WHOM DOES IT CONCERN?
“Stitch—stitch—stitch! Will thisneverend?” said a young girl, leaning her head wearily against the casement, and dropping her small hands hopelessly in her lap. “Stitch—stitch—stitch! from dawn till dark, and yet I scarce keep soul and body together;” and she drew her thin shawl more closely over her shivering shoulders.
Her eye fell upon the great house opposite. There was comfort there, and luxury, too; for the rich satin curtains were looped gracefully away from the large windows; a black servant opens the hall door: see, there are statues and vases and pictures there: now two young girls trip lightly out upon the pavement, their lustrous silks, and nodding plumes, and jewelled bracelets glistening, andquivering, and sparkling in the bright sunlight. Now poising their silver-netted purses upon their daintily gloved fingers, they leap lightly into the carriage in waiting, and are whirled rapidly away.
That little seamstress is as fair as they: her eyes are as soft and blue; her limbs as lithe and graceful; her rich, brown hair folds as softly away over as fair a brow; her heart leaps, like theirs, to all that is bright and joyous; it craves love and sympathy, and companionship as much, and yet she must stitch—stitch—stitch—and droop under summer’s heat, and shiver under winter’s cold, and walk the earth with the skeleton starvation ever at her side, that costly pictures, and velvet carpets, and massive chandeliers, and gay tapestry, and gold and silver vessels may fill the house of her employer—thathisflaunting equipage may roll admired along the highway, and India’s fairest fabrics deck his purse-proud wife and daughters.
It was a busy scene, the ware-room of Simon Skinflint & Co. Garments of every hue, size, and pattern, were there exposed for sale. Piles of coarse clothing lay upon the counter, ready to be given out to the destitute, brow-beaten applicant who would make them for the smallest possible remuneration; piles of garments lay there, which such victims had already toiled into the long night to finish, ticketed to bring enormous profits into the pocket of their employer: groups of dapper clerks stood behind the counter, discussing, in a whisper, the pedestals of the last newdanseuse—ogling the half-starved young girls who were crowding in for employment, and raising a blush on the cheek of humble innocence by the coarse joke, and free, libidinous gaze; while their master, Mr. Simon Skinflint, sat, rosy and rotund, before a bright Lehigh fire, rubbing his fat hands, building imaginary houses, and felicitating himself generally, on his far-reaching financial foresight.
“If you could but allow me a trifle more for my labour,” murmured a low voice at his side; “I have toiled hard all the week, and yet—”
“Young woman,” said Mr. Skinflint, pushing his chair severalfeet back, elevating his spectacles to his forehead, and drawing his satin vest down over his aldermanic proportions, “young woman, do you observe that crowd of persons besieging my door for employment? Perhaps you are not aware that we turn away scores of them every day, perhaps you don’t know that the farmers’ daughters, who are at a loss what to do long winter evenings, and want to earn a little dowry, will do our work for less than we pay you? But you feminine operatives don’t seem to have the least idea of trade. Competition is the soul of business, you see,” said Mr. Skinflint, rubbing his hands in a congratulatory manner. “Tut—tut—young woman; don’t quarrel with your bread and butter; however, it is a thing that don’t concern me at all; if youwon’twork, there are plenty whowill,” and Mr. Skinflint drew out his gold repeater, and glanced at the door.
A look of hopeless misery settled over the young girl’s face, as she turned slowly away in the direction of home.Homedid I say? The word was a bitter mockery to poor Mary. She had a home once, where she and the little birds sang the live-long day: where flowers blossomed, and tall trees waved, and merry voices floated out on the fragrant air, and the golden sun went gorgeously down behind the far-off hills; where a mother’s loving breast was her pillow, and a father’s good-night blessing wooed her rosy slumbers. It was past now. They were all gone—father, mother, brother, sister. Some with the blue sea for a shifting monument; some sleeping dreamlessly in the little churchyard, where her infant footsteps strayed, Rank grass had o’ergrown the cottage gravel walks; weeds choked the flowers which dust-crumbled hands had planted; the brown moss had thatched over the cottage eaves, and still the little birds sang on as blithely as if Mary’s household gods had not been shivered.
Poor Mary! The world was dark and weary to her: the very stars, with their serene beauty, seemed to mock her misery. She reached her little room. Its narrow walls seemed to close about her like a tomb. She leaned her head wearily against the little window, and looked again at the great house opposite. How brightly, how cheerfully the lights glanced from the windows! How like fairiesglided the young girls over the softly carpeted floors! How swiftly the carriages whirled to the door, with their gay visitors! Life was such a rosy dream tothem—such a brooding nightmare toher! Despair laid its icy hand on her heart. Must shealwaysdrink, unmixed, the cup of sorrow? Must she weep and sigh her youth away, while griping Avarice trampled on her heart-strings? She could not weep—nay, worse—she could not pray. Dark shadows came between her soul and heaven.
The little room is empty now. Mary toils there no longer. You will find her in the great house opposite: her dainty limbs clad in flowing silk; her slender fingers and dimpled arms glittering with gems: and among all that merry group, Mary’s laugh rings out the merriest. Surely—surely, this is better than to toil, weeping, through the long weary days in the little darkened room.
Is it, Mary?
There is a ring at the door of the great house. A woman glides modestly in; by her dress, she is a widow. She has opened a small school in the neighbourhood, and in the search for scholars has wandered in here. She looks about her. Her quick, womanly instinct sounds the alarm. She is not among the good and pure of her sex. But she does not scorn them. No; she looks upon their blighted beauty with a Christ-like pity; she says to herself, haply some word of mine may touch their hearts. So she says gently, “Pardon me, ladies, but I had hoped to find scholars here; you will forgive the intrusion, I know; for, though you are not mothers, you have allhadmothers.”
Why is Mary’s lip so ashen white? Why does she tremble from head to foot, as if smitten by the hand of God? Why do the hot tears stream through her jewelled fingers? Ah! Mary. That little dark room, with its toil, its gloom, itsinnocence, were Heaven’s own brightness now to your tortured spirit.
Pitilessly the slant rain rattled against the window panes: awnings creaked and flapped, and the street lamps flickered in the strong blast: full-freighted omnibuses rolled over the muddy pavements: stray pedestrians turned up their coat-collars, grasped their umbrellas more tightly, and made for the nearest port. A woman, half-blinded by the long hair which the fury of the wind had driven across her face, drenched to the skin with the pouring rain—shoeless, bonnetless,homeless, leans unsteadily against a lamp-post, and in the maudlin accents of intoxication curses the passers-by. A policeman’s strong grasp is laid upon her arm, and she is hurried, struggling, through the dripping streets, and pushed into the nearest “station-house.” Morning dawns upon the wretched, forsaken outcast. She sees it not. Upon those weary eyes only the resurrection morn shall dawn.
No more shall the stony-hearted shut, in her imploring face, the door of hope; no more shall gilded sin, with Judas smile, say, “Eat, drink, and be merry;” no more shall the professed followers of Him who said, “Neither do I condemn thee,” say to the guilt-stricken one, “Stand aside—for I am holier than thou.” No, none may tempt, none may scorn, none may taunt her more. A pauper’s grave shall hide poor Mary and her shame.
God speed the day when the Juggernaut wheels of Avarice shall no longer roll over woman’s dearest hopes; when thousands of doors, now closed, shall be opened for starving Virtue to earn her honest bread; when he who would coin her tears and groans to rear his palaces, shall become a hissing and a bye-word, wherever the sacred name of Mother shall be honoured.