"Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite,
As ever sullied the fair face of light."--POPE.
And now she is upon her way home. And oh! how lightly beats that honest
simple heart in her bosom: and oh! how cheerily sits her spirit upon its
throne. How happily, too, she looks about at the shops, and thinks of
what she shall buy; not what she can possibly do without; not of the
very cheapest and poorest that is to be had for money, but upon what she
shall _choose_!
Then she remembers the fable of the Maid and the Milk-pail, and grows
prudent and prosaic; and resolves that she will not spend her money till
she has got it. She begins to limit her desires, and to determine that
she will only lay out six shillings this morning, and keep three in her
purse, as a resource for contingencies. Nay, she begins to grow a little
Martha-like and careful, and to dream about savings-banks; and putting
half-a-crown in, out of the way of temptation, when she is paid for her
first pocket-handkerchief.
Six shillings, however, she means to expend for the more urgent wants.
Two shillings coals; one shilling a very, very coarse straw bonnet;
fourpence ribbon to trim it with; one shilling bread, and sixpence
potatoes, a half-pennyworth of milk, and then, what is left?--one
shilling and a penny-half-penny. Myra shall have a cup of tea, with
sugar in it; and a muffin, that she loves so, and a bit of butter.
Four-pennyworth of tea, three-pennyworth of sugar, two-pennyworth of
butter, one penny muffin; and threepence-halfpenny remains in the good
little manager's hands.
She came up the dark stairs of her lodgings so cheerfully, followed by a
boy lugging up her coals, she carrying the other purchases herself--so
happy! quite radiant with joy--and opened the door of the miserable
little apartment.
It was a bleak wintry morning. Not a single ray of the sun could
penetrate the gray fleecy covering in which the houses were wrapped; yet
the warmth of the smoke and fires was sufficient so far to assist the
temperature of the atmosphere as to melt the dirty snow; which now kept
dripping from the roofs in dreary cadence, and splashing upon the
pavement below.
The room looked so dark, so dreary, so dismal! Such a contrast to the
one she had just left! Myra was up, and was dressed in her miserable,
half-worn, cotton gown, which was thrown round her in the most untidy,
comfortless manner. She could not think it worth while to care how
_such_ a gown was put on. Her hair was dingy and disordered; to be sure
there was but a broken comb to straighten it with, and who could do any
thing with _such_ a comb? She was cowering over the fire, which was now
nearly extinguished, and, from time to time, picking up bit by bit of
the cinders, as they fell upon the little hearth, putting them on
again--endeavoring to keep the fire alive. Wretchedness in the extreme
was visible in her dress, her attitude, her aspect.
She turned round as Lettice entered, and saying pettishly, "I thought
you never _would_ come back, and I do _so_ want my shawl," returned to
her former attitude, with her elbows resting upon her knees, and her
chin upon the palms of her hands.
"I have been a sad long time, indeed," said Lettice, good-humoredly;
"you must have been tired to death of waiting for me, and wondering what
I _could_ be about. But I've brought something back which will make you
amends. And, in the first place, here's your shawl," putting it over
her, "and thank you for the use of it--though I would not ask your
leave, because I could not bear to waken you. But I was _sure_ you would
lend it me--and now for the fire. For once in a way we _will_ have a
good one. There, Sim, bring in the coals, put them in that wooden box
there. Now for a good lump or two." And on they went; and the expiring
fire began to crackle and sparkle, and make a pleased noise, and a blaze
soon caused even that room to look a little cheerful.
"Oh dear! I am so glad we may for _once_ be allowed to have coal enough
to put a spark of life into us," said Myra.
Lettice had by this time filled the little old tin kettle, and was
putting it upon the fire, and then she fetched an old tea-pot with a
broken spout, a saucer without a cup, and a cup without a saucer; and
putting the two together, for they were usually divided between the
sisters, said:
"I have got something for you which I know you will like still better
than a blaze, a cup of tea. And to warm your poor fingers, see if you
can't toast yourself this muffin," handing it to her upon what was now a
two-pronged, but had once been a three-pronged fork.
"But what have you got for yourself?" Myra had, at least, the grace to
say.
"Oh! I have had _such_ a breakfast. And such a thing has happened! but I
can not and will not tell you till you have had your own breakfast,
poor, dear girl. You must be ravenous--at least, I should be in your
place--but you never seem so hungry as I am, poor Myra. However, I was
sure you could eat a muffin."
"That was very good-natured of you, Lettice, to think of it. It _will_
be a treat. But oh! to think that we should be brought to this--to think
a muffin--_one_ muffin--a treat!" she added dismally.
"Let us be thankful when we get it, however," said her sister: "upon my
word. Mrs. Bull has given us some very good coals. Oh, how the kettle
does enjoy them! It must be quite a treat to our kettle to feel
_hot_--poor thing! Lukewarm is the best it mostly attains to. Hear how
it buzzes and hums, like a pleased child."
And so she prattled, and put a couple of spoonfuls of tea into the
cracked tea-pot. There were but about six in the paper, but Myra liked
her tea strong, and she should have it as she pleased this once. Then
she poured out a cup, put in some milk and sugar, and, with a smile of
ineffable affection, presented it, with the muffin she had buttered, to
her sister. Myra _did_ enjoy it. To the poor, weedy, delicate thing, a
cup of good tea, with something to eat that she could relish, _was_ a
real blessing. Mrs. Danvers was right so far: things did really go much
harder with her than with Lettice; but then she made them six times
worse by her discontent and murmuring spirit, and Lettice made them six
times better by her cheerfulness and generous disregard of self.
While the one sister was enjoying her breakfast, the other, who really
began to feel tired, was very glad to sit down and enjoy the fire. So
she took the other chair, and, putting herself upon the opposite side of
the little table, began to stretch out her feet to the fender, and feel
herself quite comfortable. Three shillings in her purse, and three-pence
halfpenny to do just what she liked with! perhaps buy Myra a roll for
tea: there would be butter enough left.
Then she began her story. But the effect it produced was not exactly
what she had expected. Instead of sharing in her sister's thankful joy
for this unexpected deliverance from the most abject want, through the
discovery of a friend--able and willing to furnish employment herself,
and to recommend them, as, in her hopeful view of things, Lettice
anticipated, to others, and promising them work of a description that
would pay well, and make them quite comfortable--Myra began to draw a
repining contrast between Catherine's situation and her own.
The poor beauty had been educated by her silly and romantic old aunt to
look forward to making some capital match. "She had such a sweet pretty
face, and so many accomplishments of mind and manner," for such was the
way the old woman loved to talk. Accomplishments of mind and manner, by
the way, are indefinite things; any body may put in a claim for them on
the part of any one. As for the more positive acquirements which are to
be seen, handled, or heard and appreciated--such as dancing, music,
languages, and so forth, Myra had as slender a portion of those as
usually falls to the lot of indulged, idle, nervous girls. The poor
beauty felt all the bitterness of the deepest mortification at what she
considered this cruel contrast of her fate as compared to Catherine's.
She had been indulged in that pernicious habit of the mind--the making
claims. "With claims no better than her own" was her expression for
though Catherine had more money, every body said Catherine was _only_
pretty, which last sentence implied that there was another person of
Catherine's acquaintance, who was positively and extremely beautiful.
Lettice, happily for herself, had never been accustomed to make
"claims." She had, indeed, never distinctly understood whom such claims
were to be made upon. She could not quite see why it was very _hard_
that other people should be happier than herself. I am sure she would
have been very sorry if she had thought that every body was as
uncomfortable.
She was always sorry when she heard her sister talking in this manner,
partly because she felt it could not be quite right, and partly because
she was sure it did no good, but made matters a great deal worse; but
she said nothing. Exhortation, indeed, only made matters worse: nothing
offended Myra so much as an attempt to make her feel more comfortable,
and to reconcile her to the fate she complained of as so _hard_.
Even when let alone, it would often be some time before she recovered
her good humor; and this was the case now. I am afraid she was a little
vexed that Lettice and not herself had met with the good luck first to
stumble upon Catherine, and also a little envious of the pleasing
impression it was plain her sister had made. So she began to fall foul
of Lettice's new bonnet, and to say, in a captious tone,
"You got money enough to buy yourself a new bonnet, I see."
"Indeed, I did," Lettice answered with simplicity. "It was the very
first thing I thought of. Mine was such a wretched thing, and wetted
with the snow--the very boys hooted at it. Poor old friend!" said she,
turning it upon her hand, "you have lost even the shape and pretension
to be a bonnet. What must I do with thee? The back of the fire? Sad
fate! No, generous companion of my cares and labors, that shall _not_ be
thy destiny. Useful to the last, thou shalt _light_ to-morrow's fire;
and that will be the best satisfaction to thy generous manes."
"_My_ bonnet is not so _very_ much better," said Myra, rather sulkily.
"_Not_ so _very_ much, alas! but better, far better than mine. And,
besides, confess, please, my dear, that you had the last bonnet. Two
years ago, it's true; but mine had seen three; and then, remember, I am
going into grand company again to-morrow, and _must_ be decent."
This last remark did not sweeten Myra's temper.
"Oh! I forgot. Of course you'll keep your good company to yourself. I
am, indeed, not fit to be seen in it. But you'll want a new gown and a
new shawl, my dear, though, indeed, you can always take mine, as you did
this morning."
"Now, Myra!" said Lettice, "can you really be so naughty? Nay, you are
cross; I see it in your face, though you won't look at me. Now don't be
so foolish. Is it not all the same to us both? Are we not in one box? If
you wish for the new bonnet, take it, and I'll take yours: I don't care,
my dear. You were always used to be more handsomely dressed than me--it
must seem quite odd for you not to be so. I only want to be decent when
I go about the work, which I shall have to do often, as I told you,
because I dare not have two of these expensive handkerchiefs in my
possession at once. Dear me, girl! Have we not troubles enough? For
goodness' sake don't let us _make_ them. There, dear, take the bonnet,
and I'll take yours; but I declare, when I look at the two, this is so
horridly coarse, yours, old as it is looks the genteeler to my mind,"
laughing.
So thought Myra, and kept her own bonnet, Lettice putting upon it the
piece of new ribbon she had bought, and after smoothing and rubbing the
faded one upon her sister's, trimming with it her own.
* * * * *
The two friends in Green-street sat silently for a short time after the
door had closed upon Lettice; and then Catherine began.
"More astonishing things happen in the real world than one ever finds in
a book. I am sure if such a reverse of fortune as this had been
described to me in a story, I should at once have declared it to be
impossible. I could not have believed it credible that, in a society
such as ours--full of all sorts of kind, good-natured people, who are
daily doing so much for the poor--an amiable girl like this, the
daughter of a clergyman of the Church of England, could be suffered to
sink into such abject poverty."
"Ah! my dear Catherine, that shows you have only seen life upon one
side, and that its fairest side--as it presents itself in the country.
You can not imagine what a dreadful thing it may prove in large cities.
It can not enter into the head of man to conceive the horrible contrasts
of large cities--the dreadful destitution of large cities--the awful
solitude of a crowd. In the country, I think, such a thing hardly could
have happened, however great the difficulty is of helping those who
still preserve the delicacy and dignity with regard to money matters,
which distinguishes finer minds--but in London what _can_ be done? Like
lead in the mighty waters, the moneyless and friendless sink to the
bottom, Society in all its countless degrees closes over them: they are
lost in its immensity, hidden from every eye, and they perish as an
insect might perish; amid the myriads of its kind, unheeded by every
other living creature. Ah, my love! if your walks lay where mine have
done, your heart would bleed for these destitute women, born to better
hopes, and utterly shipwrecked."
"She was such a dear, amiable girl," Catherine went on, "so cheerful, so
sweet-tempered--so clever in all that one likes to see people clever
about! Her mother was a silly woman."
"So she showed, I fear, by coming to London," said Mrs. Danvers.
"She was so proud of Myra's beauty, and she seemed to think so little of
Lettice. She was always prophesying that Myra would make a great match;
and so did her aunt, Mrs. Price, who was no wiser than Mrs. Arnold; and
they brought up the poor girl to such a conceit of herself--to 'not to
do this,' and 'it was beneath her to do that'--and referring every
individual thing to her comfort and advancement, till, poor girl, she
could hardly escape growing, what she certainly did grow into, a very
spoiled, selfish creature. While dear Lettice in her simplicity--that
simplicity 'which thinketh no evil'--took it so naturally, that so it
was, and so it ought to be; that sometimes one laughed, and sometimes
one felt provoked, but one loved her above all things. I never saw such
a temper."
"I dare say," said Mrs. Danvers, "that your intention in staying in town
to-day was to pay them a visit, which, indeed, we had better do. I had
only a glance into their apartment the other day, but it occurred to me
that they wanted common necessaries. Ignorant as I was of who they were,
I was thinking to get them put upon Lady A----'s coal and blanket list,
but that can not very well be done now. However, presents are always
permitted under certain conditions, and the most delicate receive them;
and, really, this is a case to waive a feeling of that sort in some
measure. As you are an old friend and acquaintance, there can be no harm
in a few presents before you leave town."
"So I was thinking, ma'am, and I am very impatient to go and see them,
and find out what they may be most in want of."
"Well, my dear, I do not see why we should lose time, and I will order a
cab to take us, for it is rather too far to walk this terrible day."
They soon arrived at the place I have described, and, descending from
their cab, walked along in front of this row of lofty houses looking
upon the grave-yard, and inhabited by so much human misery. The doors of
most of the houses stood open, for they were all let in rooms, and the
entrance and staircase were common as the street. What forms of human
misery and degradation presented themselves during one short walk which
I once took there with a friend employed upon a mission of mercy!
Disease in its most frightful form, panting to inhale a little fresh
air. Squalid misery, the result of the gin-shop--decent misery ready to
starve. Women shut up in one room with great heartless, brutal,
disobedient boys--sickness resting untended upon its solitary bed.
Wailing infants--scolding mothers--human nature under its most abject
and degraded forms. No thrift, no economy, no attempt at cleanliness and
order. Idleness, recklessness, dirt, and wretchedness. Perhaps the very
atmosphere of towns; perhaps these close, ill-ventilated rooms; most
certainly the poisonous gin-shop, engender a relaxed state of nerves and
muscles, which deprives people of the spirits ever to attempt to make
themselves a little decent. Then water is so dear, and dirt so pervading
the very atmosphere. Poor things, they give it up; and acquiesce in,
and become accustomed to it, and "_avec un mal heur sourd dont l'on ne
se rend pas compte_," gradually sink and sink into the lowest abyss of
habitual degradation.
It is difficult to express the painful sensations which Catherine
experienced when she entered the room of the two sisters. To her the
dirty paper, the carpetless floor, the miserable bed, the worm-eaten and
scanty furniture, the aspect of extreme poverty which pervaded every
thing, were so shocking, that she could hardly restrain her tears. Not
so Mrs. Danvers.
Greater poverty, even she, could rarely have seen; but it was too often
accompanied with what grieved her more, reckless indifference, and moral
degradation. Dirt and disorder, those agents of the powers of darkness,
were almost sure to be found where there was extreme want; but here the
case was different. As her experienced eye glanced round the room, she
could perceive that, poor as was the best, the best _was_ made of it;
that a cheerful, active spirit--the "How to make the best of it"--that
spirit which is like the guardian angel of the poor, had been busy here.
The floor, though bare, was clean; the bed, though so mean, neatly
arranged and made; the grate was bright; the chairs were dusted; the
poor little plenishing neatly put in order. No dirty garments hanging
about the room; all carefully folded and put away they were; though she
could not, of course, see that, for there were no half-open drawers of
the sloven, admitting dust and dirt, and offending the eye. Lettice
herself, with hair neatly braided, her poor worn gown carefully put on,
was sitting by the little table, busy at her work, looking the very
picture of modest industry. Only one figure offended the nice moral
sense of Mrs. Danvers: that of Myra, who sat there with her fine hair
hanging round her face, in long, dirty, disheveled ringlets, her feet
stretched out and pushed slip-shod into her shoes. With her dress half
put on, and hanging over her, as the maids say, "no how," she was
leaning back in the chair, and sewing very languidly at a very dirty
piece of work which she held in her hand.
Both sisters started up when the door opened. Lettice's cheeks flushed
with joy, and her eye sparkled with pleasure as she rose to receive her
guests, brought forward her other only chair, stirred the fire, and sent
the light of a pleasant blaze through the room. Myra colored also, but
her first action was to stoop down hastily to pull up the heels of her
shoes; she then east a hurried glance upon her dress, and arranged it a
little--occupied as usual with herself, her own appearance was the first
thought--and never in her life more disagreeably.
Catherine shook hands heartily with Lettice, saying, "We are soon met
again, you see;" and then went up to Myra, and extended her hand to her.
The other took it, but was evidently so excessively ashamed of her
poverty, and her present appearance, before one who had seen her in
better days, that she could not speak, or make any other reply to a kind
speech of Catherine's, but by a few unintelligible murmurs.
"I was impatient to come," said Catherine--she and Mrs. Danvers having
seated themselves upon the two smaller chairs, while the sisters sat
together upon the larger one--"because, you know, I must go out of town
so very soon, and I wanted to call upon you, and have a little chat and
talk of old times--and, really--really--" she hesitated. Dear, good
thing, she was so dreadfully afraid of mortifying either of the two in
their present fallen state.
"And, really--really," said Mrs. Danvers, smiling, "out with it, my
love--really--really, Lettice, Catherine feels as I am sure you would
feel if the cases were reversed. She can not bear the thoughts of her
own prosperity, and at the same time think of your misfortunes. I told
her I was quite sure you would not be hurt if she did for you, what I
was certain you would have done in such a case for her, and would let
her make you a little more comfortable before she went. The poor thing's
wedding-day will be quite spoiled by thinking about you, if you won't,
Lettice."
Lettice stretched out her hand to Catherine by way of answer; and
received in return the most warm and affectionate squeeze. Myra was very
glad to be made more comfortable--there was no doubt of that; but half
offended, and determined to be as little obliged as possible. And then,
Catherine going to be married too. How hard!--every kind of good luck to
be heaped upon _her_, and she herself so unfortunate in every way.
But nobody cared for her ungracious looks. Catherine knew her of old,
and Mrs. Danvers understood the sort of thing she was in a minute. Her
walk had lain too long amid the victims of false views and imperfect
moral training, to be surprised at this instance of their effects. The
person who surprised her was Lettice.
"Well, then," said Catherine, now quite relieved, and looking round the
room, "where shall we begin? What will you have? What do you want most?
I shall make you wedding presents, you see, instead of you making them
to me. When your turn comes you shall have your revenge."
"Well," Lettice said, "what must be must be, and it's nonsense playing
at being proud. I am very much obliged to you, indeed, Catherine, for
thinking of us at this time; and if I must tell you what I should be
excessively obliged to you for, it is a pair of blankets. Poor Myra can
hardly sleep for the cold."
"It's not the cold--it's the wretched, hard, lumpy bed," muttered Myra.
This hint sent Catherine to the bed-side.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" cried she, piteously, "poor dear things, how could
you sleep at all? Do they call this a bed? and such blankets! Poor
Myra!" her compassion quite overcoming her dislike. "No wonder. My
goodness! my goodness! it's very shocking indeed." And the good young
thing could not help crying.
"Blankets, dear girls! and a mattress, and a feather bed, and two
pillows. How have you lived through it? And you, poor Myra, used to be
made so much of. Poor girl! I am so sorry for you."
And oh! how her heart smote her for all she had said and thought to
Myra's disadvantage. And oh! how the generous eyes of Lettice beamed
with pleasure as these compassionate words were addressed to her sister.
Myra was softened and affected. She could almost forgive Catherine for
being so fortunate.
"You are very kind, indeed, Catherine," she said.
Catherine, now quite at her ease, began to examine into their other
wants; and without asking many questions, merely by peeping about, and
forming her own conclusions, was soon pretty well aware of what was of
the most urgent necessity. She was now quite upon the fidget to be gone,
that she might order and send in the things; and ten of the twenty
pounds given her for wedding lace was spent before she and Mrs. Danvers
reached home; that lady laughing, and lamenting over the wedding gown,
which would certainly not be flounced with Honiton, as Catherine's good
god-mother had intended, and looking so pleased, contented, and happy,
that it did Catherine's heart good to see her.