Part the Second. THE WOMAN. CHAPTER XX.

Certain pictures here present themselves in the shape of a medallion.

In the centre is the portrait of a beautiful girl-woman, as tall to many a man with an eye for beauty as Rosalind was to Orlando; with limbs perfectly moulded; with white and shapely hands; with flaxen wavy hair and blue eyes tempered by a shade of silver grey; with teeth that are almost transparent in their pearliness, and in whose fair face youth's roses are blooming. This is the Duchess of Rosemary Lane, in the springtime of her life.

Around the portrait of this girl-woman are certain others, associated with her by sympathetic links, not all of which are in active play or in harmony with her being.

The picture of one in whose cheeks, although she is but little over twenty years of age, no roses are blooming. Her cheeks are sallow, and wanting in flesh, her limbs are thin and ungraceful, her long black hair has not a wave in it, her hands are large and coarse from too much work. But her eyes are beautiful, and have in them the almost pathetic light which is frequently seen in the eyes of a faithful dog. This is Sally, grown to womanhood.

The picture of a working man, with large features, overhanging forehead, and great grey eyes, all out of harmony with one another. His hands are hard and horny, his chin is unshaven, and his hair is almost white. This is Seth Dumbrick, going down the hill of life.

The picture of a woman, working in an attic in a poor neighbourhood, within a mile of Rosemary Lane. Her fingers are long and supple, streaks of silver are in her hair, and she has "quite a genteel figure," according to the dictum of her neighbours, who are led to that opinion by the circumstance of the woman being thin and graceful. She is cunning with the needle, as the saying is, but not so cunning as to be able by its aid to butter her bread at every meal; therefore, very often she eats it dry. She is not contented; she is not resigned; but she does not openly repine. She is merely passive. The fire and enthusiasm of life are not dead within her soul, but by the exercise of a hidden force, she keeps all traces of it from the eye of man; she has dreams, but no human being shares them with her, or knows of them. She speaks in a calm even tone, and her voice is low and sweet, but if it expresses feeling or passion, the expression springs from a quality belonging to itself, and not from the revealed emotions of the speaker. She works hard from morning till night in a dull, listless fashion, performing her task conscientiously, and receiving at the end of the week, without thanks or murmurs, the pitiful payment for so many thousands of yards of stitches from the hands of a man who lives in a great house in Lancaster Gate and keeps a score of servants, and a dozen horses in his town stables. This man is a contractor, and he fattens on misery. He will undertake to clothe twenty thousand men in a month, and patient, weak-eyed women who can scarcely get shoes to their feet are working for him, upon starvation wages, through the weary watches of the night. From their poverty and misery comes the wherewithal to pay for his wine and his horses and his fine linen. He was not born to riches; in his earlier years he experienced severe hardships, and frequently had to live on a crust. Those times are gone, never to return, and, strange to say, he has, in his present high state, no feeling of compassion for his once comrades who are suffering as he suffered, and who cannot escape from their bondage. Then he was glad to eat his bread and meat, when he could get it, with the help of a pocket-knife and his fingers; now he can dine off gold plate if he chooses. There is a well-known saying that there is a tide in the affairs of man, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. It is a popular fallacy. Such a tide, with such a golden prize in its flood, comes to not one man in a thousand, but it came to the contractor for whom this woman works, and he took it at its flood. He worked his way from small contracts to large, from large to larger. Having been ground down himself when he was a young man, his sole aim in the execution of his contracts was to grind others down, so that his margin of profit would be broader. It was the truest political economy. Buy in the cheapest market. And if you can by any means in your power,--by any system of grinding-down, by any exercise of terrorism over helpless people who, being unable without your aid to obtain half a loaf in payment for their labour, snatch at the quarter of a loaf you hold out to them (being from necessity compelled to keep some life in their bodies)--if you can by any of these means cheapen still further the cheapest market, do so. Success will attend you, and the world, worshipping success, will look on and approve. An article is only worth what it will fetch in the market, and labour is worth no more than it receives. Such, for instance, as the labour of this needlewoman, who works for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four, and cannot get butter for her bread. Meantime, while she, the type of a class, labours and starves, the contractor, out of her weary stitches, shall die worth a plum, and a costly tombstone shall record his virtues. He pays regularly, to be sure, but you must not defraud him of a stitch. He gives the women constant employment, for in addition to being a Government contractor, he is a large exporter of ready-made clothing. She has worked for him for twelve years. Presenting herself one morning in answer to an advertisement for needlewomen, in company with a hundred other females who had labour to sell and no bread to eat, he happened to pass through the office when her turn came to be called. Although she had been one of the earliest arrivals among the crowd of anxious applicants, she was the last of them all. Not having the strength to push her way to the front, she had been hustled to the rear, and bore the unfair treatment without a murmur. It was the way of the world. The weakest to the wall.

"Name?" said the clerk.

"Mrs. Lenoir."

The contractor paused at the desk by the side of his clerk, and looked at the applicant in a careless way, perhaps attracted to her because her voice was softer than he was accustomed to hear from his workpeople.

"French?" inquired the clerk.

"Yes, it is a French name."

"Yourself, I mean," said the clerk testily. "Are you French?"

"I am an English lady."

"Eh?" cried the contractor, in a harsh tone.

"I beg your pardon. I am an English woman."

"O," said the contractor, somewhat mollified.

"Married?" pursued the clerk, glancing at Mrs. Lenoir's left hand.

"My husband--" pausing, and gazing around uneasily.

"Your husband--" prompted the clerk.

"Is dead."

"Children?"

A quivering of the lips, which grew suddenly white. This, however, was not apparent to the clerk, for Mrs. Lenoir wore a veil, and did not raise it.

"Children?" repeated the clerk.

"I have none."

"References?"

She paused before she replied, and then slowly said:

"I was not aware that references were necessary."

To the clerk's surprise the contractor took up the burden of the inquiry.

"We are very particular," he said, with a frown, "about the character of the persons we employ, and references, therefore, are necessary."

"I did not know," said Mrs. Lenoir, in so low a tone that the words scarcely reached their ears; and turned to depart.

"Stop a moment," said the contractor; "what did you come here for?"

"For work," with a motion of the hands, deprecating the question as unnecessary.

"You want it?"

"Else I should not be here."

It by no means displeased the contractor that this woman, suing to him for work, should unconsciously have adopted in her last reply an air of haughtiness.

"You want work badly, I infer?"

"I want it badly."

"You have applied elsewhere?"

"I have."

"Unsuccessfully?"

"Unsuccessfully."

"From what cause?"

"I do not know."

"You have no other means of support?"

"None."

"If you are unsuccessful in this application, what will you do?"

Mrs. Lenoir did not reply to this question. Had the contractor known what was in the woman's mind, he would have been startled out of his propriety. She had been in London for nearly six months, and although she had been indefatigable in her endeavours, had not succeeded in obtaining a day's work. All her resources were exhausted, and she saw nothing but starvation before her. She was wearied and sick with trying, and she pined for rest or work. She must obtain either the one or the other. A vague fear oppressed her that if she were unsuccessful in this application she would be compelled, when the night came, to walk to the river, and gaze upon the restful waters. Then the end would come; she felt that she had not strength to resist it.

The contractor resumed his questioning; it was a kind of angling he seemed to enjoy.

"Have you no friends?"

"No."

"Relatives?"

"No."

"Money?"

"No."

"You are alone in the world?"

"I am alone in the world."

"Then if I employ you, I should be your only friend?"

"I suppose so."

"As a rule," proceeded the contractor, "we do not employ ladies in this establishment, which gives employment to----how many persons do I give employment to, Mr. Williams?" addressing the clerk.

"There are eleven hundred and seventy-two names upon the books, sir."

The hard taskmaster nodded his head with exceeding satisfaction.

"I provide bread for eleven hundred and seventy-two persons, and by to-morrow this number will be increased by two hundred. I have given employment to over two thousand persons at one time, I believe, Mr. Williams?"

"You have, sir."

"And shall do so again, I have no doubt, before long. To repeat, I do not employ ladies in this establishment. Common girls and women are good enough for me--and bad enough. For there is absolutely no gratitude to be found among the poorer classes, absolutely no gratitude; not a particle."

This was said with so distinct an assertion of never having belonged to the working classes, and of their small capacity for good and their large capacity for evil, that it would have been remarkable were it not common. There is no greater autocrat than the democrat when he rises to power. There is no stronger despiser of the poor than the poor man when he rises to wealth.

"I shall be grateful if you will give me employment," said Mrs. Lenoir.

"You agree with me in what I say?"

"Certainly, sir."

It was a sure truth that her mind was a blank as to the value of his words, and that she said she agreed with him from a kind of instinct that by doing so her interest would be better served.

"And you are a lady," he said pompously.

"I ask your pardon," she said, faltering, "the word slipped from me."

"What you may have been has nothing to do with what you are. You are not a lady now, you know."

"I know, sir."

"Lenoir is not an English name, and that is why Mr. Williams asked if you were French. I keep a strict record of the antecedents of all persons I employ, so far as I am able to obtain them. It is my system, and that is the reason," he said, graciously explaining, "of so many questions being asked. I have a gift in my power to bestow--employment--and only the deserving should receive it. I have been deceived frequently, but it is not the fault of the system that the poorer classes are given to falsehood. The record has proved valuable, in instances--valuable to the police, who, through my books, which are always open to them, have traced persons who were wanted for crimes, and who have imposed upon me by obtaining employment at this establishment. The last remarkable case was that of a woman who was wanted for child-murder. Correct me if I am wrong, Mr. Williams."

"You are stating the exact facts, sir."

"I went to the trial. The wretched woman, who was sentenced to death, had nothing to say in her defence, absolutely nothing, except that she had been betrayed and deserted, and that she had committed the act in a fit of distraction. Betrayed and deserted!" he exclaimed harshly, adding still another stone to the many he had flung during the days of his prosperity at all classes of unfortunates. "My judgment teaches me that it is the woman who betrays the man, not the man who betrays the woman. This woman was traced through her handwriting in my books, for all who work for me are expected to sign their names. You have been well educated, doubtless."

Mrs. Lenoir gave a silent assent, and the contractor waved his hand with a motion, which expressed, "I will not reproach you because you have been well educated, and have come down in the world." As he waved his hand, he was struck by the circumstance that while he was airing his views to Mrs. Lenoir, she had kept her veil down, and he said stiffly.

"It is usual for persons applying for employment to come unveiled."

Mrs. Lenoir raised her veil, and disclosed a face inexpressibly sad, and which in years gone by had been surpassingly beautiful. Deathly pale as she was--but this may have been produced by a recent emotion--traces of rare beauty still remained, and signs of refinement and delicacy were clearly depicted upon the face revealed to the two men in the dingy office. Even Mr. Williams, who had worked at a desk for forty years, and was not given to sentiment, was ready to admit that this was an interesting experience.

"Without husband, children, friends or money," said the contractor, betraying in his slightly altered tone some newly-born feeling of deference for the applicant. "I will give you employment. Mr. Williams, I will take the responsibility of this case upon myself. Mrs. Lenoir can sign the book."

He watched the tremulous signing of the name, Louise Lenoir, and noted the whiteness of the hand that wrote it, with undisguised curiosity, and then Mrs. Lenoir, receiving her order for so many yards of material, took her departure. From that day it became in some way an understanding that whatever changes were made from time to time in the number of workpeople on the establishment, Mrs. Lenoir's services were always to be retained. For twelve years had she been employed by the firm, and had been found faithful and attentive to her duties, the performance of which provided her with the barest subsistence. The contractor, during those years, never omitted to address a few words to her if he happened to see her in Mr. Williams's dingy office. Once she was sick, and unable to work, and this coming to his ears, he sent her provisions and a small sum of money. What sympathetic chord in his nature Mrs. Lenoir had touched was a mystery which he did not, perhaps could not, reveal. It may have pleased him that she, a lady, as he was satisfied in his mind she was, should be dependent upon him for subsistence. He made use of her occasionally at his dinner-parties at Lancaster Gate--for this once common man entertained the magnates of the land--when some phase of social politics was being discussed, referring to the circumstance that among his workpeople was a lady who earned probably twelve shillings a week, and whose beauty and education would in her earlier days have fitted her for a duke's establishment.

She sits now in her poorly furnished attic, stitching steadily through the hours. It is not contractor's work upon which her fingers are busy. She is finishing a girl's dress, and appears to take more than ordinary interest in her work. It is twelve o'clock at night before the last stitches are put in. She sets aside her needle and thread and spreading the dress upon her bed, gazes upon it in silence for many minutes, standing with her thin white fingers interlaced before her. Once or twice she pats it softly as though it contained a living form, and once she kneels by the bed, and buries her face in the soft folds of the dress, kissing it, and shedding quiet tears upon it. Presently she rises with a sigh, and folding the dress over her arm, steps softly downstairs. The house is still and quiet, not a soul but herself is stirring. She pauses at a door on the second landing, and listens, hearing no sound.

"May I come in?" she whispers.

There is no reply, and she turns the handle of the door.

"Oh, who is there?" cries a frightened voice in the dark.

"It is only I, Lizzie," replies Mrs. Lenoir; "I have finished your dress."

The female leaps from the bed with an exclamation of delight, and quickly lights a candle. Then it is seen that the room is but slightly better furnished than that of Mrs. Lenoir, and that its female occupant is young and fair.

"I left my door unlocked," says the girl, "because you said the dress would be finished some time to-night. I thought you would bring it in. How good of you, Mrs. Lenoir!"

A graceful figure has Lizzie, and bright and full of joy are the eyes which gaze upon the dress. It is a silver-grey barege, soft and pretty, with ribbons and bits of lace and everything else about it that art and fancy can devise to render it attractive. Early to-morrow morning Lizzie starts for an excursion into the country--an excursion lasting from morning to night--and as Some One who is constantly in Lizzie's thoughts is to be there, she has a very particular desire to appear to the best advantage.

"How good of you, Mrs. Lenoir," she repeats; "may I try it on?"

"Yes, Lizzie, if you are not too sleepy."

Lizzie laughs blithely. Too sleepy for such a task! The idea! At her age, and with such love in her heart for Some One who is at this very moment thinking of her!

Mrs. Lenoir assists her with the dress, and pulls it out here, and smoothes it there, while Lizzie, with innocent vanity, surveys herself in the glass. The delighted girl throws her arm round Mrs. Lenoir's neck, and kisses her rapturously.

"No one in the world can make a dress like you, Mrs. Lenoir!"

A singular contrast are these two females, who by their ages might be mother and daughter; but there is really no kinship between them. The girl so glowing, so full of happiness the woman so sombre, so fraught with sadness. The girl, all sparkle and animation; the woman with not a smile upon her face.

"It fits you perfectly, Lizzie."

"It's the loveliest, loveliest dress that ever was seen! How can I thank you?"

If passion found a place in Mrs. Lenoir's breast, it found none in her face.

"I want no thanks, Lizzie; it was a pleasure to me to make the dress for you. Let me sit by your bedside a little--in the dark. Take off the dress; I am glad you like it--there, that will do. Now jump into bed. You have to get up early in the morning."

She arranges the dress over the back of a chair, and blowing out the light, sits by the bed in darkness.

"I don't think I shall sleep any more to-night, Mrs. Lenoir."

"Yes, you will, Lizzie. Sleep comes to the young and happy."

"You speak so sadly--but it is your way."

"Yes, Lizzie, it is my way."

"You don't sleep well yourself, Mrs. Lenoir."

"Not always."

"It must be dreadful not to be able to sleep. One has such happy dreams. Do not you?"

"I dream but seldom, Lizzie; and when I do, I wake up with the prayer that I had died in my sleep. When I was as young as you, I used to have happy dreams, but they never came true."

"I wish I could do something to make you feel less sorrowful," says Lizzie, overflowing with pity and gratitude.

"You can do nothing, Lizzie. When you are married----"

"O, Mrs. Lenoir!"

"As I hope you will be soon, I will make you a prettier dress than this."

"It's not possible--nothing could be prettier."

"Charles--your lover, Lizzie--is not much older than you."

"Oh, yes, he is; ever so much! I am nearly nineteen; he is twenty-three."

"He truly loves you, Lizzie?"

"Truly, truly. I think no one ever loved as much. Am I not a fortunate girl! When I am working--you don't mind my rattling on?"

"Say what is in your heart, Lizzie."

"When I am at work, I whisper to myself, 'Charlie! Charlie!' and I talk to him just as though he was next to me. And Charlie tells me he does the same by me--so that we're always together. The moon is shining through the window, Mrs. Lenoir. Is it a watery moon? Go and see if it is sure to be fine to morrow."

Mrs. Lenoir goes to the window and draws the curtain aside. A shudder passes over her as she sees how bright and clear and beautiful the night is.

"Is it a fine night, Mrs. Lenoir?"

"Clear and bright, Lizzie. There is no sign of rain. To-morrow will be a lovely day."

"I am so happy!"

Mrs. Lenoir resumes her seat by the bedside.

"Do not take any notice of me, Lizzie. I will sit here quite quietly, and when you are asleep, I will go to my room."

So long a silence follows--or it seems so long to the happy girl--that she falls into a doze, to be but partially aroused by Mrs. Lenoir's voice, calling very softly:

"Lizzie!"

"Yes, Charlie!" Thus betraying herself.

"It is not Charlie; it is I, Mrs. Lenoir."

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lenoir. What a foolish girl you must think me--and how ungrateful!"

"Not at all, Lizzie; it is I who am inconsiderate in keeping you awake. I will say goodnight."

"No, no," cries Lizzie, understanding instinctively the woman's need for sympathy, "don't go, or I shall think you are angry. You were going to speak to me."

The girl raises her arm, and draws Mrs. Lenoir's head to her pillow. "Remember, I have no mother." She presses her lips to Mrs. Lenoir's face, which is wet with tears. "Mrs. Lenoir, you have been crying."

"It is nothing, Lizzie; I often cry when I am alone."

"But you are not alone now; I am with you, and I love you."

"It is kind of you to say so; you are in the mood to love, and to believe all things fair and good."

"And do not you believe so, Mrs. Lenoir?"

"Once I did. There was a time----" What reminiscence was in the speaker's mind remained there unexpressed. "Lizzie, you lost your mother when you were a child."

"Yes."

"How old were you when she died?"

"Not quite five years."

"And you remember her?"

"Yes."

"With love?"

"Oh, yes."

"If," says Mrs. Lenoir, with almost painful hesitation, "she had died, or you had lost her earlier, do you think you would have forgotten her?"

"Oh, no, Mrs. Lenoir; I should have always remembered her, have always loved her."

"She was kind to you Lizzie."

"She loved me more than all the world."

"You mean," says Mrs. Lenoir, with fierce eagerness, "she loved as a mother loves, as a woman loves--as only a woman loves!"

"Mrs. Lenoir," asks Lizzie slowly, "do not men love as faithfully as women?"

"Ask your own heart. You love Charlie and he loves you. Which do you suppose is the stronger love, the most constant, the most likely to endure?"

"I do not know," replies Lizzie, her sadder tone denoting that Mrs. Lenoir's sadness is contagious. "I do not want to think that Charlie's love is not as strong as mine, and yet--and yet--I do not believe he can love me as much as I love him."

"It need not distress you, Lizzie, to think so; it is in the nature of things. It is impossible for a man to love with the whole soul as a woman loves--often, alas! unhappily for her."

"And often, too, happily for her," remonstrates Lizzie, with sudden and tender cheerfulness. "A moment ago I felt inclined to regret the thought you put into my mind--that a woman's love is naturally stronger than a man's; but when I think of it, as I am thinking now, I would not have it altered if I could. It is far better for us that it should be so. If I loved Charlie less, I should be less happy; and it makes me glad to think that I can give him more love than he can give me."

"God forbid," says Mrs. Lenoir, "that I should endeavour to shake your faith in Charlie. I was speaking out of the experience of a woman with whose sad history I am acquainted. I am tired, Lizzie. Good night. A happy day to-morrow!"

But Lizzie's fond arms cling to Mrs. Lenoir's neck; she is loth to let her go without obtaining from her a mark of affection which has been withheld.

"Mrs. Lenoir, I have kissed you twenty times."

"Well, Lizzie."

"And will kiss you twenty times more--there, and there, there! O, Mrs. Lenoir, will you not give me one kiss?--you have not kissed me once."

Mrs. Lenoir gently extricates herself from Lizzie's affectionate embrace.

"I made a vow years ago, Lizzie, never to press my lips to human face until I met with one that my eyes may never behold. Good night."