The Mysteries of London. George W. M. Reynolds
with my needle until my energies were wasted, my eyes grew dim, and my health was sinking fast. Oh! my God, I only asked for work;—and yet, at length, I lost even that resource! Then commenced a strange kind of life for me."
"A strange kind of life, Ellen—what mean you?" exclaimed Greenwood, now interested in the recital.
"I sold myself in detail," answered Ellen, in a tone of the deepest and most touching melancholy.
"I cannot understand you," cried Greenwood. "Surely—surely your mind is not wandering!"
"No: all I tell you is unhappily too true," returned the poor girl, shaking her head; then, as if suddenly recollecting herself, she started from her thoughtful mood, and said, "You have a plaster of Paris image as large as life, in the window of your staircase?"
"Yes—it is a Diana, and holds a lamp which is lighted at night," observed Greenwood. "But what means that strange question—so irrelevant to the subject of our discourse?"
"More—more than you can imagine," answered Ellen, bitterly. "That statue explains one phase in my chequered life;"—then, sinking her tone almost to a whisper, grasping Greenwood's hand convulsively, and regarding him fixedly in the countenance, while her own eyes were suddenly lighted up with a strange wildness of expression, she added, "The face of your beautiful Diana is my own!"
Greenwood gazed upon her in speechless astonishment: he fancied that her reason was unhinged; and—he knew not why—he was afraid!
Ellen glanced around, and her eyes rested upon a magnificent picture that hung against the wall. The subject of this painting, which had no doubt struck her upon first entering that room, was a mythological scene.
Taking Greenwood by the hand, Ellen led him towards the picture.
"Do you see any thing that strikes you strangely there?" she said, pointing towards the work of art.
"The scene is Venus rising from the ocean, surrounded by nereids and nymphs," answered Greenwood.
"And you admire your picture much?"
"Yes—much; or else I should not have purchased it."
"Then have you unwittingly admired me," exclaimed Ellen; "for the face of your Venus is my own!"
Greenwood gazed earnestly upon the picture for a few moments; then, turning towards Ellen, he cried, "True—it is true! There are your eyes—your mouth—your smile—your forehead—your very hair! How strange that I never noticed this before. But—no—it is a dream: it is a mere coincidence! Tell me—how could this have taken place;—speak—is it not a mere delusion—an accidental resemblance which you noticed on entering this room?"
"Come with me," said Ellen in a soft and melancholy tone.
Still retaining him by the hand, she led him into the landing place communicating with the drawing-room and leading to the stairs.
A magnificent marble statue of a female, as large as life, stood in one corner. The model was naked down to the waist, one hand gracefully sustaining the drapery which enveloped the lower part of the form.
"Whence did you obtain that statue!" demanded Ellen, pointing towards the object of her inquiry.
"The ruin of a family long reputed rich, caused the sale of all their effects," answered Greenwood; "and I purchased that statue, amongst other objects of value which were sold, for a mere trifle."
"The lady has paid dearly for her vanity!" cried Ellen: "her fate—or rather the fate of her statue is a just reward for the contempt, the scorn—the withering scorn with which she treated me, when I implored her to take me into her service."
"What do you mean, Ellen?"
"I mean that the bust of your marble statue is my own," answered the young lady, casting down her eyes, and blushing deeply.
"Another enigma!" cried Greenwood.
They returned to the drawing-room, and returned their seats upon the sofa.
A long pause ensued.
"Will you tell me, Ellen," at length exclaimed Greenwood, deeply struck by all he had heard and seen within the last half hour—"will you tell me, Ellen, whether you have lost your reason, or I am dreaming?"
"Lost my reason!" repeated Ellen, with fearful bitterness of tone; "no—that were perhaps a blessing; and naught save misery awaits me!"
"But the image—the picture—and the statue?" exclaimed Greenwood impatiently.
"They are emblems of phases in my life," answered Ellen. "I told you ere now that my father and myself were reduced to the very lowest depths of poverty. And yet we could not die;—at least I could not see that poor, white-haired, tottering old man perish by inches—die the death of starvation. Oh! no—that was too horrible. I cried for bread—bread—bread! And there was one—an old hag—you know her—"
"Go on—go on."
"Who offered me bread—bread for myself, bread for my father—upon strange and wild conditions. In a word I sold myself in detail."
"Again that strange phrase!" ejaculated Greenwood. "What mean you, Ellen?"
"I mean that I sold my face to the statuary—my likeness to the artist—my bust to the sculptor—my whole form to the photographer—and——"
"And—" repeated Greenwood, strangely excited.
"And my virtue to you!" added the young woman, whose tone, as she enumerated these sacrifices, had gradually risen from a low whisper to the wildness of despair.
"Ah! now I understand," said Greenwood, whose iron heart was for a moment touched: "how horrible!"
"Horrible indeed!" ejaculated Ellen. "But what other women sell first. I sold last: what others give in a moment of delirium, and in an excess of burning, ardent passion, I coolly and deliberately exchanged for the price of bread! But you know this sad—this saddest episode in my strange history! Maddened by the sight of my father's sufferings, I flew to the accursed old hag: I said, 'Give me bread, and do with me as thou wilt!' She took me with her. I accompanied her, reckless of the way we went, to a house where I was shown into a chamber that was darkened; there I remained an hour alone, a prey to all the horrible ideas that ever yet combined to drive poor mortal mad, and still failed to accomplish their dread aim;—the hour passed—a man came—you know the rest!"
"Say no more, Ellen, on that head: but tell me, to what does all this tend?"
"One word more. Hours passed away, as you are well aware: you would not let me go. At length I returned home. My God! my poor father was happy! He had met an angel, while I had encountered a devil——"
"Ellen! Ellen!"
"He had gold—he was happy, I say! He had purchased a succulent repast—he had spread it with his own hand—he had heaped up his luxuries, in his humble way, to greet the return of his dear—his darling child. Heavens! how did I survive that moment? how dared I stand in the presence of that old man—that good, that kind old man—whose hair was so white with many winters, and whose brow was so wrinkled with many sorrows? I cannot say how passed the few hours that followed my return! Flower after flower had dropped from the garland of my purity—that purity in which he—the kind old man—had nurtured me! And then there was the dread—the crushing—the overwhelming conviction that had I retained my faith in God for a few hours more—had I only exercised my patience until the evening of that fatal day, I had been spared that final guilt—that crowning infamy!"
Ellen covered her face with her hands, and burst into an agony of tears. Deep sobs convulsed her bosom; she groaned in spirit; and never had the libertine by her side beheld female anguish so fearfully exemplified before.
Oh! when fair woman loses the star