offering her own handsome one, yet of a strong texture, for it was her
business purse.
"They would think I had stolen it," said Lettice, putting it aside. "No,
thank you, dear, kind Catherine. Consistency in all things; and my old
leather convenience seems to me much more consistent with my bonnet than
your beautiful one. Not but that I shall get myself a decent bonnet
_now_, for really this is a shame to be seen. And so, good-by; and
farewell, madam. When you _have_ work, you won't forget me, will you,
dear?"
"Oh, Catherine has plenty of work," put in Mrs. Danvers, "but somehow
she is not quite herself this morning"--again looking at her very
kindly. "You can not wonder, Miss Arnold, that she is much more agitated
by this meeting than you can be. My dear, there are those
pocket-handkerchiefs to be marked, which we durst not trust to an
unknown person. That will be a profitable job. My dear, you would have
to pay five shillings apiece at Mr. Morris's for having them embroidered
according to that pattern you fixed upon, and which I doubt not your
friend and her sister can execute. There are six of them to be done."
"May I look at the pattern? Oh, yes! I think I can do it. I will take
the greatest possible pains. Six at five shillings each! Oh! madam!--Oh,
Catherine!--what a benefit this will be."
Again Catherine felt it impossible to speak. She could only stoop down,
take the poor hand, so roughened with hardships, and raise it to her
lips.
The beautiful handkerchiefs were brought.
"I will only take one at a time, if you please. These are too valuable
to be risked at our lodgings. When I have done this, I will fetch
another, and so on. I shall not lose time in getting them done, depend
upon it," said Lettice, cheerfully.
"Take two, at all events, and then Myra can help you."
"No, only one at present, at least, thank you."
She did not say what she knew to be very true, that Myra could not help
her. Myra's fingers were twice as delicate as her own; and Myra, before
their misfortunes, had mostly spent her time in ornamental work--her
aunt holding plain sewing to be an occupation rather beneath so
beautiful and distinguished a creature. Nevertheless, when work became
of so much importance to them all, and fine work especially, as gaining
so much better a recompense in proportion to the time employed, Myra's
accomplishments in this way proved very useless. She had not been
accustomed to that strenuous, and, to the indolent, painful effort,
which is necessary to do any thing _well_. To exercise self-denial,
self-government, persevering industry, virtuous resistance against
weariness, disgust, aching fingers and heavy eyes--temptations which
haunt the indefatigable laborer in such callings, she was incapable of:
the consequence was, that she worked in a very inferior manner. While
Lettice, as soon as she became aware of the importance of this
accomplishment as to the means of increasing her power of adding to her
mother's comforts, had been indefatigable in her endeavors to accomplish
herself in the art, and was become a very excellent workwoman.