She was speaking to Rachel Trant, who had laid aside her work to speak with the good friend who had come, as she often did, to see how she was going on and to cheer her.
"Life is very cruel," she returned. "Neither sorrow nor repentance can alter its pitiless law.
"Still, there are compensations." Katherine did not exactly think what she was saying; her mind was filled with the desire of knowing her interlocutor's story.
"Compensations!" echoed Rachel. "Not for those who deserve to suffer, nor, indeed, often for the innocent. I don't think we often find vice punished and virtue rewarded in history and lives—true stories, I mean—as we do in novels."
Katherine did not reply at once; she thought for a moment, and then, looking full into Rachel's eyes, said: "I wonder how you came to be a dressmaker? You have read a great deal for a girl who must have had her hands full all day. I am not asking this from idle curiosity, but from real interest."
"I may well believe you. I should like to tell you much; but—" She paused and grew very white for a second, her lips trembling, and a troubled look coming into her eyes. "I always loved reading," she resumed; "it has been almost my only pleasure, though I was apprenticed to a milliner and dressmaker when little more than sixteen. Then I went to work with another, a very great person in her way, and I like the work. Still I used to think I was a sort of lady; my poor mother certainly was."
"I am sure of it," cried Katherine, impulsively. "I quite feel that you are."
"Thank you," said Rachel, in a very low voice, the color rising to her pale cheek. "My mother was so sweet and pretty," she continued, "but so sad! I was an orphan at ten years old, and then a very stiff, severe-looking woman, the sister of my father, had charge of me. I was sent to a school, a kind of institution, not exactly a charity school, for I know something was paid for me. It was a very cold sort of place, but I was not unhappy there. I had playfellows—some kind, some spiteful. One of the governesses was very good to me, and used to give me books to read. Had she remained, things might have been very different; but she left long before I did. The rare holidays when I was permitted to visit my father's sister were terrible days to me. She could not bear to see me. I felt it. She seemed to think my very existence was an offence. I was ashamed of living in her presence. Of my father I have a very faint recollection. He died abroad, and I remember being on board ship for a long time with my mother. When I was sixteen my father's sister sent for me, and told me that the money my mother left was nearly exhausted, and what remained ought to provide me with some trade or calling by which I could earn my own bread; that she did not think I was clever enough to be a governess, so she advised my to apprentice myself to a dressmaker. I had seen enough of teaching in school, so I took her advice. At the same time she gave me some papers my mother had left for me. They fully explained why my existence was an offence—why I belonged to nobody. It was a bitter hour when I read my dear mother's miserable story. I felt old from that day. Well, I thanked my father's sister—mind you, she was not my aunt—for what she had done, and promised she should never more be troubled with me. I have kept my word."
Katherine, infinitely touched by the picture of sorrow and loneliness this brief story conjured up, took and pressed the thin quivering hand that played nervously with a thimble. Rachel glanced at her quickly, compressed her lips for an instant, and went on:
"I will try and tell you all. You ought to know. As far as work went, I did very well. I loved to handle and drape beautiful stuffs—I enjoy color—and it pleased me to fit the pretty girls and fine ladies who came to our show-rooms. It was even a satisfaction to make the plain ones look better. I should have made friends more easily with my companions but for the knowledge of what I was. Even this I might have got over—I am not naturally morbid—but I could not share their chatter and jests, or care for their love affairs. They were not bad, poor things! but simply ordinary girls of a class to which it would have been, perhaps, better for me to belong. With my employers I did fairly well. They were sometimes just, sometimes very unjust; but when I was out of my time, and receiving a salary, I found I was a valued employee. Then it came into my mind that I should like to found a business—a great business. It seemed rather a 'vaulting ambition' for so humble a waif as myself. But I began to save even shillings and sixpences. I tried to kill my heart with these duller, lower aims, it ached so always for what it could not find. I began to think I was growing so useful to madame that she might make me a partner; for even in millinery mental training is of use." She stopped, and clasping her hands, she rested them on her knee for a few moments of silence, while her brow contracted as if with pain. "It is dreadfully hard to go on!" she exclaimed at length, and her voice sounded as if her mouth were parched.