The facts of the following brief narrative, which are very few and of
but melancholy interest, became known to me in the precise order in
which they are laid before the reader. They were forced upon my
observation rather than sought out by me; and they present, to my mind
at least, a touching picture of the bitter conflict industrious
poverty is sometimes called upon to wage with 'the thousand natural
shocks which flesh is heir to.'
It must be now eight or nine years since, in traversing a certain
street, which runs for nearly half a mile in a direct line southward,
I first encountered Ellen----. She was then a fair young girl of
seventeen, rather above the middle size, and with a queen-like air and
gait which made her appear taller than she really was. Her
countenance, pale but healthy, and of a perfectly regular and classic
mould, was charming to look upon from its undefinable expression of
lovableness and sweet temper. Her tiny feet tripped noiselessly along
the pavement, and a glance from her black eye sometimes met mine like
a ray of light, as, punctually at twenty minutes to nine, we passed
each other near ---- House, each of us on our way to the theatre of
our daily operations. She was an embroideress, as I soon discovered
from a small stretching-frame, containing some unfinished work, which
she occasionally carried in her hand. She set me a worthy example of
punctuality, and I could any day have told the time to a minute
without looking at my watch, by marking the spot where we passed each
other. I learned to look for her regularly, and before I knew her
name, had given her that of 'Minerva,' in acknowledgment of her
efficiency as a mentor.
A year after the commencement of our acquaintance, which never ripened
into speech, happening to set out from home one morning a quarter of
an hour before my usual time, I made the pleasing discovery that my
juvenile Minerva had a younger sister, if possible still more
beautiful than herself. The pair were taking an affectionate leave of
each other at the crossing of the New Road, and the silver accents of
the younger as, kissing her sister, she laughed out, 'Good-by, Ellen,'
gave me the first information of the real name of my pretty mentor.
The little Mary--for so was the younger called, who could not be more
than eleven years of age--was a slender, frolicsome sylph, with a skin
of the purest carnation, and a face like that of Sir Joshua's seraph
in the National Gallery, but with larger orbs and longer lashes
shading them. As she danced and leaped before me on her way home
again, I could not but admire the natural ease and grace of every
motion, nor fail to comprehend and sympathise with the anxious looks
of the sisters' only parent, their widowed mother, who stood watching
the return of the younger darling at the door of a very humble
two-storey dwelling, in the vicinity of the New River Head.
Nearly two years passed away, during which, with the exception of
Sundays and holidays, every recurring morning brought me the grateful
though momentary vision of one or both of the charming sisters. Then
came an additional pleasure--I met them both together every day. The
younger had commenced practising the same delicate and ingenious craft
of embroidery, and the two pursued their industry in company under the
same employer. It was amusing to mark the demure assumption of
womanhood darkening the brows of the aërial little sprite, as, with
all the new-born consequence of responsibility, she walked soberly by
her sister's side, frame in hand, and occasionally revealed to
passers-by a brief glimpse of her many-coloured handiwork. They were
the very picture of beauty and happiness, and happy beyond question
must their innocent lives have been for many pleasant months. But soon
the shadows of care began to steal over their hitherto joyous faces,
and traces of anxiety, perhaps of tears, to be too plainly visible on
their paling cheeks. All at once I missed them in my morning's walk,
and for several days--it might be weeks--saw nothing of them. I was at
length startled from my forgetfulness of their very existence by the
sudden apparition of both one Monday morning clad in the deepest
mourning. I saw the truth at once: the mother, who, I had remarked,
was prematurely old and feeble, was gone, and the two orphan children
were left to battle it with the world. My conjecture was the truth, as
a neighbour of whom I made some inquiries on the subject was not slow
to inform me. '_Ah,_ sir,' said the good woman, 'poor Mrs D---- have
had a hard time of it, and she born an' bred a gentlewoman.'