As the cares of life increased, so grew Minnie's energy; even when a dry crust alone broke her fast of the long, toiling day, her spirits upheld her. "If I have lost him," she mentally said, "it has been for some wise purpose; even though my stubborn heart rebels, still I am not comfortless; have I not my boy?—all my own!—no one to tear his love from me—no one to prejudice him against me: so Heaven preserve him to me, I may yet be content, if not happy!" and the young mother knelt beside him, and prayed fervently for strength to bear all! Poor Minnie knew herself so innocent, she could pray in hope.
There are, unhappily, those who scoff at religion, and call it cant. None are so cheerful and hopeful as those who place their reliance on it, in all afflictions; for they know 'tis a flower which will never fade, and 'tis in our sorrows we so truly discover all its worth, and weep for those who are in ignorance of its powers. Religion is indeed like an Arabian tree, shedding its odorous gums on those who lean against it for support!
Minnie found it so, and she discovered, too, that even in her wretchedness there were others more so. Her room was a poor garret, a cinquième, for as yet she had little work, there are so many seeking life through the same channel—she had no friends—then, too, her child was a burthen to her efforts; she could not at all times leave him, and little Miles was now nearly five months old. Sometimes the concièrge of the house, who was better than most of that most mercenary class, would take her child for her, while she sought work. There was ever a fear over her, in going out, lest she should meet Tremenhere. What her hopes were respecting him, who might say? Did she know them herself? or were they those inseparable clingings of the heart, which, like a limpet on a rock, adheres, inseparable from it, however rough the dashing waves? She had hope, else life would have fled. She still resided near Tremenhere's friend, Duplin, whither he often came, and thus, from her high window, she could see his tall figure pass. Ever closely, doubly veiled, and muffled up, she had watched, and met him in the dusk—she had followed too, by day, and seen him, too frequently for her peace of mind, accompany Lady Dora in walks and rides. True, others were there; but he was ever by her side, and she began to question how it might terminate. Of such an event as marriage she had not dreamed, when, allowing all to believe her death, she had become so chilled at heart from the belief of the indifference of all, even poor sorrowing Dorcas, that she had no courage to make a friend there in confidence. "No," she said, in her disheartenment, "not to any of them will I betray my existence; they deserted me living, let them believe me dead!" and a morbid satisfaction at the thought crept over her. But when so fearful a consequence as his marriage with another broke in upon her mind, she became feverish, restless, and incapable of guiding herself aright. Before, however, this terror came to add to her sufferings, she used to toil cheerfully—her boy, lying perhaps on a pillow at her feet, crowing and laughing in her gentle face. Then he was so like his father—the same large brown eyes, and shading lashes, which tempered so much their fire—it was all Miles's face, but with her own light hair, in glossy curls, with a rich, sunny glow on the cheek; and with all the love she lavished on him, the little voice was seldom raised in tears, only laughter—laughter, which convulsed the bright face, as he hung, shrieking with it, round the fair mother's neck. We have said that, even in her wretchedness, Minnie had learned that there were others more so, in outward seeming. In the garret adjoining her own, she frequently heard, as the hours of the night crept on, and she was sitting up completing some work, a quiet, heavy step plodding up and down the room, in evident thought or pain. Often had she listened to this sad neighbour; and his sorrows and loneliness seemed to add to her own. A laugh beside her might have cheered; but this lonely watching wore on her already chastened heart. She asked the concièrge one day if she knew who it was.
"A poor old Frenchman," she replied; "very poor, I think, and all alone—but he seems proud in his necessity. And then, madame, you know I cannot do much for any one—I am not rich; and he never gives me an opportunity of speaking. He pays regularly; but I think, poor old man, that his means of existence are very small."
This decided kind-hearted Minnie. "We are never so poor," she said to herself, "but what we can assist one another, even if only by a kind word to lighten life's weary load. I will try and speak to this poor man."
Where a woman resolves upon doing a good action, she generally succeeds in some way. There was something about her, in her voice and manner, which at once inspired confidence and affection in the worthy; and when this pretty, delicate creature, with her little boy in her arms, tapped gently one evening at the next door, and asked for a light, if he had one, of the thin tenant, who was almost bent double by age, and still more, sorrow and poverty, the man's cold face brightened as he answered, while the poor lips trembled with cold, and possibly hunger, "My child, I have none; I am going—going out."
Alas, poor creature! he was going out in the bitterer cold, thinly clad, to endeavour to circulate the nearly frozen blood, before returning to creep into a half-covered bed, and there strive to practise the French proverb of "qui dort dîne," for he was dinnerless. There was something in the accent not strictly Gallic, though he spoke French.
"Don't go out to-night, mon voisin," she said smiling; "it is wet and cold; you are alone, so am I save for mon enfant. Do you like children?"
"Yes," and he laid his thin hand on little Miles's head; "I love them well; I once had two of my own," and he stifled a sigh.
"Well, then, you shall come in, and do me a neighbourly kindness; I am a poor ouvrière, and must work hard to-night—come in, I am going to make a fire; you shall nurse my boy whilst I work—will you oblige me?"