“I love you with it then. Good-night, good, pretty lady.”
“Good-night, sweet child.” And Zuleime laid her in the bed, and kissed her fair eyelids down to slumber.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE CATASTROPHE.
To die mid flame and smoke!—Halleck
Heaven knows that it is now difficult enough for a poor woman to make a living. But in the days when Zuleime lived and suffered, it was even more so. It was especially hard in Virginia, where, owing to the prevalence of the law of entail, the rich were very rich, and the poor very poor. Where, besides, ladies took pride in their domestic and industrious habits, the favorite and most inveterate of which was that of doing their own sewing, forgetful of the poor widow and orphan, who might be suffering for the want of the work. It was for such reasons that Zuleime found little or no employment—at most of the houses where she applied she was told that—“We never give out needle-work,” or that, “The ladies of the house do all the family sewing.” All very well, in moderation. Industry is a praiseworthy habit, when it does not compromise justice and mercy—when it does not hinder us to “live and let live.” Let us be different in our several callings; but for Heaven’s sake, if we can possibly afford it, let us never refuse to give work to those who need, or who ask it of us. They may be suffering for it, they may be starving for it, they may be dying for it, as Zuleime was. They may be driven to vice, to crime, for the want of it, as Zuleime was not, thank Heaven. Reader, this portion of my story at least is no fiction. Nor was Zuleime’s case then a solitary one. Nor would it be such now. There are many poor women, in every city, who have not work enough to earn their necessary food and fuel. And this is one of the causes:—There are hundreds of ladies, of the middle classes of society, who work themselves nearly to death, and really shorten their lives, by sewing for their large families, in order to save money to lay out in dress for themselves and children, more genteel than needful; or in furniture, which they do not live very long to enjoy. And all this time there are hundreds of poor women around them suffering for a part of this very work with which they are killing themselves. Yes, hundreds who die annually of innutrition—a slow, cruelly slow starvation, prolonged from month to month, or from year to year, according to their relative strength of constitution. I know it. For I have lived among them, and seen for myself, and not another. The doctors call the want, of which they die, consumption—I think it is rather non-consumption. Zuleime sank deeper and deeper into penury. As autumn advanced into winter, and as her necessities increased, her ability to supply them decreased. Her poverty began to betray itself sadly in her personal appearance. Her face was thin and wan, with great, bright, hungry looking eyes—her hands wasted to semi-transparency. Her only gown, her black bombazine, was rusty and threadbare, and embossed with darns—her shoes were so bad as to look scarcely decent. And amid all her other troubles, there was room for humiliated feelings upon even this account. The present was wretched—the future hopeless. She had heard of people perishing from cold and hunger, and to such an end she thought her life seemed tending. Yet miserable as was the condition of Zuleime, there were many then, are many now, in much worse situations. She at least was starving in a tolerably clean room, in privacy and in peace. Far happier than some who perish in the midst of vice and filth and squalor. Yes, reader, there are such things; they do exist in my neighborhood, and yours, and it is just as well that they should sometimes be remembered. Zuleime was dying of want. And did the people of the house know nothing of this? Yes, they knew something of it, and her German landlord trembled for his rent, his wife wished that they had never seen the poor thing, and the two girls pitied her very deeply. And Mrs. Knight saw it all, and suffered in sympathy, and gave the poor, dying girl, all the work she had to give, and paid her for doing it as liberally as she could afford. But Mrs. Knight was not able, from her scanty salary, to keep up her expensive, professional wardrobe, and support two families besides. The greater part of the money Zuleime made, by sewing for the poor actress, was paid for rent, to keep the roof over her head that bitter weather, and to supply the daily two pence worth of milk for the child. If a few pence were left over, they were spent in cheap pilot bread, sparingly eaten by herself. For weeks together she had no fire, no fuel, but would manage to keep her child warm by seating her in the middle of the bed, well wrapped up. By the side of the head of the bedstead, and looking to the south, was the only back window of her room. When she had work, she would sit by this window and sew, while her child sat wrapped up in the bed. When she had no work, she would still sit there and rock her child upon her bosom, singing to her all the while. Unearthly and spiritual was the wan, moonlight face, with its large, luminous eyes—unearthly and spiritual was the voice in which she sang her child to rest, as she sat by the south window. She found room in her burdened heart to love that sunny window, with its glimpses of a river landscape, with waterfalls and hills and forests, and nearer, lying between her and the water, the pleasure-grounds around a fair mansion of white freestone, that fronted on the river. That fine place took in nearly a whole square, and was separated from this poor house and lot, first, by a broad, back alley, then a tall brick wall, with capacious stables and coach-houses, then the garden, with terraces and conservatory, and so up to the Venetian back piazza of the mansion. Every day, and all day long through the glowing autumn weather, she had sat and feasted her eyes and mind upon these pleasure-grounds, with their gorgeous flowers and magnificent trees, and the palace-home in the midst, a picture of beauty and glory, telling besides of plenty, elegance, refinement, leisure, artistic taste, intellectual pursuits, family union, domestic happiness. Many a time, when going out to look for work, she had walked quite around the square to get in front of the mansion, and satisfy her soul with the architectural beauty and elegance of the edifice, as it stood elevated by a flight of terraces far above the street, and commanding for many miles the mighty course of the river. Often in the autumn weather, had she walked under this southern wall, and even in the midst of her deep distresses, looked up in childish longing at the splendid autumnal flowers, trailing luxuriantly over the iron railing. Why did this place interest her so? Not because it was a palace-home, in such strong contrast to her own poor dwelling—not because she passed it almost every day—not because its magnificent grounds were ever before her sight from her own poor room. Ah, no! But because there was a rural character, and a fine, old, ancestral look about the place, that reminded her of her dear, lost home. Everything connected with the premises interested her, even that capacious family carriage, with its round bodied, gray coach horses, and its fat coachman, which appeared every afternoon at a certain hour to take the family out to drive. She did not care to inquire who lived there. One day, when walking in front of the house on the other street, she had seen a lady in deep mourning come out and get in the carriage. She had time to see that the lady appeared bowed in grief, but possessed so sweet and benevolent a face, that she was encouraged to call and ask for work. So the next day she entered the beautiful grounds, and ascended the stone steps that led flight by flight up the rising terraces until she reached the Grecian portico and rang the bell. The door was opened by a man servant, to whom she communicated her business. He called a waiting-woman, who came, and after hearing what the visitor wanted, explained civilly enough that all their needle-work was done by a young person, who lived companion to her mistress, who was too infirm to see strangers. Zuleime never tried there again. But the sweet, sorrowful face of the lady haunted her, and she gazed from her poor window upon the magnificent pleasure-grounds with more of interest than ever.
Truly the world is “full of paper walls.” How little Zuleime surmised that the mourner in the palace sorrowed over the very same bereavement that had laid her own life waste—that the fair-haired, tender-eyed lady, whose grief-worn countenance haunted her so, was the mother of her lost Frank; that the proud mansion-house, in the midst of its pleasure-grounds, was the rightful inheritance of the poor babe that rested on her wasted bosom.
How little did the childless and desolate recluse of the palace guess that her lost son’s widow sat pining, starving so near her! The world is full of paper walls, but fate makes them firmer, stronger, more indestructible than adamant.
Upon that very same December night that found Mrs. Clifton and Catherine rejoicing over the good news they had heard from their friends, upon that very night Zuleime sat shivering in her room, without fire, food or light. She had given her child its cup of milk, and thanked Heaven that she had it to give, though she herself went hungry. And she had wrapped the babe in her shawl, and sat by the window, singing and rocking her to sleep. The room was intensely cold, she was chilled to the heart, her feet were numb, and almost lifeless. The only warmth in her body seemed to be the bosom at which the child was pressed. The snow was falling fast without, but even through its flakes she saw the lighted windows of the mansion-house glowing through the crimson curtains, and streaming redly across the snow-clad ground. And she sat and thought of the comforts within that parlor. While she sat there thinking, there came a gentle knock at her door.
“Who is there?” inquired Zuleime.
“It is I, Mrs. Fairfax,” replied the voice of the actress.