“Or I might have represented the facts to the family; and while the mother mourned the death of her son, she must have felt some commiseration for myself.
“The officer asked me to live with him, and made the prospect he held out to me so glittering and fascinating that I yielded. He declared he would marry me with pleasure on the spot, but he would forfeit a large sum of money, that he must inherit in a few years if he remained single, and it would be folly not to wait until then. I have forgotten to mention that I had not any children. My constitution being very delicate, my child was born dead, which was a sad blow to me, although it did not seem to affect the man I regarded as my husband. We soon left Baden and returned to London, where I lived for a month very happily with my paramour, who was not separated from me, as his leave of absence had not expired. When that event occurred he reluctantly left me to go to Limerick, where his regiment was quartered. There in all probability he formed a fresh acquaintance, for he wrote to me in about a fortnight, saying that a separation must take place between us, for reasons that he was not at liberty to apprise me of, and he enclosed a cheque for fifty pounds, which he hoped would pay my expences. It was too late now to go home, and I was driven to a life of prostitution, not because I had a liking for it, but as a means of getting enough money to live upon. For ten years I lived first with one man then with another, until at last I was infected with a disease, of which I did not know the evil effects if neglected. The disastrous consequence of that neglect is only too apparent now. You will be disgusted, when I tell you that it attacked my face, and ruined my features to such an extent that I am hideous to look upon, and should be noticed by no one if I frequented those places where women of my class most congregate; indeed, I should be driven away with curses and execrations.”
This recital is melancholy in the extreme. Here was a woman endowed with a very fair amount of education, speaking in a superior manner, making use of words that very few in her position would know how to employ, reduced by a variety of circumstances to the very bottom of a prostitute’s career. In reply to my further questioning, she said she lived in a small place in Westminster called Perkins’ Rents, where for one room she paid two shillings a week. The Rents were in Westminster, not far from Palace-yard. She was obliged to have recourse to her present way of living to exist; for she would not go to the workhouse, and she could get no work to do. She could sew, and she could paint in water-colours, but she was afraid to be alone. She could not sit hours and hours by herself, her thoughts distracted her, and drove her mad. She added, she once thought of turning Roman Catholic, and getting admitted into a convent, where she might make atonement for her way of living by devoting the remainder of her life to penitence, but she was afraid she had gone too far to be forgiven. That was some time ago. Now she did not think she would live long, she had injured her constitution so greatly; she had some internal disease, she didn’t know what it was, but a hospital surgeon told her it would kill her in time, and she had her moments, generally hours, of oblivion, when she was intoxicated, which she always was when she could get a chance. If she got ten shillings from a drunken man, either by persuasion or threats, and she was not scrupulous in the employment of the latter, she would not come to the Park for days, until all her money was spent; on an average, she came three times a week, or perhaps twice; always on Sunday, which was a good day. She knew all about the Refuges. She had been in one once, but she didn’t like the system; there wasn’t enough liberty, and too much preaching, and that sort of thing; and then they couldn’t keep her there always; so they didn’t know what to do with her. No one would take her into their service, because they didn’t like to look at her face, which presented so dreadful an appearance that it frightened people. She always wore a long thick veil, that concealed her features, and made her interesting to the unsuspicious and unwise. I gave her the money I promised her, and advised her again to enter a Refuge, which she refused to do, saying she could not live long, and she would rather die as she was. As I had no power to compel her to change her determination, I left her, lamenting her hardihood and obstinacy. I felt that she soon would be—
“One more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death.”
In the course of my peregrinations I met another woman, commonly dressed in old and worn-out clothes; her face was ugly and mature; she was perhaps on the shady side of forty. She was also perambulating the Mall. I knew she could only be there for one purpose, and I interrogated her, and I believe she answered my queries faithfully. She said:—
“I have a husband, and seven small children, the eldest not yet able to do much more than cadge a penny or so by cater-wheeling and tumbling in the street for the amusement of gents as rides outside ’busses. My husband’s bedridden, and can’t do nothink but give the babies a dose of ‘Mother’s Blessing’ (that’s laudanum, sir, or some sich stuff) to sleep ’em when they’s squally. So I goes out begging all day, and I takes in general one of the kids in my arms and one as runs by me, and we sell hartifishal flowers, leastways ’olds ’em in our ’ands, and makes believe cos of the police, as is nasty so be as you ’as nothink soever, and I comes hout in the Parks, sir, at night sometimes when I’ve ’ad a bad day, and ain’t made above a few pence, which ain’t enough to keep us as we should be kep. I mean, sir, the children should have a bit of meat, and my ole man and me wants some blue ruin to keep our spirits up; so I’se druv to it, sir, by poverty, and nothink on the face of God’s blessed earth, sir, shou’dn’t have druv me but that for the poor babes must live, and who ’as they to look to but their ’ard-working but misfortunate mother, which she is now talking to your honour, and won’t yer give a poor woman a hap’ny, sir? I’ve seven small children at home, and my ’usban’s laid with the fever. You won’t miss it, yer honour, only a ’apny for a poor woman as ain’t ’ad a bit of bread between her teeth since yesty morning. I ax yer parding,” she exclaimed, interrupting herself—“I forgot I was talking to yourself. I’s so used though to this way of speaking when I meant to ax you for summut I broke off into the old slang, but yer honour knows what I mean: ain’t yer got even a little sixpence to rejoice the heart of the widow?”
“You call yourself a widow now,” I said, “while before you said you were married and had seven children. Which are you?”