"No, sir. Concerning one whose name might never have been known but for her misfortunes."
" Her misfortunes! A woman, then?"
"A poor girl, found drowned in the river."
"Murdered?"
"She met her death by her own hands. On the river bank she had placed her child, a mere infant three or four months old. The poor girl--scarcely my age, and well-looking, the account says--must have drowned herself in the night when it was dark. First she stripped herself of her warm underclothing, and wrapped her baby in it to protect it from the cold, hoping, no doubt, that it would fall into humane hands soon after she walked to her doom. But the night passed, and the child was not discovered. By a strange fatality, within a few hours after the girl-mother was drowned, the waves washed her body on to the river's bank near to the form of her child, and when the sun shone, its light fell upon the dead mother and her living child lying side by side. There was nothing about her to prove her identity; even the initials on her clothes had been carefully removed. But a paper was found, on which was written, evidently by one of fair education: 'By my sinful act I remove myself and my shame from the eyes of a cruel world. I die in despair, unconsoled by the belief that retribution will fall upon the head of him who betrayed and deserted me.' On the head of him who betrayed her! Is it possible that such a man, after reading this record of his guilt--as perhaps he may be doing at this very moment--can enjoy a moment's happiness? Is it possible that he can sleep? Though by this dead girl's generosity his secret is safe, retribution will fall upon him--as surely as there is a heaven above us! If I discovered that ever in my life I had clasped the hand of such a man, I should be tempted to cut mine from its wrist to rid myself of the shameful contamination of his touch! What is the matter, sir? You are ill!"
"A sudden faintness, Arthur--nothing more. I have been working hard lately, and I need rest. Goodnight."
As Mr. Temple rose to leave the room, he turned from Arthur's anxious gaze a face that was like the face of a ghost.
[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.