CHAPTER XXIII
In more than one respect Mrs. Lenoir was an object of interest to her neighbours, and in some sense a mystery, which they solved after a fashion not uncommon among poor people. That she was a woman of superior breeding to themselves, and that she did not associate freely with them, would certainly, but for one consideration, have stirred their resentment against her. Mrs. Lenoir did not, to adopt their own vernacular, give herself airs. "At all events," said they, "there's nothing stuck up about her." Moving among them, with her silent ways, she exhibited no consciousness of superiority, as other women in a similar position might have done; instead of holding her head above them, she walked the streets with a demeanour so uniformly sad and humble, that the feeling she evoked was one more of pity than of resentment. There is in some humilities a pride which hurts by contact. Had this been apparent in Mrs. Lenoir, her neighbours' tongues would have wagged remorselessly in her disfavour; but the contrary was the case. There was expressed in her bearing a mute appeal to them to be merciful to her; instead of placing herself above them, she seemed to place herself below them, and she conveyed the impression of living through the sad days weighed down by a grief too deep for utterance, and either too sacred or too terrible for human communion. When circumstances brought her into communication with her neighbours, her gentleness won respect and consideration; and what was known of her life outside the boundary of the lonely room she occupied, and which no person was allowed to enter, touched their hearts in her favour. Thus, as far as her means allowed her-and indeed, although they were not aware of it, far beyond her means-she was kind to the sick and to those who were poorer than herself, and she frequently went hungry to bed because of the sacrifices she made for them. Such small help as she could give was invariably proffered unobtrusively, almost secretly; but it became known, and it did her no harm in the estimation of her neighbours.
But what excited the greatest curiosity and the most frequent comment was the strange fancy which possessed her of seeking out young girls who were sweethearting, and voluntarily rendering them just that kind of service which they were likely most to value-ministering to their innocent vanities in a manner which they regarded as noble and generous. Mrs. Lenoir was a cunning needlewoman, and in the cutting out of a dress had no equal in the neighbourhood. She possessed, also, the art rare among Englishwomen, of knowing precisely the style, colours, and material which would best become the girl she desired to serve. To many such Mrs. Lenoir would introduce herself, and offer her services as dressmaker, stipulating beforehand that she should be allowed to work for love, and not for money. The exercise of this singular fancy made her almost a public character; and many a girl who was indebted to her, and whose wooing was brought to a happy conclusion, endeavoured gratefully to requite her services by pressing an intimacy upon her. Mrs. Lenoir steadily repelled every advance made in this direction. She gave them most willingly the work of her hands, but she would not admit them to her heart, nor would she confide her sorrows to them. She received their confidences, and sympathised with and advised them; but she gave no confidence in return.
Had they been cognisant of the life that was hidden from them, they might have declared her to be mad. This silent, reserved, and strangely-kind woman was subject to emotions and passions which no human eye witnessed, which no human breast shared. In the solitude of her poorly-furnished attic, she would stand motionless for hours, looking out upon the darkness of the night. At these times, not a sound, not a movement escaped her; she was as one in a trance, incapable of motion. And not unlikely, as is recorded of those who lie in that death-like sleep, there was in her mind a chaos of thought, terrible and overwhelming. It was always in the night that these moods took possession of her. It was a peculiar phase of her condition that darkness had no terrors for her. When dark shadows only were visible, she was outwardly calm and peaceful; but moonlight stirred her to startling extravagances. She trembled, she shuddered, her white lips moved convulsively, she sank upon her knees, and strove, with wildly-waving hands, to beat away the light. But she was dominated by a resistless force which compelled her to face the light, and draw from it memories which agonised her. The brighter and more beautiful was the night, the keener was her pain, and she had no power to fly from it. If she awoke from sleep, and saw the moon shining through the window, she would hide her eyes in the bedclothes, with tears and sobs that came from a broken heart, and the next moment her feeble hands would pluck the clothes aside, so that she might gaze upon the peaceful light which stabbed her like a knife. She was ruled by other influences, scarcely less powerful. Moonlight shining on still waters; certain flowers; falling snow-all these terribly disturbed her, and aroused in full force the memories which tortured her. Had her neighbours witnessed her paroxysms on on these occasions, they would have had the fairest reason for declaring that Mrs. Lenoir was mad.
She lived entirely out of the world; read no newspapers; played a part in no scandals; and the throbs of great ambitions which shook thrones and nations never reached the heart, never touched the soul of this lonely woman, who might have been supposed to be waiting for death to put an end to her sorrows.
A few weeks after she had made Lizzie's dress, Mrs. Lenoir was sitting as usual alone in her room. She was not at work; with her hand supporting her face, she was gazing with tearful eyes upon three pictures, which she had taken from a desk which stood open on the table. This desk was in itself a remarkable possession for a woman in her position in life. It was inlaid with many kinds of curious woods, and slender devices in silver; it was old, and had seen service, but it had been carefully used. The three pictures represented sketches of a beautiful face, the first of a child a year old, the second the child grown to girlhood, the third the girl grown to womanhood. The pictures were painted in water-colours, and the third had been but recently sketched. Over the mantelshelf hung a copy of this last picture, which-as was the case with all of them-though the hand of the amateur was apparent, evidenced a loving care in its execution. Long and with yearning eyes did Mrs. Lenoir gaze upon the beautiful face; had it been warm and living by her side, a more intense and worshipping love could not have been expressed by the lonely woman. The striking of eight o'clock from an adjacent church roused her; with a sigh that was like a sob, she placed the pictures in her desk, and setting it aside, resumed the needlework which she had allowed to fall into her lap.
Winter had come somewhat suddenly upon the city, and snow had fallen earlier than usual. One candle supplied the room with light, and a very small fire with warmth. For an hour Mrs. Lenoir worked with the monotony of a machine, and then she was disturbed by a knock at the door. She turned her head, but did not speak. The knock was repeated, and a voice from without called to her.
"Are you at home, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"Yes, Lizzie."
"Let me in."
"I will come to you."
Mrs. Lenoir went to the door, which was locked, and, turning the key, stepped into the passage.
"Well, Lizzie?"
"But you must let me in, Mrs. Lenoir. I want to tell you something, and I can't speak in the dark."
"Lizzie, you must bear with my strange moods. You know I never receive visitors."
"To call me a visitor! And I've run to tell you the very first! Mrs. Lenoir, I have no mother."
Lizzie's pleading conquered. She glided by Mrs. Lenoir, and entered the room. Mrs. Lenoir slowly followed. Lizzie's face was bright, her manner joyous. "Guess what has happened, Mrs. Lenoir!"
Mrs. Lenoir cast a glance at Lizzie's happy face.
"You will soon be married, Lizzie."
"Yes," said Lizzie, with sparkling eyes, "it was all settled this evening. And do you know, Mrs. Lenoir, that though I've been thinking of it and thinking of it ever since me and Charlie have known each other, it seems as if something wonderful has happened which I never could have hoped would come true. But it is true, Mrs. Lenoir. In three weeks from this very day. It's like a dream."
Mrs. Lenoir had resumed her work while Lizzie was speaking, and now steadily pursued it as the girl continued to prattle of her hopes and dreams.
"You will make my dress, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"Yes, Lizzie."
"And you'll let Charlie pay for the making?"
"You must find another dressmaker, then. What I do for you I do for-"
"Love!"
"If you like to call it so, Lizzie. At all events I will not take money for it."
"You are too good to me, Mrs. Lenoir. I can't help myself; you must make my dress, because no one else could do it a hundredth part as well, and because, for Charlie's sake, I want to look as nice as possible. And that's what I mean to do all my life. I'll make myself always look as nice as I can, so that Charlie shall never get tired of me. But one thing you must promise me, Mrs. Lenoir."
"What is that, Lizzie?"
"You'll come to the wedding."
Mrs. Lenoir shook her head.
"I go nowhere, as you know, Lizzie. You must not expect me."
"But I have set my heart upon it, and Charlie has too! I am always talking to him of you, and he sent me up now especially to bring you, or to ask if he may come and see you. 'Perhaps she'll take a bit of a walk with us,' said Charlie. It has left off snowing-"
Mrs. Lenoir shuddered.
"Has it been snowing?"
"Oh, for a couple of hours! The ground looks beautiful; but everything is beautiful now." Lizzie looked towards the window. "Ah, you didn't see the snow because the blind was down. Do come, Mrs. Lenoir."
"No, Lizzie, you must not try to persuade me; it is useless."
"But you are so much alone-you never go anywhere! And this is the first time you have allowed me to come into your room. You are unhappy, I know, and you don't deserve to be. Let me love you, Mrs. Lenoir."
"Lizzie, I must live as I have always lived. It is my fate."
"Has it been so all your life? When you were my age, were you the same as you are now? Ah, no; I can read faces, and yours has answered me. I wish I could comfort you."
"It is not in your power. Life for me contains only one possible comfort, only one possible joy; but so remote, so unlikely ever to come, that I fear I shall die without meeting it. Leave me now; I have a great deal of work to get through to-night."
Lizzie, perceiving that further persuasion would be useless, turned to leave the room. As she did so, her eyes fell upon the picture of the girl-woman hanging over the mantelshelf. With a cry of delight she stepped close to it.
"How beautiful! Is it your portrait, Mrs. Lenoir, when you were a girl? Ah, yes, it is like you."
"It is not my portrait, Lizzie."
"Whose then? Do you know her? But of course you do. What lovely eyes and hair! It is a face I could never forget if I had once seen it. Who is she?"
The expression of hopeless love in Mrs. Lenoir's eyes as she gazed upon the picture was pitiful to see.
"It is a portrait painted from a heart's memory, Lizzie."
"Painted by you?"
"Yes."
"How beautifully it is done! I always knew you were a lady. And I've been told you can speak languages. I was a little girl when I heard the story of a poor foreigner dying in this street, who gave you, in a foreign language, his dying message to his friends abroad. That is true, is it not, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"It is quite true. It would have been better for me had I been poor and ignorant, and had I not been what you suppose me to have been-a lady. Lizzie, if you love me, leave me!"
"Mrs. Lenoir, is there no hope of happiness for you?"
"Have I not already told you? I have a hope, a wild, unreasoning hope, springing from the bitterest sorrow that ever fell to woman's lot. Apart from that, my only desire is to live and die in peace. And now, Lizzie, goodnight."
Constrained to leave, Lizzie took her departure, saddened by the sadness of this woman of sorrow; but the impress of another's grief soon fades from the heart in which happiness reigns, and, within a few minutes, the girl, in the company of her lover, was again rapt in the contemplation of her own bright dreams.
The moment Lizzie quitted the room, Mrs. Lenoir turned the key in the door, so that no other person should enter. The interview had affected her powerfully, and the endeavour she made to resume her work was futile; her fingers refused to fulfil their office. Rising from her seat, she paced the room with uneven steps, with her hands tightly clasped before her. To and fro, to and fro she walked, casting her eyes fearsomely towards the window every time she turned to face it. The curtains were thick, and the night was hidden from her, but she seemed to see it through the dark folds; it possessed a terrible fascination for her, against which she vainly struggled. It had been snowing, Lizzie had said. She had not known it; was it snowing still? She would not, she dared not look; she clasped her fingers so tightly that the blood deserted them; she was fearful that if she relaxed her grasp, they would tear the curtains aside, and reveal what she dreaded to see. For on this night, when she had been gazing on the face which was present to her through her dreaming and waking hours, when her heart had been cruelly stirred by the words which had passed between Lizzie and herself, the thought of the white and pitiless snow was more than ever terrifying to her. It brought back to her with terrible force memories the creation of which had been productive of fatal results to the peace and happiness of her life. They never recurred to her without bringing with them visions of snow falling, or of lying still as death on hill and plain. The familiar faces in these scenes were few-a man she had loved; a man who loved her; a child-and at this point, all actual knowledge stopped. What followed was blurred and indistinct. She had ridden or had walked through the snow for months, as it seemed; there was no day-it was always night; the white plains were alive with light; the moon shone in the heavens; the white sprays flew from the horse's hoofs; through narrow lanes and trackless fields she rode and rode until a break occurred in the oppressive monotony. They are in a cottage, she and the man who loved her, and a sudden faintness comes upon her. Is it a creation of her fancy that she hears a woman's soft voice singing to her child, or is the sound really in the cottage? Another thing. Is she looking upon a baby lying in a cradle, and does she press her lips upon the sleeping infant's face? Fact and fancy are so strangely commingled-the glare of the white snow has so dazed her-the air is so thick with shadowy forms and faces-that she cannot separate the real from the ideal. But it is true that she is on the road again, and that the horse is plodding along, throwing the white sprays from his hoofs as before, until another change comes upon the scene. She and the man are toiling wearily through the snow, which she now looks upon as her enemy, toiling wearily, wearily onward, until they reach the gate of a church, when she feels her senses deserting her. Earth and sky are merging into one another, and all things are fading from her sight-all things but the quaint old church with its hooded porch, which bends compassionately towards her, and offers her a peaceful sanctuary. This church and the tombstones around it, the very form and shape of which she sees clearly in the midst of her agony, she has ever clearly remembered. Even in the death-like trance that falls upon her, she sees the outline of the church and its approaches. Friendly hands assist her into the sanctuary of rest. How long does she lie in peace? How many hours, or days, or weeks pass by, before she sees strange faces bending over her, before she hears strange voices about her? What has occurred between the agony of the time that has gone, and the ineffable rapture that fills her veins as she presses a baby to her breast? What follows after this? She cannot tell. During the sad and lonely years that have brought silver streaks into her hair, she has striven hundreds of times to recall the sequence of events that culminated with the loss of her treasure. But she strives in vain. Time and her own weakness have destroyed the record. Long intervals of illness, during which the snow is always falling and the moonlight always gleaming; glimpses of heaven in the bright-blue laughing eyes of a lovely babe-her own child, who lies upon her breast, pure and beautiful as an angel; then, a terrible darkness; and loneliness for evermore.
For evermore? Is this truly to be her fate? Can Heaven be so cruel as to allow her to die without gazing again upon the face of her child? For a blind faith possesses her that her darling still lives. Against all reason-in the face of all circumstance. Can she not believe that, during an illness which almost proved fatal, her child was taken from her, and died before she recovered? When this was told her, in a careless way, as though it were a matter so ordinary as to be scarcely worthy of comment, and when to this were added sharp and bitter words to the effect that she ought to fall upon her knees, and thank God that her child was not living to share her shame and disgrace, she looked with a pitiful smile into the face of her informant, and, rising without a word, went her way into the world. Into the lonely world, which henceforth contained no hand that she could clasp in love or friendship.
Her shame! Yes, truly hers. It held an abiding place in her heart. It caused her to shrink from the gaze of man, and from the words, more surely bitter, which she saw trembling on the lips of those who would address her. Eyes flashed contempt upon her; tongues reviled her; fingers were pointed at her in scorn and abhorrence. What was there before her but to fly from these stings and nettles, and hide herself from the sight of all who chanced to know her? She accepted her lot. Heart-broken she wandered into the great depths of the city, and lived her life of silence.
As now she paced the attic, the walls of which had witnessed her long agony, her thoughts, as at such periods they always did, travelled to the fatal time which had wrecked her peace and almost destroyed her reason. She had hitherto suffered without repining, but her spirit began to rebel against the injustice of the fate which had stripped her life of joy. Until now there had been nothing of sullenness in her resignation; she had accepted her hard lot with passive unreasoning submission; and had flung back no stones, even in thought, in return for those that were cast at her. But she seemed on this night to have reached the supreme point of resignation, and some sense of the heartless wrong which had been inflicted upon her stole into her soul. But this new feeling did not debar her from the contemplation of the night outside her room. It was snowing, Lizzie had said. She could not resist the fascination of the words; they drew her to the window; they compelled her to pluck the curtain aside. The snow was falling.
With feverish haste, scarce knowing what she was doing, she fastened her bonnet, flung her shawl over her shoulders, and walked into the streets. There were but few persons stirring in her neighbourhood; the public-houses, of course, were full, and the street-vendors were stamping their feet upon the pavement, more from habit, being in the presence of snow, than from necessity, for the weather was a long way from freezing-point; but Mrs. Lenoir paid no heed to the signs about her. Her thoughts were her companions, to divert her attention from which would need something more powerful than ordinary sights and sounds. She did not appear to be conscious of the road she was taking, nor to care whither she directed her steps. Now and then, a passer-by paused to gaze after the excited woman, who speeded onwards as though an enemy were on her track. So fast did she walk that she was soon out of the narrow labyrinths, and treading the wider thoroughfares, past the Royal Exchange and Mansion House, through Cheapside and St. Paul's Churchyard, into the busier life of Fleet Street-to avoid which, or from some unseen motive, she turned mechanically to the left, and came on to the Embankment, by the side of the river. Then, for the first time, she paused, but not for long. The moon was shining, and a long rippling line of light stretched to the edge of the water, at some distance from the spot on which she stood, where it lapped with a dismal sound the stone steps of a landing-place. The waves washed the rippling light on to the dark slimy stones, and, to her fevered fancy, the light crept up the stones to the level surface of the pavement, along which it slowly unwound itself, like a coil, until it touched her feet. With a shudder, she stepped into this imaginary line of light, not hurriedly now, but softly on and on, down the steps, until her shoes were in the water. A man rose like a black shadow from a tomb, and, with an oath, clutched her arm. She wrenched it from him with an affrighted cry and fled-so swiftly, that though he who had saved her hurried after her, he could not reach her side. She ran along the Embankment till she came to Westminster Bridge, when she turned her back upon the river, and mingled with the people that were going towards the Strand.
She had walked at least five miles, but she felt no fatigue. There are occasions when the weakest bodies are capable of strains that would break down the strongest organisations, and this frail woman was upheld by mental forces which supplied her with power to bear. In the Strand she found her progress impeded. It was eleven o'clock, and the theatres were pouring out their animated crowds. In one of these crowds she became ingulfed, and formed a passive unit in the excited throng, being hustled this way and that, and pushed mercilessly about by those who were struggling to disentangle themselves. This rough treatment produced no effect upon her; she submitted in patience, and in time reached the edge of the crowd. When she arrived at a certain point, where the people had room to move more freely, two persons, a man and a woman, passed her, and the voice of the woman fell upon her ears.
An exclamation of bewildered amazement hung upon Mrs. Lenoir's lips. It was her own voice she had heard, and she had not spoken. Not the sad voice which those who knew her were accustomed to hear, but the glad blithe voice which was hers in her youth, and which she had been told was sweet as music.
She paused and listened; but only the accustomed Babel of sound reached her now. She had distinguished but one word-"Love," and she knew she had not uttered it. Although her nerves were quivering under the influence of the mystery, she had no choice but to pursue her way, and she continued walking in the direction of Temple Bar.
Gradually the human throng lessened in numbers. It was spreading itself towards the home lights through all the windings of the city; and when Mrs. Lenoir had passed the arch of the time-honoured obstruction she had room enough and to spare. Now and then she was overlapped by persons whose gait was more hurried than her own; more frequently she passed others who were walking at a more reasonable pace. Approaching a couple who, arm-in-arm, were stepping onwards as though it were noon instead of near midnight, she heard again the voice that had startled her.
Her first impulse was to run forward and look upon the face of the speaker; but she restrained herself, or rather was restrained by the conflicting passions which agitated her breast; and without removing her eyes from the forms of the two persons before her, she followed them with feeble uncertain steps. For the woman's strength was going from her; she was wearied and exhausted, and she had to struggle now with nature. It was fortunate for her that the man and the woman she was following were walking slowly, or she must inevitably have lost them. And even as it was, she dragged her weary feet after them, as one in a dream might have done.
The woman was young; joyous health and spirits proclaimed themselves in the light springy step; and the musical laugh that rang frequently in the air was like the sound of silver bells. That she was beautiful could not be doubted: it was the theme of their conversation at the present moment.
"And you think me very beautiful?"
"You are more than beautiful. You are the most lovely girl in the world. But if I continue to tell you the same story, I shall make you the vainest as well as the loveliest."
"Oh, no; I like to hear you. Go on."
"Then there's another danger. Though you know I love you-"
"Yes."
"And though you have told me you love me-"
"Yes."
"You do, you little witch?"
"Oh, yes."
"Well, there's the danger of losing you."
"In what way? How?"
"Some one else might see you, and fall in love with you."
"Suppose some one else couldn't help it? This with a delicious silvery laugh.
"By heavens, you're enough to drive a saint out of his senses!"
"Me?"
"Well, your cool way of saying things."
"But go on about the danger of losing me."
"And you might fall in love with some one else."
"I don't think so," said the girl, with the air of one who was considering a problem which did not affect her. "I couldn't fall in love with any man that wasn't a gentleman. And you are one?"
"I hope so."
"That is why I like you. You are a gentleman, you are good-looking and rich; while I-"
"You!" It was scarcely an interruption, for the girl paused, as in curious contemplation of what might follow.
"You! You are fit to be a queen."
"I am a duchess, remember," said the girl, with an arch smile, which became graver with the words-"I wonder why they called me so?"
"Because they saw you were above them, and better than they."
"Why should they have seen that? What made them see it? I could hardly speak at the time, and I don't even remember it."
"Nor anything about yourself before you were brought to Rosemary Lane?" inquired the man anxiously.
"No; nothing that does not seem like a dream."
"One can remember dreams."
"I can't remember mine. But sometimes I have a curious impression upon me."
"May I hear it?"
"Why not? It is upon me now. It is this: that when I dreamt-before I remember anything, you know-"
"Yes."
"That it was always snowing, as it is now."
What subtle vapour affected the fair and beautiful girl-surely subject to no distempered fancies, glowing as she was with health, and with pulses beating joyously-that she should suddenly pause and gaze upon the snow with a troubled air? What subtle vapour affected the wan and exhausted woman behind her that at the same moment she also should pause and hold her thin, transparent hand to her eyes, to shut out the white glare of the snow that troubled her soul? There was a curious resemblance in their attitudes as they thus stood in silence-the girl in the light, the woman in the shade.
A gust of wind, if it did not dispel the vapour, stirred the actors in this scene into motion, and the girl and her lover-for there could be no doubt of the relation they bore to each other-resumed their walk, Mrs. Lenoir still following them with steps that grew more feeble every moment.
Of the conversation between the lovers not a word had reached her. Now and again she heard the sound of the girl's voice when it was raised higher than usual, but the words that accompanied it were lost upon her. She had formed a distinct purpose during the journey, if in her weak condition of mind and body any purpose she wished to carry out can be called distinct. She would keep them in sight until the man had taken his departure, and the girl was alone. Then she would accost the girl, and look into her face. That was the end of her thought; the hopes and fears which enthralled and supported her were too wild and whirring for clear interpretation. And yet it appeared as though she herself feared to be seen; for once or twice when the man or the girl looked back, Mrs. Lenoir shrank tremblingly and in pitiable haste into the obscurity of the deeper shadows of the night.
They were now in the east of London, near Rosemary Lane, and the girl paused and stopped her companion, with the remark:
"You must not come any further."
This was so far fortunate for Mrs. Lenoir, inasmuch as otherwise she would have lost sight of those she had followed. Nature had conquered, and a faintness like the faintness of death was stealing upon her.
The man and the girl were long in bidding each other goodnight. It was said half-a-dozen times, and still he lingered, loth to leave her.
"Remember," he said, as he stood with his arm around her, "you have promised not to mention my name to your people."
"Yes, I have promised. But why won't you come and see them? I should like you to."
"It can't be done, my little bird. You are sensible enough to understand why a gentleman in my position can't run the danger of forming intimacies with common persons."
"But I am a common person," said the girl, archly challenging a contradiction.
"You are a lady, and if you are not, I'll make you one. When you are away from them, I want you to be well away. You wouldn't like to be dragged down again."
"No-you are right, I dare say. Poor Sally!"
"Not a word to her, mind. I'll have to bribe you, I see. What do you say to this?"
He took from his pocket a gold bracelet, shining with bright stones, and held it up to the light. The girl uttered a cry of pleasure, but as she clasped the trinket she looked round in affright. Her glad exclamation was followed by a moan from Mrs. Lenoir, who staggered forward a few steps and sank, insensible to the ground.