'Indeed, sir,' continued my informant, 'I'm afeard not. 'Twas the most
unfortnatest thing in the world, sir, poor Mr D----'s dying jest as a'
did. You see, sir, he war a soldier, a fightin' out in Indy, and his
poor wife lef at home wi' them two blossoms o' gals. He warn't what
you call a common soldier, sir, but some kind o' officer like; an' in
some great battle fought seven year agone he done fine service I've
heerd, and promotion was send out to 'un, but didn't get there till
the poor man was dead of his wounds. The news of he's death cut up his
poor wife complete, and she han't been herself since. I've know'd she
wasn't long for here ever since it come. Wust of all, it seems that
because the poor man was dead the very day the promotion reached 'un,
a' didn't die a captain after all, and so the poor widder didn't get
no pension. How they've a' managed to live is more than I can tell.
The oldest gal is very clever, they say; but Lor' bless 'ee! 'taint
much to s'port three as is to be got out o' broiderin'.'
Thus enlightened on the subject of their private history, it was with
very different feelings I afterwards regarded these unfortunate
children. Bereft of both parents, and cast upon a world with the ways
of which they were utterly unacquainted, and in which they might be
doomed to the most painful struggles even to procure a bare
subsistence, one treasure was yet left them--it was the treasure of
each other's love. So far as the depth of this feeling could be
estimated from the looks and actions of both, it was all in all to
each. But the sacred bond that bound them was destined to be rudely
rent asunder. The cold winds of autumn began to visit too roughly the
fair pale face of the younger girl, and the unmistakable indications
of consumption made their appearance: the harassing cough, the hectic
cheek, the deep-settled pain in the side, the failing breath. Against
these dread forerunners it was vain long to contend; and the poor
child had to remain at home in her solitary sick-chamber, while the
loving sister toiled harder than ever to provide, if possible, the
means of comfort and restoration to health. All the world knows the
ending of such a hopeless strife as this. It is sometimes the will of
Heaven that the path of virtue, like that of glory, leads but to the
grave. So it was in the present instance: the blossom of this fair
young life withered away, and the grass-fringed lips of the child's
early tomb closed over the lifeless relics ere spring had dawned upon
the year.
Sorrow had graven legible traces upon the brow of my hapless mentor
when I saw her again. How different now was the vision that greeted my
daily sight from that of former years! The want that admits not of
idle wailing compelled her still to pursue her daily course of labour,
and she pursued it with the same constancy and punctuality as she had
ever done. But the exquisitely chiselled face, the majestic gait, the
elastic step--the beauty and glory of youth, unshaken because
unassaulted by death and sorrow--where were they? Alas! all the
bewitching charms of her former being had gone down into the grave of
her mother and sister; and she, their support and idol, seemed no more
now than she really was--a wayworn, solitary, and isolated straggler
for daily bread.
Were this a fiction that I am writing, it would be an easy matter to
deal out a measure of poetical justice, and to recompense poor Ellen
for all her industry, self-denial, and suffering in the arms of a
husband, who should possess as many and great virtues as herself, and
an ample fortune to boot. I wish with all my heart that it were a
fiction, and that Providence had never furnished me with such a
seeming anomaly to add to the list of my desultory chronicles. But I
am telling a true story of a life. Ellen found no mate. No mate, did I
say? Yes, one: the same grim yokefellow whose delight it is 'to gather
roses in the spring' paid ghastly court to her faded charms, and won
her--who shall say an unwilling bride? I could see his gradual but
deadly advances in my daily walks: the same indications that gave
warning of the sister's fate admonished me that she also was on her
way to the tomb, and that the place that had known her would soon know
her no more. She grew day by day more feeble; and one morning I found
her seated on the step of a door, unable to proceed. After that she
disappeared from my view; and though I never saw her again at the old
spot, I have seldom passed that spot since, though for many years
following the same route, without recognising again in my mind's eye
the graceful form and angel aspect of Ellen D----.
'And is this the end of your mournful history?' some querulous reader
demands. Not quite. There is a soul of good in things evil. Compassion
dwells with the depths of misery; and in the valley of the shadow of
death dove-eyed Charity walks with shining wings.... It was nearly two
months after I had lost sight of poor Ellen, that during one of my
dinner-hour perambulations about town, I looked in almost accidentally
upon my old friend and chum, Jack W----. Jack keeps a perfumer's shop
not a hundred miles from Gray's Inn, where, ensconced up to his eyes
in delicate odours, he passes his leisure hours--the hours when
commerce flags, and people have more pressing affairs to attend to
than the delectation of their nostrils--in the enthusiastic study of
art and _virtu_. His shop is hardly more crammed with bottles and
attar, soap, scents, and all the _etceteras_ of the toilet, than the
rest of his house with prints, pictures, carvings, and curiosities of
every sort. Jack and I went to school together, and sowed our slender
crop of wild oats together; and, indeed, in some sort have been
together ever since. We both have our own collections of rarities,
such as they are, and each criticises the other's new purchases. On
the present occasion there was a new Van Somebody's old painting
awaiting my judgment; and no sooner did my shadow darken his door,
than starting from his lair, and bidding the boy ring the bell should
he be wanted, he hustled me up stairs, calling by the way to his
housekeeper, Mrs Jones--Jack is a bachelor--to bring up coffee for
two. I was prepared to pronounce my dictum on his newly-acquired
treasure, and was going to bounce unceremoniously into the old
lumber-room over the lobby to regale my sight with the delightful
confusion of his unarranged accumulations, when he pulled me forcibly
back by the coat-tail. 'Not there,' said Jack; 'you can't go there. Go
into my snuggery.'
'And why not there?' said I; jealous of some new purchase which I was
not to see.
'Because there's somebody ill there--it is a bedroom now: a poor girl;
she wanted a place to die in, poor thing, and I put her in there.'
'Who is she?--a relative?'
'No; I never saw her till Monday last. Sit down, I'll tell you how it
was. Set down the coffee, Mrs Jones, and just look in upon the
patient, will you? Sugar and cream? You know my weakness for the dead
wall in Lincoln's Inn Fields.' (Jack never refuses a beggar backed by
that wall, for the love of Ben Jonson, who, he devoutly believes, had
a hand in building it.) 'Well, I met with her there on Monday last.
She asked for nothing, but held out her hand, and as she did so the
tears streamed from her eyes on the pavement. The poor creature, it
was plain enough, was then dying; and I told her so. She said she knew
it, but had no place to die in but the parish workhouse, and hoped
that I would not send her there. What's the use of talking? I brought
her here, and put her to sleep on the sofa while Jones cleared out the
lumber-room and got up a bed. I sent for Dr H---- to look at her; he
gave her a week or ten days at the farthest: I don't think she'll last
so long. The curate of St---- comes every day to see her, and I like
to talk to her myself sometimes. Well, Mrs Jones, how goes she on?'
'She's asleep,' said the housekeeper. 'Would you like to look at her,
gentlemen?'
We entered the room together. It was as if some unaccountable
presentiment had forewarned me: there, upon a snow-white sheet, and
pillowed by my friend's favourite eider-down squab, lay the wasted
form of Ellen D----. She slept soundly and breathed loudly; and Dr
H----, who entered while we stood at the bedside, informed us that in
all probability she would awake only to die, or if to sleep again,
then to wake no more. The latter was the true prophecy. She awoke an
hour or two after my departure, and passed away that same night in a
quiet slumber without a pang.
I never learned by what chain of circumstances she was driven to seek
alms in the public streets. I might have done so perhaps by inquiry,
but to what purpose? She died in peace, with friendly hands and
friendly hearts near her, and Jack buried her in his own grave in
Highgate Cemetery, at his own expense; and declares he is none the
worse for it. I am of his opinion.