The Frail Shop Girl.
The many fine ladies who patronize the fashionable emporiums of
Montreal little think (as they sit comfortably at the counter, leisurely
examining dozens of articles they never intend to purchase) of the
sufferings undergone by those who minister to their wants, and, it may
be, their caprices. Dozens of these poor creatures stand day after day,
from morn till night, without a moment’s rest except at meal-times; even
then the short period allowed them barely suffices to permit of a hasty
meal, when they have to hurry back again to undergo another term of
misery.
It is strange that we should be so careful of brute beasts that we form
ourselves into societies for their protection, prosecuting rigorously
any one who shall have the temerity to ill-treat or abuse them, and yet
allow our fellow-creatures (and those, too, of the weaker sex) to be
treated with the most barbarous cruelty. A bruise or a blow may be
brutal and severe, yet neither is so hurtful, so systematically cruel,
as the forcing young girls to stand erect for lengthened periods,
without change of posture. I am sure if the members of the House of
Commons were deprived of their seats even for one session, we would,
without further ado have a Bill enacted making it criminal for
shopkeepers to make slaves of their employees, or individuals to
patronize such establishments.
Were shop-girls provided with even the commonest of seats, untold
numbers of crimes and diseases would be heard of no more. I am confident
that but for this most refined cruelty the circumstances which gave
rise to this story would never have occurred, and that I would have been
spared the narration of a history which, though painfully true, is none
the less shocking.
M----‘s dry goods store has long been known in Montreal as a
well-started and well-appointed establishment. Carriages daily blocked
the thoroughfare while waiting for their fashionable owners outside its
door; and inside busy walkers and clerks could be seen running hither
and thither, serving customers. Young women, also, some of them still
bright and cheerful, many, alas, pale and heavy with sadness, might be
seen grouped behind the counter, engaged in handing goods down from
the shelves, and displaying them to the fashionable loungers behind the
counter.
One of these girls, by name Esther Ryland, was noticed by many who
frequented M----‘s store on account of her unusually attractive person
and elegance of manners; she was a little above the average height, yet
graceful and well-formed, with remarkably handsome features, and eyes
that sparkled like a pair of diamonds. Esther had not been long in
Messrs. M----‘s service, yet she had become so popular as a saleswoman
that crowds frequented the particular counter at which she assisted, and
she was known to many who were unacquainted with her name as the Pretty
Shop-girl at M----‘s.
Esther was very proud of her attractions, both professionally and
otherwise; she did not calculate, however, that the more popular she
became the more work she would have to do, and that she would, in time,
pay for her popularity with her health, if not her life. She had, in and
out of the store, a great many admirers amongst those of the opposite
sex, but there was one she prized above all others, a certain Mr.
Quintin, a merchant tailor, who had just started business for himself,
and had persuaded Esther to promise that, after another year’s service,
she would give up business and become his wife.
It had been their custom to go for a stroll together on the long summer
evenings, and together they might have been seen, fondly looking into
each other’s faces, as, arm-in-arm, they perambulated the more remote
portions of Sherbrooke and St. Denis streets, which at that time were
scarcely built upon.
One evening when Quintin called, as usual, to take his enamorata for
a walk, she said she would prefer to stay at home, as she was quite
fatigued with the day’s work. Nothing disconcerted, her lover remained
with her in the house, and they amused themselves with a pack of cards
and a chessboard. The following evening, however, Miss Ryland was again
indisposed, and, on questioning her closely, Quintin drew forth the
avowal that she _had not sat down for a quarter of an hour_ during the
whole day! It seems it was the busy season at M----‘s, and, besides
being engaged incessantly in serving customers, Miss Ryland was obliged
to shorten her dinner hour, and to hurry back to meet the increased
demand.
Quintin was quite shocked at this discovery. Although well aware of
the brutal treatment of shopkeepers’ assistants, he had never been an
interested party, and so had the matter placed before him _in all its
horrors_ for the first time. He resolved that, come what might, he would
emancipate his intended wife from a life of such slavery, and so, having
carefully arranged his business and purchased a neat little cottage in
Cadieux street, he urged Miss Ryland to consent to marry him without
delay, and so avoid her life of thraldom. She agreed to marry him during
the ensuing month, pleading with feminine weakness that it would take
at least that time to get her trousseau ready, and the day was finally
arranged to their mutual satisfaction.
The excitement of preparation before marriage, and the change of scene
during her wedding-tour, wrought such an effect on the woman that Mr.
Quintin became convinced that his wife’s health was thoroughly restored,
and he labored assiduously at his business, looking forward cheerfully
to the time when she should become a mother, and the merry laughter of
his children should, in his hours of rest from worldly cares, gladden
and enliven their home.
A year rolled by, and both Mr. and Mrs. Quintin looked hopefully towards
the future; two years passed and still they were childless. Mrs. Quintin
would have given all the world, had she possessed it, for one of God’s
blessings; she loved children, even those of other children, and _one of
her own_ would have been a priceless treasure. But she lamented more on
her husband’s account. She knew that he doted on children; and when she
saw him take the neighbours’ children on his knee, and, after looking
wistfully in their faces, rise and dash his hand across his eyes,
she knew what it meant. “Oh,” she would cry, “if only these abandoned
wretches who desert their offspring could realize what it is to desire
them and yet live unblest! If they but knew the priceless treasures
they were casting from them, they would turn and repent in sackcloth and
ashes.”
Mr. and Mrs. Quintin had been married about three years when one day the
former called on me, his face beaming with joy, and informed me that his
fondest hopes were about to be realized, and that he would like me
to call and consult with his wife. I was a little surprised at this
intimation, as, from what I knew of Mrs. Quintin, I had fully made up my
mind that she would never become a patient of mine; however, I was glad
to hear that I had been mistaken, and so, when next in the neighborhood
I waited on that lady and congratulated her on her improved prospects.
To my great surprise she burst into tears, and confessed that she was
not _enceinte_, or likely ever to become so; that her career in M----‘s
store, and continued standing for hours together, had rendered her
physically unable ever to become a mother. She added that her husband
had so set his heart upon the one object (viz., the desire to have
children), and had spent so much money for medicine and medical advice
with a view to that end, that she could not bear him to think that all
his efforts were unavailing, and her complaint having assumed a form to
all outward appearances similar to pregnancy, she had permitted him
to delude himself with the belief that the latter was the cause of
her altered appearance, and that scientific skill had counteracted the
effects of years of abuse.
I was greatly taken aback at this disclosure, but my surprise was as
nothing compared to that in hearing the plot which the woman’s now
diseased mind had concocted. She said she was going to bear reproach no
longer (for, though her husband never murmured, at least in words,
his friends and her neighbors were ever ready to deepen her sorrow and
humiliation by taunting her with her impotency), and her eyes rolled in
frenzy as she almost shouted: I MUST AND SHALL HAVE A CHILD’! Why am I
prohibited from having what many do not know how to value? Many of them
cast their treasures from them; shall I, frantic with despair, _refuse
to pick one up_!
As she walked up and down the room in her fury, she looked like one
demented. Her hands were clenched till the nails entered her flesh, her
eyes rolled wildly, and, were I more easily frightened, I would have
felt impelled to call for help. Gradually becoming cooler, Mrs. Quintin
unfolded to me her plan for deceiving her husband, and, with a coolness
that I would not have pardoned but for her evidently unhinged condition,
actually _requested me to assist her?_ She said she had been offered
a child for adoption by a lady who was more guilty and unfeeling than
herself, and that the person in question had promised to send her word
when she was taken ill, so that she might send for me, and make her
arrangements for the reception of the child, which was to be transported
secretly into her bedroom.
I was so astonished that I was for a time unable to a speak. The deep
plot itself, the proposition made to me to assist her, and the cool
manner of the lady herself, fairly staggered me. At length, speaking as
calmly as I could, I tried to convince Mrs. Quintin of the enormity of
the crime she intended to commit, telling her that, if she wished to
adopt a child, she would find it quite an easy matter to do so without
taking any such course as she evidently intended; and, after arguing for
some time, she seemed to yield a little to reason, and promised to do
nothing rashly. She had already, however, committed herself to the first
part of her programme, and told her husband a falsehood; how was she to
undeceive him? I suggested that she should tell him on his return that
she had been mistaken, and that on examination I had found nothing
unusual the matter with her. This she positively refused to do, saying
that her husband had so set his heart on this one object that, were his
hopes suddenly dashed to the ground, he might do something desperate.
She said she would break it to him gently, and, imploring me to say
nothing to him of what had passed, she escorted me to the door, and,
with tearful eyes, bade me farewell.
Several months elapsed, and I had, for the time, thought little of
either Mr. and Mrs. Quintin, when one evening in glancing over the
papers, my eye fell on the following announcement: “On the ----th inst.,
at ---- Cadieux street the wife of R. Quintin of a daughter.” I let the
paper drop as I gazed vacantly at the ceiling and tried to realize the
whole affair. Undecided how to act, I mechanically put on my bonnet and
cloak, and walked up Cadieux street, when, coming out of the house, I
spied my friend, Dr. P----.
“Good evening, Doctor,” said I.
“Oh, good evening, Mrs. Schroeder. I have just been attending a patient
of yours; it seems they were not at all prepared, and had not time to
notify you. Indeed, I was late myself, as I did not arrive till some
minutes after the child was born.”
Without saying a word I beckoned the Doctor aside, and made a sign that
I wished to speak with him privately. He invited me to step into his
carriage, and we drove in perfect silence to his residence in Beaver
Hall Terrace. Alighting, he preceded me to his surgery, and closed the
door; then, with a look full of meaning, he said:
“Well, what is there wrong here?”
“I said, Before I reply, will you permit me to ask you one or two
questions.”
“Who called you to attend Mrs. Quintin?”
“A carter came and requested me to come with all speed to attend a lady
in Cadieux street. I went as quickly as possible, but the child was born
before my arrival.”
“Who, then, attended the lady?”
“The nurse did, and apparently very satisfactorily indeed. I found
the bandages so well arranged, and the patient’s pulse so strong and
regular, that I left, perfectly satisfied that all was properly attended
to till your arrival. They explained to me that the lady was your
patient, but that being unexpectedly taken ill, she had ordered the
carter to bring the first doctor he found at home.”
“Was Mr. Quintin at home?”
“No; he is gone to England to purchase some goods.”
“Ah! That accounts for it then.”
“Accounts for what? Really you must not catechize me any further. What
is there underneath all these questions?”
I drew my chair closer to him, as I said tragically:
“Mrs. Quintin _never had a child_.”
“This rather staggered the good old doctor, who had just come from the
house, where he had examined and weighed the infant. He started up from
his chair, and, drawing back, exclaimed:
“What do you mean? Explain yourself.”
I then at length narrated all I knew concerning the Quintin family, and,
as I proceeded with my story, the old man’s eyes opened wider and wider
as he exclaimed:
“My God what a diabolical plot”!
“Yes, indeed, and I was invited to join in it.”
“Well, well. _I_ certainly would never have suspected anything of the
kind.”
“Nor would anyone. The thing was well arranged, and artfully carried
out.”
“I suppose they will send for _you_ now.”
“Not at all. That is only a sham to get rid of your attendance. The
husband will be given to understand that you were hurriedly called
in, and that, my assistance being unneeded, they did not think it
worth-while troubling me.”
After consulting with Dr. P. for a considerable time and putting the
case in different lights, we came to the conclusion that it would be as
well now to let matters take their course. Any interference on our part
would only have raised a great public scandal, and rendered both Mr.
and Mrs. Quintin miserable, without benefiting anyone, so we allowed
the poor man to believe that his prayers were answered, and that the
beautiful girl he fondled was really his own.
Time rolled on, the baby being baptized in due course and known by the
name of Edith Quintin. As she grew older, both Mr. and Mrs. Quintin
became passionately fond of her, the latter being as much attached to
the little girl as if she were her own daughter. When the child was
about twelve years old, Mrs. Quintin, who had gradually grown more and
more delicate, began to feel that she must, ere many months had passed,
finally succumb to the disease which was gradually gnawing at her
vitals, and the deception she had practised on her husband was a source
of great discomfort and annoyance to her. She called on me in great
grief, and, having informed me concerning that of which (as the reader
knows) I was well aware, implored me to give her counsel and advice. She
was surprised to hear that I had already learnt all from Dr. P----;
for, although she, of course, knew that _I_ was not blinded by her
subterfuge, she was not aware that I knew all concerning the method
adopted by her, and when she learned that both the doctor and myself had
forborne to inform on her, she was visibly affected, and thanked me on
her knees.
I advised her to break the matter to her husband, and not to die with
such a load on her conscience, but she avowed that she had neither the
strength nor the courage to do so, and importunately besought me to
undertake the painful task. When Mr. Quintin learnt the truth he was of
course greatly shocked, and at first was bitter in his denunciations at
his deceitful wife. His better judgment, however, was soon brought to
bear in the matter, and he was moved rather to pity her misfortune than
to punish her for her fault. He knew that her judgment erred solely in
order to retain his affection, and when he looked at her pale face and
emaciated form, and thought of the agony and suffering, both mental and
bodily, which the poor creature had endured, he willingly forgave her,
and, though sadly disappointed and sorely smitten, did what he could to
reassure her.
Edith meanwhile had developed into a beautiful girl, and had she really
been, as she believed herself, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Quintin, she
could not have been more beloved by them. The former enjoined me never
to reveal the secret of her birth to his daughter as he called her, and
so her life, at least, was not darkened in the least by the knowledge of
the truth.
When Edith was about seventeen years old Mrs. Quintin finally yielded
to the ravages of that dread destroyer, consumption. The poor girl wept
sadly and bitterly at the loss of her mother, the only one indeed the
poor child had ever known, and poor Quintin wept sadly as he thought of
his wife’s brief and unhappy career. He removed with his daughter into
furnished lodgings, not wishing the child to be burdened too soon with
the cares of house-keeping. What he would not allow her to do for him,
however, she soon became very anxious to do for another, and the days
of her mourning were not long passed when she became the happy wife of
a young man named Wentworth, bookkeeper in one of the leading hardware
firms in Montreal. She has now children of her own, and the youngsters’
greatest delight is to gather round their grandfather’s knee while he
astonishes them with stories. To them nor to no one else, however, has
he told, even as I have done, the story of the frail shop-girl, who from
being young and handsome, and the belle of her circle of acquaintances,
became a wretched and deceitful woman, diseased both in body and mind,
and finally sank into a premature grave.
Out on this heartless, brutal system, and the thoughtlessness and
ignorance which permit it! I hope the narrative given above may cause
some of those at least who engage in this barbarous system to pause and
give the great problem of life, capital and labor, a few moments thought
that they may see the error of their way, and that poor Esther Quintin
may not have died in vain.