“She sate down, and gave full vent to her anguish;—and then little Harry threw his arms round her neck, and endeavoured to console her. The flood of tears which she shed, and the affectionate conduct of her little brother at length considerably soothed her;—and the poor girl made up her mind to meet her misfortune with resignation. ‘You are dripping wet, dear Julia,’ said Harry: ‘and there is not a morsel of coal left,’ he added, looking at the miserable remnant of a fire which was fast extinguishing in the grate.—‘Poor boy! you have been cold,’ exclaimed the dress-maker, not thinking of herself.—‘No, dear Julia,’ he answered; ‘for I have been walking up and down the room, to keep myself awake till you came back. I was only afraid that the candle would not last.’—‘Nor will it many minutes longer, Harry!’ cried Julia, starting from her seat. ‘But do not be afraid, my dear little fellow; for I have plenty of money to buy all we want for the moment. A good kind gentleman took compassion upon me, and—and——’; she did not choose to say, ‘and gave me some money;’—for, somehow or another, her pure soul revolted from the idea that she had been the object of eleemosynary benevolence on the part of a stranger:—so, cutting the matter short, she kissed her little brother tenderly, bade him eat his cakes, and, promising to return in a few minutes, hurried away. She ordered up coals and wood from the nearest shed,—thence she repaired to the grocer’s, where she purchased a few articles,—and lastly, she sped to the baker’s, to buy bread. But the moment she entered this shop, the master rushed from behind the counter, seized her rudely, called her by many opprobrious names, and, raising an alarm, attracted the attention of a policeman who was passing by. The constable entered the shop, and enquired the cause of the disturbance; but poor Julia had fainted;—and she, therefore, heard not the charge that was made against her. When she came to her senses, she gazed wildly around, thinking that she had just awoke from a horrid dream;—but, alas! it was all too true! She was seated in a chair in the middle of the shop—a policeman standing near her—and a gaping, curious crowd collected at the door. ‘Now, young woman,’ said the officer, ‘come along with me!’—Julia cast upon him a look so full of horror and amazement, that the man’s heart was for an instant touched;—but, being accustomed to endless varieties of imposture on the part of offenders, he speedily recovered the cold indifference so characteristic of his class, and said sternly, if not brutally, ‘None of this nonsense: you must tramp off to the station-house!’—‘But what have I done? what offence have I committed?’ asked Julia, in a tone of the most pathetic entreaty. ‘Oh! there must be some dreadful mistake in all this!’—‘No mistake at all,’ said the officer; ‘and you’ll know all about it in the morning, when you go before the magistrate!’—‘The magistrate!’ repeated the girl, with the emphasis of despair. ‘But my poor little brother, what will become of him?’—‘That’s no business of mine,’ returned the constable: ’come along!’—and he dragged the half-fainting Julia from the shop.
“Away to the nearest station-house was the unhappy young woman rather borne than conducted;—and so stunned—so stupefied was she by this sudden, unaccountable, and overwhelming misfortune, that her tongue refused to give utterance to the questions which her suspense prompted her lips to frame. The station was close by; and thus was it that before she had leisure to recover from her bewilderment and terror, she found herself thrust into a dark cell—all dripping wet from head to foot as she was. When full consciousness returned, and she was enabled to look her misfortune in the face, she found that all the articles she had purchased at the grocer’s and all the remainder of her money were gone. Yet she could not possibly conceive on what charge she had been thus rudely treated;—and her conscience inspired her with the hope that her complete innocence must become apparent in the morning. But the thought of her little brother excited the most painful sensations in her bosom:—her heart was rent with pangs that seemed to threaten her very existence! The poor little fellow!—she fancied she saw him sitting in the cold, lonely chamber, crying bitterly at his sister’s prolonged absence:—and then a thousand fears haunted her—all distracting in the extreme. Might he not take it into his head to go out to look after her?—he, who was so ignorant of London!—and then might he not be lost in the mazes of the mighty metropolis, and on a night when it would be almost death to him to wander about the flooded streets? Oh! all these fears—these thoughts were terrible;—for she dearly loved her little brother—loved him, perhaps, the more affectionately, the more tenderly, because their orphan condition rendered him so completely dependant upon her,—and because he was so much attached to her, and his ways were so winning—his disposition so cheerful!
“In the midst of these harrowing meditations a policeman opened the trap in the door of the cell, and called her by name—‘Julia Murray!’ She answered in a faint and feeble tone; and the officer was about to close the trap, satisfied that his prisoner was not ill nor had attempted suicide,—when the young woman suddenly exclaimed, ‘Stop one moment!’—‘Well, what is it?’ demanded the constable.—In a few hurried words Julia explained to him how she had a little brother expecting her return, how he would be overwhelmed with grief at her unaccountable absence, and how grateful she should feel if any one could be sent to inform the child that his sister would be certain to return in the morning. The constable, who was a kind-hearted man, promised that her request should be complied with; and he was about to depart when, a thought striking him, he said, ‘But are you so sure, young woman, of getting off so easy as you imagine. The charge is a serious one, mind!’—‘The charge!’ she repeated: ‘I do not even yet know what it is!’—‘Oh! that’s all gammon,’ cried the constable, closing the trap abruptly; and now, his opinion of the prisoner being that she was a hardened impostor, and had some sinister motive in view in sending a message to her lodgings, determined to trouble himself no more concerning the matter. It was, however, some consolation to the poor girl to believe that her commission would be duly executed;—for, though she had heard the officer’s unfeeling, cutting observation relative to her ignorance of the accusation against her, she could not for an instant suppose that he would neglect to fulfil his promise regarding her little brother. But wearily—wearily passed away that night—not once did the poor dress-maker close her eyes—and she counted every hour that was proclaimed from the neighbouring church-clock—often saying to herself that never, never had time travelled with such leaden pace before! She had not tasted food for many hours—and yet she was not hungry; but she experienced a terrible faintness at the chest, and an oppressiveness on the brain, that at intervals made her mind wander. Her cloak was dripping wet when she had been locked up, and her shoes, stockings, and the lower part of her dress were saturated;—but she had thrown her cloak aside, and her garments had dried upon her;—and now she felt not positively cold—only a numbness in her limbs, which gave her however no pain.
“At length the dull, misty, wintry morning dawned upon the metropolis—though all was still dark in her gloomy cell. Presently an officer entered, and gave her a cup of hot coffee and a piece of bread. She asked him if the message had been sent to her brother;—but he was not the same constable who had made the round of the cells at midnight, and therefore knew nothing about the matter. Moreover, he was a stern, sulky man; and she dared not speak farther to him—much as she longed to ascertain the real nature of the charge against her. She drank the coffee, which seemed to do her good;—but she could not force a single mouthful of the bread down her throat—though the cravings of hunger now began to oppress her cruelly. But, to use a common phrase, her heart heaved against food. A couple of hours more passed away, and then the same policeman who had arrested her on the preceding evening came to conduct her to the police-office. While they were proceeding thither, Julia enquired the nature of the charge against her; and she now learnt for the first time that the coin which she had changed at the bakers, and which she had believed to be a sovereign, was only a gilt counter, of the kind used at card tables in genteel society. She was cruelly shocked at this information, and frankly and candidly explained to the officer the manner in which she had become possessed of it; but he only shook his head, and seemed to put but little faith in her story. Julia was, however, too much absorbed in the vexation and ignominy she had thus been subjected to, and was still enduring, to notice the man’s incredulity;—but she clung to the hope that her tale would be believed by the magistrate before whom she was about to appear. It happened that the usual charges of drunkenness were just disposed of, at the moment when the young female entered the court; and she was accordingly at once placed at the bar—the baker being already in attendance to prefer his charge against her. This he did in a plain and straight-forward manner,—showing no ill-feeling against the prisoner—but, on the contrary, alleging that he had always believed her to be a highly respectable, industrious, and praise-worthy young woman until the present transaction took place. He added that he had given her into custody in a moment of irritation, believing himself to have been duped; and that he should be truly delighted if she could make her innocence apparent. Julia’s courage was somewhat restored by the forbearing conduct of the baker—for her own good sense told her that the case was really one involving much unpleasant suspicion;—and she now told her tale with an artlessness and sincerity that produced no inconsiderable effect upon the bench. Nevertheless, as the magistrate observed, it certainly appeared strange that a gentleman should have given her a gilt counter in mistake for a sovereign,—strange also that a mere stranger should have intended to bestow upon her a sovereign at all. The magistrate proceeded to state that the prisoner must be remanded, in order that the gentleman of whom she spoke—if her story were true—might come forward, upon seeing the report of the case in the newspapers, and tender his evidence. Julia burst out into an agony of weeping, when she heard that she must go to prison for a week; and the baker requested the magistrate to re-consider his decision. This appeal was, however, made in vain; but it was intimated that bail would be received for the prisoner’s re-appearance. The baker gave a whispered assurance to the unhappy girl that he would get two of his friends to become security for her; and this promise consoled her. When she was removed from the office, on her way to a cell in the rear of the establishment, the baker told her that his wife had taken care of her brother, who had passed the night at their house: and he expressed his deep regret that he should have proceeded against her, as he had learnt from her landlady that she was a young woman of most exemplary character. To be brief, the baker performed his promise of procuring bail for the prisoner; and at about two o’clock in the afternoon she was enabled to return home.
“Little Harry was speedily brought back to her by the baker’s wife, who, it appeared, had bitterly reproached her husband on the preceding evening for his conduct towards Miss Murray, and, with considerate kindness, had at once sent for her brother, whom the good woman consoled with some plausible tale accounting for his sister’s absence. Julia was not however happy, even though restored to liberty; for the charge still hung over her—and so much depended on the chance of the appearance of her unknown benefactor, who, she still firmly believed, had accidentally and most unintentionally given her the gilt counter which had led to so much wretchedness and serious embarrassment. Her first care was now, however, to proceed to the house of the old Marchioness of Wilmington, with the silk-dress, which was completely spoiled; and Julia’s heart was heavy as she hurried along Oxford Street. The weather was dull and gloomy; but the rain had ceased, and the two streams of people flowed on, in different directions, without the hurry, bustle, and struggling that had prevailed on the preceding evening. Julia’s bosom palpitated nervously when she reached the spot where the accident had occurred—that accident to which her present sorrows might be traced. On reaching the house of that marchioness in Hanover Square, the poor girl was conducted into the presence of the dowager—a proud, stately dame whose age exceeded fifty, but who endeavoured by means of rouge, false hair, false teeth, and the appliances of the toilette, to appear at least twenty years younger. Her ladyship was seated in a small, but elegantly furnished parlour, and was occupied in reading—no, in skimming—the last new novel, which, according to the usual fashion, had been carefully spun out into three volumes, though all the incidents it contained might with advantage have been condensed into one. At a beautiful little work-table, sate a lovely creature of two-and-twenty, with hair as dark as jet, fine large black eyes, and a tall symmetrical, but rather robust figure. On this fair young lady’s countenance there was a slight shade of melancholy; and her cheeks were somewhat pale—but apparently through a secret care, and not ill-health. This was Lady Caroline Jerningham, the only daughter of the marchioness, and consequently sister to the Marquis of Wilmington, her ladyship’s only son.
“On entering the presence of these ladies, Julia, who had previously arranged in her own imagination the precise terms in which she proposed to tell her tale,—with a strict adherence to truth,—forgot all her studied task, and became overwhelmed with confusion. The marchioness looked so stately—so prim—so queen-like in her deportment, not to say positively austere, that the poor girl was seized with vague apprehensions and unknown terrors, as if she had committed a great and grievous fault. Lady Caroline, however, cast upon her a look of such kind encouragement, and also of such significance, that it almost struck Julia at the moment that the young patrician lady had a fore-knowledge of the disaster which had occurred to the dress. Yet how was that possible?—and as the absurdity of such an idea forced itself upon the girl’s mind the instant after the idea itself was entertained, her confusion and embarrassment were increased, and she burst into tears. The dowager uttered an ejaculation of surprise; and Julia, hastily wiping her eyes, cast an appealing glance on Lady Caroline, who, to her relief and amazement, she beheld gazing upon her with an expression of reassurance and deep—almost tender interest. Encouraged by the evident graciousness of the young lady, Julia proceeded to open the parcel; and, while so doing, she began an explanation of the accident which had occurred to the dress. The countenance of the marchioness, to whom she glanced timidly, lowered and contracted;—but Lady Caroline hastened to observe, in a kind and condescending manner, ‘Whatever has happened to the dress, Miss Murray, I am confident my mother will attribute to a misfortune, and to no blameable neglect on your part.’—‘Permit me to answer for myself, Lady Caroline,’ said the dowager, in a tone of haughty remonstrance to her daughter, and with an austere look at the trembling Julia. ‘Young woman,’ she continued, now addressing herself direct to the poor girl, ‘you were recommended to me by Lady Lumley, as an efficient, honest, careful, and deserving person,—one, who, having been brought up tenderly and by parents moving in a genteel sphere until the time of their decease, was suddenly compelled to have recourse to the needle to earn a subsistence. Under such circumstances, and with this recommendation, I sent for you—I agreed to give you a trial—and, as I perceive, you have spoilt for me a dress that will cost me ten guineas to replace it.’—‘I admit, my lady,’ said Julia, ‘that you have great cause to be dissatisfied. But heaven is my witness that it was an accident; and if your ladyship will permit me, I will toil day and night until I shall have obtained the wherewith to make good the loss.’—‘No, young woman,’ observed the marchioness, somewhat mollified by the artlessness and respectful demeanour of Julia Murray; ‘I cannot, being rich, oppress you, who are poor. All that I can do in the case is to decline giving you any farther employment. You may retire:’ and, having thus spoken with a sententious pomposity that would have become a statesman, the noble lady waved her hand authoritatively.
“Julia’s eyes filled with tears, which nearly blinded her—so that she observed not how peculiar was the interest with which Lady Caroline Jerningham was surveying her:—but, having vainly endeavoured to stammer forth a few words imploring a continuance of the patronage of the marchioness, she hurried from the room. On the landing outside she paused for a few moments to wipe away the traces of tears from her countenance and somewhat compose herself; for she shrank from the idea of attracting unpleasant notice on the part of the lacqueys lounging in the hall through which she must pass to reach the street-door. Suddenly she felt a gentle touch upon the shoulder; for she had seated herself in a chair on the landing, being overcome with grief and physical exhaustion;—and starting up, she beheld Lady Caroline standing by her side. ‘Hush!’ said the fair patrician, placing her finger upon her lip, and glancing towards the parlour-door, as much as to imply that she had stolen away from her mother’s presence and would not have her motive suspected: ‘here, my poor girl, take this—and, when you require a friend, fear not to apply to me—but by letter, remember, in the first instance!’—Thus speaking, Lady Caroline thrust five sovereigns into Julia’s hand, and instantly returned to the parlour, not waiting a moment to receive the thanks of the astonished and delighted girl.
“Julia Murray now hurried home, and found little Harry anxiously expecting her return;—for, although he was too young to comprehend the nature of the alarms which she had experienced, when sallying forth, on account of the spoilt dress, yet he was fearful lest she might remain away from him for several hours again. He had no cares—that poor little fellow—when his sister was with him; and he now asked her, in so sweet yet earnest a manner, not to leave him any more during a whole night, that she felt as if she would go through fire and water for that darling boy. But she had no work in hand; and though she possessed five sovereigns,—real sovereigns, and no gilt counters this time,—yet she could not bear the idea of being idle. She however promised to remain at home all that day; and she prepared a nice little dinner, which made Harry so happy that she wished—Oh! how sincerely she wished—she could always provide for him in the same manner. She endeavoured to appear as cheerful as she could;—but there was a weight upon her spirits—for the accusation still hung over her head, and she was in suspense whether the unknown would see her case in the papers, and appear to justify her. Besides, would not the publicity given to the affair injure her with those kind patronesses who had hitherto taken such an interest in the orphan girl? and, should the stranger-gentleman not be forthcoming, would not a stigma be affixed upon her character, even though the magistrate (as the baker assured her must be the alternative) should dismiss the case? Of all these things she thought;—and when Harry noticed her not, a pearly tear would trickle down her pale but beauteous face. For Julia was very beautiful. Her hair was of a rich dark brown—her eyes of melting blue—her teeth of pearly whiteness—and her shape elegant, graceful, and sylph-like.
“On the ensuing morning, after breakfast, Julia had just put on her bonnet and shawl to go out for the purpose of calling upon her various patronesses and enquiring whether they needed her services, when the landlady of the house in which she lodged, entered the room and said, ‘Miss Murray, a gentleman wishes to speak to you: he will not walk up to your apartment, as he does not know whether you may choose to receive him here; and he is accordingly waiting in my parlour.’—A ray of hope flashed to the mind of the young woman: what if it were the unknown who had given her the gilt counter? The suspicion was strengthened by the delicacy of his behaviour in not ascending to her chamber; for, during the brief discourse which she had with him on the night so fatal to her, he had manifested a disposition quite in accordance with the propriety of conduct and considerate proceeding adopted by the individual who now waited to see her. Telling Harry that she should not be long, Julia hurried down stairs; and in a few moments she found herself in the presence of the individual who was uppermost in her thoughts. Yes:—it was indeed he—the unknown,—the same tall, handsome man,—and enveloped, too, in a cloak richly lined with sables. He was about eight-and-twenty years of age; and there was something noble and commanding, though gracious and encouraging, in his air and demeanour. The moment Julia made her appearance, he rose from the chair in which he had been seated, and taking her hand, said in a tone of the most earnest sincerity, ‘Miss Murray, I know not in what terms to express the shame and grief which I experience at the misfortune that has overtaken you. It was not until I saw this mornings newspaper, that I even dreamt of the mistake—the dreadful mistake I had made: and the instant the case met my eyes, I hurried hither. The explanation which I have to give, you can of course anticipate:—I had purchased some gilt counters only half-an-hour before I met you in Hanover Square, and I put them loose into the same pocket which contained my money.’—‘I never for an instant imagined, sir,’ said Julia, ‘that you had purposely trifled with my feelings.’—‘Generous young woman, to put such a construction upon a matter which has caused you so much suffering!’ exclaimed the unknown. ‘But it is now my duty to accompany you at once to the police-court, and place your character in the same honourable light in which it originally stood.’—Julia was overjoyed at this announcement; and the gentleman, giving her his arm, escorted her to the police-court, calling however on the baker in their way to desire him to attend immediately before the magistrate. During the walk, the stranger asked the young woman a great many questions—not of an impertinent nature, nor denoting an idle curiosity,—but rather evincing an interest in the orphan girl. It however struck Julia as somewhat singular that he did not put a single query to her relative to the spoilt dress: it seemed as if he had quite forgotten that incident!
“On their arrival at the police-office, the gentleman immediately handed his card to the magistrate, to whom he whispered a few words at the same time; and his worship became all civility and politeness. The case was called on without a moment’s delay: the gentleman concisely but effectually explained the affair of the gilt counter; and the magistrate, on declaring Julia to be discharged, assured her that she would leave the court without the slightest stain on her character. The stranger placed ten pounds in the magistrate’s hands for the use of the poor-box, and then departed in company with Julia, whom he escorted back to the house in which she dwelt. On reaching the door, he paused, and taking her hand, said, ‘Miss Murray, I shall not insult you by offering a pecuniary recompense for the mortification, annoyance, and distress you have undergone through that gilt counter. But I shall endeavour to serve you in another way. Farewell for the present: you will shortly see me again; for, be assured,’ he added, gazing earnestly upon her for a moment, ‘I shall never forget you.’—Thus speaking, he pressed her hand and hurried away;—and it was not until he had disappeared from her view that she remembered she was still in profound ignorance of who or what he was. It, however, struck her that the case would be again reported in the newspapers; and she therefore hoped that the morrow would clear up the mystery. But it was with some degree of anxiety and painful suspense that she thus awaited the publication of the journals of the ensuing day;—and she could not account to herself for the feelings that thus agitated her. Although her character had been completely cleared from the imputation thrown upon it, and her innocence was made unquestionably apparent,—although she had ample funds, through the generosity of Lady Caroline Jerningham, to provide for all present wants,—and although a secret voice seemed to whisper in her soul that she possessed a good friend in the stranger-gentleman,—yet, somehow or another, poor Julia was not entirely contented. Was it that the handsome countenance of her unknown benefactor had made any impression on her heart?—was it that his kind and sympathising conduct had touched a tender chord in her pure and innocent bosom? It is impossible to answer these questions at present: but it is very certain that Julia experienced a disappointment almost amounting to a positive shock, when she found that the morning papers seemed to be in as much ignorance as herself relative to her unknown benefactor. The report merely alluded to him as ‘a gentleman whose name did not transpire;’—and this mystery in which her friend evidently wrapped himself, became a source of secret trouble to the young dress-maker. Wherefore had he not revealed his name to her? Disreputable that name could not be; else how could it have produced so magical an effect upon the magistrate? Was it, then, a great—a famous—or a noble name? Julia sighed—and dared not hazard any conjectures: but in her heart there suddenly appeared to arise a hope—a secret wish, that the stranger was not so very highly exalted above her own social sphere!