"Nor would anyone. The thing was well arranged, and artfully carried out."

"I suppose they will send for _you_ now."

"Not at all. That is only a sham to get rid of your attendance. The husband will be given to understand that you were hurriedly called in, and that, my a.s.sistance being unneeded, they did not think it worth-while troubling me."

After consulting with Dr. P. for a considerable time and putting the case in different lights, we came to the conclusion that it would be as well now to let matters take their course. Any interference on our part would only have raised a great public scandal, and rendered both Mr.

and Mrs. Quintin miserable, without benefiting anyone, so we allowed the poor man to believe that his prayers were answered, and that the beautiful girl he fondled was really his own.

Time rolled on, the baby being baptized in due course and known by the name of Edith Quintin. As she grew older, both Mr. and Mrs. Quintin became pa.s.sionately fond of her, the latter being as much attached to the little girl as if she were her own daughter. When the child was about twelve years old, Mrs. Quintin, who had gradually grown more and more delicate, began to feel that she must, ere many months had pa.s.sed, finally succ.u.mb to the disease which was gradually gnawing at her vitals, and the deception she had practised on her husband was a source of great discomfort and annoyance to her. She called on me in great grief, and, having informed me concerning that of which (as the reader knows) I was well aware, implored me to give her counsel and advice. She was surprised to hear that I had already learnt all from Dr. P----; for, although she, of course, knew that _I_ was not blinded by her subterfuge, she was not aware that I knew all concerning the method adopted by her, and when she learned that both the doctor and myself had forborne to inform on her, she was visibly affected, and thanked me on her knees.

I advised her to break the matter to her husband, and not to die with such a load on her conscience, but she avowed that she had neither the strength nor the courage to do so, and importunately besought me to undertake the painful task. When Mr. Quintin learnt the truth he was of course greatly shocked, and at first was bitter in his denunciations at his deceitful wife. His better judgment, however, was soon brought to bear in the matter, and he was moved rather to pity her misfortune than to punish her for her fault. He knew that her judgment erred solely in order to retain his affection, and when he looked at her pale face and emaciated form, and thought of the agony and suffering, both mental and bodily, which the poor creature had endured, he willingly forgave her, and, though sadly disappointed and sorely smitten, did what he could to rea.s.sure her.

Edith meanwhile had developed into a beautiful girl, and had she really been, as she believed herself, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Quintin, she could not have been more beloved by them. The former enjoined me never to reveal the secret of her birth to his daughter as he called her, and so her life, at least, was not darkened in the least by the knowledge of the truth.

When Edith was about seventeen years old Mrs. Quintin finally yielded to the ravages of that dread destroyer, consumption. The poor girl wept sadly and bitterly at the loss of her mother, the only one indeed the poor child had ever known, and poor Quintin wept sadly as he thought of his wife's brief and unhappy career. He removed with his daughter into furnished lodgings, not wishing the child to be burdened too soon with the cares of house-keeping. What he would not allow her to do for him, however, she soon became very anxious to do for another, and the days of her mourning were not long pa.s.sed when she became the happy wife of a young man named Wentworth, bookkeeper in one of the leading hardware firms in Montreal. She has now children of her own, and the youngsters'

greatest delight is to gather round their grandfather's knee while he astonishes them with stories. To them nor to no one else, however, has he told, even as I have done, the story of the frail shop-girl, who from being young and handsome, and the belle of her circle of acquaintances, became a wretched and deceitful woman, diseased both in body and mind, and finally sank into a premature grave.

Out on this heartless, brutal system, and the thoughtlessness and ignorance which permit it! I hope the narrative given above may cause some of those at least who engage in this barbarous system to pause and give the great problem of life, capital and labor, a few moments thought that they may see the error of their way, and that poor Esther Quintin may not have died in vain.

CHAPTER VIII.

The Two Orphans

One evening, about a dozen years before the introduction of the present system of fire alarms into Montreal, crowds might be seen hurrying along that part of the city known as Little St. James street, towards the scene of an immense conflagration. Several fire engines were throwing strong streams of water on the burning ma.s.s, but, the evening being windy, the fire swept all before it, and soon reduced several buildings to ashes.

In one of these resided Mr. Wilson, Notary Public, and his two daughters, the eldest a beautiful girl about 9 years old, the other aged nearly 8. When the fire commenced they were seated calmly at the tea-table, partaking of their evening meal, but, so sudden was the holocaust which burst with tremendous fury around them that they had not the slightest warning till they were surrounded with dense volumes of smoke The two girls rushed forward to the window, and screamed for a.s.sistance, while the old man endeavored to gather some of his most valuable papers together and throw them into the street.

Amongst the crowd who a.s.sembled were two young men, clerks, named Wilgress and D'Alton respectively. Taking in the situation at a glance, they sought hastily for ladders, and placing them against the burning windows, mounted bravely through the flames, each seizing a girl round the waist, and carrying her in safety to the ground. Their clothes were almost completely destroyed, while their faces were grimed and scorched, still, nothing daunted, they looked up to see if anything more could be done; they espied the old man at one of the windows with a parcel in his arms. Quick as thought Dalton mounted the ladder once more, going through the flames like a salamander, and, taking the parcel from the old gentleman, tried to induce him to descend the ladder. Poor old Wilson, however, could not bear to leave so much that was valuable while a chance of saving it remained, and so, rushing wildly back into the burning building, he was soon lost to sight. A cry arose from the crowd as they saw him disappear once more, and several hardy youths sprang up the ladders, determined to bring him out by force, but, ere they could enter the flaming pile, a loud shriek met their ears as the floor gave way, hurling the poor old notary into the dreadful pit of fire. All efforts to do anything further were now unavailing, and the firemen directed their energies to protecting the neighboring buildings, and preventing the fire from spreading.

The young men were at first puzzled what to do with the two girls whom they had rescued, and who were now orphans, without parents, money, or even clothes, but some Sisters of Charity, who had witnessed the heroic action, came forward and offered to take them in charge. The good sisters took the children to the convent, and provided them with both food and clothes, intending to educate them and bring them up in the Catholic faith, but some Protestant ladies, members of the congregation to which Mr. Wilson had belonged, having heard of the affair, induced the clergyman to call and obtain possession of the orphans, they undertaking to provide the cost of their maintenance, or to find them homes in Protestant families.

By the time the Rev. Mr. Flood called at the nunnery the children had dried their tears, and were beginning to feel quite at home. The Sister in charge, however, saw at once the correctness of the Clergyman's action, and agreed to give the girls up as soon as he had made arrangements for their reception elsewhere. In a few days they were sent for, and each was adopted by a different family; Cissie, the elder, was taken in charge by a childless minister, residing in St. Albans, in the State of Vermont, while Lillie, the younger sister was adopted by a farmer from the neighborhood of Varennes.

Many years pa.s.sed away and the two girls were grown up, and were both uncommonly good looking, Lillie being then just seventeen, and as handsome a girl as one could wish to see. Then circ.u.mstances, however, were not the same, for while Cissie had received a good education, and had in every way the manners of a lady, Lillie could not even read with facility, and writing was with her and utter impossibility. The people who had adopted her were Irish settlers, who, though comfortably off, knew little beyond the cultivation of potatoes and the care of pigs.

About this tame Cissie Wilson, tired of the monotony of life at St.

Albans, determined to make an effort to "see the world," as she called it, and earn her own living; and, as her adopted father remonstrated with her in rather a hasty manner, she collected her effects together, and, one day while the old man was out, started for Montreal. She left a note for him, informing him of her destination, and warning him not to attempt to stop her, as she had determined, at all hazards, to carry out her intention. Miss Wilson had been several times in Montreal, and had several acquaintances there, among them a Miss Wood, whose father had a position in the Telegraph Office. To Miss Wood's, therefore, she repaired, and, being welcomed with the usual number of kisses, she requested the young lady to persuade her father to procure a situation as telegraph operator or something of the kind, as she was determined to earn her own living. This the young lady promised to do and succeeded so well that Miss Wilson was soon installed in a tolerably good position, earning enough money to maintain and clothe herself respectably.

Things went on smoothly enough for a time, Miss Wilson spending most of her leisure time with her friend, Miss Wood, or sitting quietly at home arranging such dresses and finery as her scanty income permitted her to indulge in. After some months, however, she began to make more friends, and being invited frequently out, and made much of because of her beauty and accomplishments, she soon became madly eager for the means of dressing herself like the rest, and making the conquests she knew she could make, were she only to have equal terms with her rivals.

This pa.s.sion for dress and jewellery soon became deep-seated; were she only well dressed, what could she not achieve. She had, in her anxious endeavors to make a good impression in society, deprived herself even of necessaries sin order to procure a fashionable ball-dress and outfit, and these were now no longer fit for active service. While musing over this circ.u.mstance one evening, as she walked home to supper, she chanced to meet Anna Smith, who had been the belle at the last ball, her fine dress and showy jewellery having completely eclipsed the more solid and modest beauty of the poor telegraph girl. Miss Smith inquired casually if Cissie were going to the Oddfellows' ball, an affair which was then on the _tapis_, and when the latter answered in the negative, explaining that her small salary would not allow her to purchase the necessary finery, Miss Smith laughed and called her a silly little goose. Taking her by the arm, Anna then let her into a secret, and explained how she obtained all she required, and indeed could, out of the abundance of her stores, fit out Miss Cissie, whom she chose to consider her protegee.

She urged Cissie not to miss the ball on any account, and reminded her that she had already obtained a decided advantage over Miss Williams, Miss Hunt and Miss Jones, and that with such an outfit as she would lend her the victory would be complete.

Cissie was for a moment shocked. She had been several times offered presents by gentlemen of her acquaintance, but had always resolutely declined to take them, having an instinctive feeling which warned her against their acceptance. She could not bear now to wear the dresses proffered by Miss Smith, and momentarily made up her mind not to go to the ball at all. Then again her heart failed her as her companion glibly ran over the names of those who were to attend, and Cissie thought how she would like to enter the room on Horace Gibson's arm in the presence of Miss Williams and the rest. Horace Gibson was a clerk in the Bank of Montreal who had invited Miss Wilson to the ball, and was to receive her answer that evening. As luck would have it, that young gentleman approached just as the girls were rounding the corner of the street, and, raising his hat in salute, inquired if he was to have the pleasure of taking Miss Wilson to the ball. Cissie hung her head, and was just about to offer some excuse, when Miss Smith answered for her:

"Oh, yes, _of course_ she'll go, and be the best dressed and best looking lady in the room too."

"If you have taken her up, I am sure she will be at least the _second_ best as regards get up," responded Mr. Gibson, conveying an indirect compliment to Miss Smith herself, who was celebrated for the elegance of her attire. Cissie could not utter a word. After all, she thought, there can be no harm in borrowing a dress from a young lady! It was not for her to inquire how that lady was able to purchase so many dresses; and then, as she looked at the handsome young man before her, and thought how her rivals would bite their lips with envy to see her in her elegant out-fit, the blood rushed into her temples, and with an impetuous bound she burst away from both her companions and entered the house, saying to Mr. Gibson: "Yes, I'll go; call for me at nine to-morrow."

Till late night Cissie sat in her rocking-chair, her hands pressed over her throbbing temples; at length wearied nature came to her relief, and compelled her to retire to bed. Being fatigued, she soon fell fast asleep, and on the morrow when she awoke, although she remembered clearly all that had pa.s.sed on the previous evening, she had not the same sensitive feelings, or the same sharp p.r.i.c.kings of conscience, and, as she walked towards the office, she began to antic.i.p.ate the ball with the greatest pleasure.

As Miss Smith had said, Cissie, beautiful before, was ten times as beautiful now that she was adorned with all that art could do in the matters of dress and jewellery. Miss Williams fairly gnashed her teeth with envy, and left the hall shortly after ten o'clock, disgusted with _that thing_ from the telegraph office, while the gentlemen eagerly sought for an introduction to the acknowledged belle of the ball-room.

Miss Smith was as proud of Cissie's success as if it had been her own.

With all her faults the girl possessed a good heart, and in doing as she did fancied she was doing the innocent country girl a kindness in opening to her the highway to fame and fortune, even though it were reached by the gate of dishonor.

It is needless to give in detail the particulars of Cissie Wilson's career; suffice it to say, that the brilliant triumph at the Oddfellows'

ball was too much for her weak nature. She plunged headlong into the vortex of worldly pleasure and excitement, and, having little time or inclination for reflection, became in time quite habituated to this peculiar mode of life, always maintaining outwardly, however, a moral and respected appearance.

All this time, the reader may well ask, what had become of Lillie, the younger sister? She had been remarkably successful in her country home, having at her feet the hands and hearts of all the most eligible young men for miles round. This at one time would have gratified her utmost ambition; but her sister's letters from Montreal made her dreadfully anxious to join her in her whirl of exciting pleasures, and, with the understanding that her sister would obtain her employment in Montreal, Lillie, at the age of eighteen, came to the city.

She was not long in her new home till her sister unbosomed to her many things of which she had previously been in ignorance, and promised to introduce her to the _creme de la creme_ of her worldly companions, urging her to endeavor to acquire these graces and accomplishments which she had failed to learn in her country home. Lillie soon became more popular even than her sister; for, although she was not so well educated, she was naturally clever and witty, and there was a vivacity and freshness about her conversation, which, added to her beautiful face and perfect figure, made her a charming and desirable companion.

One day Mr. D'Alton, one of the gentlemen who had rescued the two girls from the fire, was walking along Notre Dame street, when he observed a beautiful girl, rather showily dressed, promenading just in front of him. Something in the girl's manner attracted his attention, and, as he pa.s.sed her, he turned round, and carefully scanned her face. As he did so the girl looked up and their eyes met; he, raising his hat, blurted out an apology, saying he had mistaken her for another lady of his acquaintance named Brown. "Oh," said she, laughing, "my name is Lillie Wilson."

On hearing this name D'Alton started, and, having questioned her closely concerning her antecedents, asked her if she remembered the fire, and the two gentlemen who rescued herself and her sister; and, although she had altogether forgotten his appearance, she remembered the circ.u.mstance perfectly. They walked together for a little while, and then he asked her permission to visit her at her address, and was astonished to find that she objected, for some strange reason, to do so. At length, bursting into tears, she confided to him her whole history, informing him that she had been seduced and betrayed, and was at that moment _enceinte_. This disclosure, as may well be supposed, staggered D'Alton not a little, but at the same time he became more and more interested in the girl, and offered, if she would promise to give up her corrupt mode of life that he would do his best to see her through her present difficulty. Calling on me, he consulted with me as to what was best to be done under the circ.u.mstances, explaining that, although he was willing to do all in his power for the girl for the sake of old a.s.sociations, yet that he did not wish to peril his own reputation.

I promised to do what I could for the girl, and calling on her was informed that her paramour was an officer in the Rifle Brigade, who had returned to England, leaving her to bear the burden of their crime.

Having procured suitable lodgings, I saw the girl comfortably housed, and in due time she gave birth to a fine little boy, which, as usual in these cases, was sent to the nunnery to be taken care of by the good Sisters of Charity.

Mr. D'Alton did not come to visit Miss Wilson during her convalescence but, after she was completely recovered he called frequently, taking her to theatres and concerts, and sometimes in the winter to sleigh-rides.

What his intentions at first may have been I do not know; I certainly think that but for his friends he would openly have married her; be that as it may, in a short time it became apparent that they had both overstepped the bounds of ordinary friendly intercourse, and that Mrs.

Rushton (as she now called herself) would soon require my services a second time. This time she gave birth to a beautiful girl, and, before many years were past, there followed another girl and boy. These children were not, as in the former case, sent to the nunnery, but were retained and brought up by their mother, she being smart enough to perceive that by doing so she would maintain a hold on their father, and secure for herself, if not a respectable, at least a comfortable position, Mr. D'Alton having been successful in business, and being at that time one of the leading brokers in Montreal.

For a time things went on this way, D'Alton visiting his mistress frequently, and becoming pa.s.sionately fond of the children, whom Mrs.

Rushton artfully used to influence him on all occasions. To do her justice, it must be said that she never, either in thought or action, was untrue to D'Alton, and that, whatever her past career might have been, she lived at this time a quiet life, indeed, caring only for her husband (as she called him) and her children. By the time the little boy was two years old, both mother and children had so ingratiated themselves in Mr. D'Alton's affections, that he determined, come what might, to marry his mistress, and so make their future offspring at least legitimate.

He was weary of his irregular mode of life, and, being comparatively wealthy, longed for some place which he could call his home. His wife could hardly mix in society, even could she obtain an _entree_ to that realm of prudery and hypocrisy, but he cared for no society better than that of herself and his children, and his bachelor friends, of whom he had not a few, would, even if they did know or surmise the truth, exercise a more liberal spirit, particularly while the wine in his cellar maintained its reputation. Accordingly, he one day astonished and delighted Mrs. Rushton with the proposal that he should marry her; and that they should live together openly. As may be supposed, the lady unhesitatingly accepted the proposal, and accordingly they were married, formally and legally in St. George's Church, which, at that time was situated in St. Joseph street, on the site now occupied by Messrs.

Ligget & Hamilton's large dry goods store. Mr. D'Alton took a house in a new portion of the city, and as they lived very quietly, receiving no calls, except from business friends of Mr. D'Alton, the neighbors did not trouble themselves much about them, or inquire concerning their antecedents.

Although her husband did not trouble himself whether his wife was or was not received into society, Mrs. D'Alton felt it very keenly. She had not, like him, drank the cup of life's pleasures till it tasted insipid or even nauseous; on the contrary, she looked on the pomps and vanities of society as only a woman can look on them, and now that she was legally respectable, and rich enough to keep pace with even the most fashionable of her neighbors, it made her very heart ache to think that these scenes of brightness were closed to her as much as ever. She thought of what she might have been had she not in her ambitious haste gone off the right track; and, pained with bitter reflections, and with no one to speak to or converse with (for her husband spent most of his time at the club) she solaced herself, as others in her predicament have done, with the cup of forgetfulness, sinking deeper and deeper at every step, till the habit became confirmed.

Although Mrs. D'Alton had taken her husband into her confidence, and told him truthfully her history, she had not sufficient strength of mind to tell him how ignorant she really was, and that she could not even read and write with accuracy. Her letters to her husband had been written by her nursery-governess, engaged ostensibly to instruct the children; but in reality to act as amanuensis for the lady of the house.

The young lady thus engaged was at first rather averse to signing her mistress' name to her letters without adding her own initials, but the present of a handsome broach and earrings soon quieted her sensitive conscience and she soon fell into the plan, not being unwilling to make use of such a powerful lever for obtaining largesses from Mrs. D'Alton.

In time this young lady became so overbearing that her mistress fully made up her mind to discharge her, but a summer trip to Portland being then on the tapis, she allowed her to have her own way, as Mr. D'Alton remained in Montreal, and would naturally expect letters from his wife during her absence. She would have dismissed the governess and engaged another, trusting to her own pleadings and the powerful appeals of her purse to win her over, but the handwriting would not be the same, and she would not for worlds have allowed her husband to think she had deceived him.

The day came for their departure for Orchard Beach, where Mr. D'Alton had taken a cottage for their use. The children were in great glee as they antic.i.p.ated surf bathing and digging in the sand, but Mrs. D'Alton was moody and down-hearted, the exhilarating effects of a large potion of brandy having worn off and a reaction set in; her husband, however, attributed it to sorrow at her separation from him, and was rather gratified to think she was so deeply affected.

They arrived at her destination in due course, and were comfortably ensconced in the cosy little cottage. Miss Watson, the governess, dressed herself up, and with the children departed for the promenade, and Mrs. D'Alton was left to her own reflections. The thought of her past career, of the opportunities gone for ever, and lastly of the predicament she was now in, shunned by all respectable people, and despised by her own paid servant, who felt her power, and was disposed to wield it unmercifully. The brandy-bottle, her never-failing companion, was by her side, and as she mused mopingly over her sins, she took from time to time copious draughts of the potent spirits, regardless of its power to do otherwise than to rob her of these racking memories of the past. In about two hours the promenaders returned and found her lying back speechless in her chair, the bottle and gla.s.s by her side; her eyes rolled wildly as she gazed vacantly on her children, but she was unable to utter a word.

Miss Watson became alarmed and summoned a doctor immediately, who, on entering the room, perceived at once the cause of Mrs. D'Alton's malady, and ordered her to be conveyed to bed. In the morning she was a little better, being able to speak; but she was still very much shaken, and raved incoherently. Mr. D'Alton was telegraphed for, and came immediately; but, being merely informed that his wife had had a fit, he imagined her to be afflicted with hysteria; indeed, although he knew she was fond of a gla.s.s of wine, and often joined him in partaking of brandy and water, he had no idea that she imbibed to such an extent.

In a few days Mrs. D'Alton was able to go out again, and, as during her husband's stay at Orchard Beach she was particularly abstemious, she was able to a.s.sociate with the ladies in the hotel, and made several acquaintances, who, seeing that she had the dress and manners of a lady, interchanged calls with her and invited her to visit them in Montreal.

On her return to her home, however, these ladies received her but coldly, and when she gave a large party, inviting all those whom she had met at the seaside, "they all, with one accord, began to make excuse,"

and at entertainment there was present, besides herself and the family, only a sister of the governess, and one or two bachelor friends of Mr.

D'Alton. Dancing was of course out of the question, so they organized two whist parties, and, with a little music, managed to drag along till supper, which was served in Joyce's best style, and looked unnecessarily elaborate for the small number who were to partake of it.