Chapter CXLII: The Dress-Maker: a Love Story (1)

“It was between nine and ten o’clock on a dark and rainy night, in the month of November, 1834, that a young female, plainly but decently attired, was wending her way along Oxford Street. She had a large parcel beneath her cloak;--and this parcel she protected against the rain with the most jealous care,--thinking more, in fact, of the object of her solicitude than of picking her path with sufficient nicety to enable her to avoid the puddles of water that were ankle-deep in some parts of the pavement--but more especially at the crossings. For, in sooth, it was a bitter--bitter night:--the windows of heaven appeared to be indeed opened, and the rain fell in torrents. The streets seemed to be positively covered in with an arcade of umbrellas, on which the quick drops rattled down with the violence of hail. The young female whom I have mentioned, had an umbrella;--but she found it rather a difficult task to hold it comfortably with one hand, while her left arm encircled as it were the precious parcel beneath her cloak. For the passengers in the streets of London are never over remarkable for their civility to each other--still less so on such a night as the one I am describing. The consequence was that there was an incessant struggle amongst the strong to push their umbrellas safely through the mass, and amongst the weak to prevent their own umbrellas from being dragged out of their hands;--but it naturally happened that the latter fared the worst.

“The young female was meek, timid, and unobtrusive. She only sought to be permitted to pursue her way in peace, without being molested;--for, heaven knows! she had not the least desire on her part to inconvenience a soul. But first some rude, hulking fellow would thrust her against the houses--almost through the shop windows; then, if she moved over to the kerb-stone of the pavement, she found herself speedily pushed into the mud. To pursue a middle course was impossible; because the two streams of persons carrying umbrellas were the monopolists there;--and so the young female began to lament the necessity which had sent her forth into the streets on such a night as this. At length she reached the iron gates leading into Hanover Square; and she rejoiced--for she thought within herself that she had now got clear of the crowd, and need entertain no farther apprehension of having the precious parcel knocked out of her hands. But just as she entered the Square, a rude, coarse fellow rushed against her as he was running hastily round the corner; and such was the violence of the concussion, that the parcel was knocked from beneath her arm. The ruffian who had caused the accident, burst into a ferocious laugh, as if he had just performed a most humorous or clever feat, and darted away. But the young female was disconsolate at what had occurred; and tears started into her eyes. Though bruised and hurt by the man’s violence, she thought not of herself--she felt no pain:--it was on account of the parcel that she was so deeply grieved. Hastily picking it up, she hurried to the nearest lamp; and the moment she examined the packet beneath the gas-light, she found her worst apprehensions confirmed. For the parcel contained a costly silk dress, well wrapped up in brown paper;--but the side on which it had fallen was dripping wet and covered with mud!

“‘O heavens! no food _again_ to-night!’ exclaimed the young female aloud--for in her despair she paused not to notice whether she were noticed or overheard. And she _was_ both noticed and overheard,--and by a tall, handsome individual, of gentlemanly appearance, and muffled in a capacious cloak. He had issued from the nearest house at the moment the accident occurred; and, perceiving the brutality of the encounter, though too late to prevent it or to chastise the perpetrator, he stood still to observe the young female, whose countenance, as the rays of the lamp fell upon it, struck him as being remarkably beautiful. In that rapid survey, partial as it was by the flickering light, which was moreover dimmed by the mist of the falling rain, the stranger fancied that he perceived--independently of the despair which that countenance now wore--a certain settled melancholy expression, that at once rivetted his interest and excited his sympathies. But when those words--so terrible in their meaning,--‘O heavens! no food _again_ to-night!’ fell upon his ears, he accosted the young female, and said, in a tone of respectful though somewhat condescending pity, ‘My poor girl, it appears that a sad accident has befallen you.’--The young woman, or rather girl--for she was not more than eighteen years of age--looked up into the face of the individual who thus addressed her; and, perceiving that it was no insolent coxcomb who spoke, she replied in a tone of deep melancholy, ‘Yes, sir: it is to _me_ a great misfortune!’--The stranger read, or fancied he read, an entire history in those few and plaintively uttered words,--how, perhaps, a young dress-maker had toiled to finish a particular piece of work in the hope of receiving instantaneous payment on taking it home,--how the article had been thrown down, soiled, and rendered at least unfit to be delivered that night to its owner, even if it were not spoilt altogether,--and how the poor girl had lost her only chance of obtaining the wherewith to procure a meal. Upon more closely, though still with great delicacy, questioning the young female, the stranger found all his surmises to be correct; but she could not tell whether the silk dress were injured beyond redemption or not. ‘In any case,’ she added, still weeping bitterly, ‘I shall tell the lady the truth when I take home the dress to-morrow.’--These words, uttered with the most unquestionable sincerity, made a deep impression upon the gentleman who was addressing her; for they denoted an unsophisticated uprightness of character which augmented the interest he already felt in the poor young creature.--‘And who is the lady you speak of?’ he enquired.--‘The Dowager Marchioness of Wilmington,’ was the reply.--‘Ah!’ ejaculated the stranger: then, after a moment’s pause, he said, ‘Pardon me, young woman, for having asked you so many questions: but it has not been through motives of idle curiosity. Here is a small sum that will procure you immediate necessaries;’--and thrusting a coin into her hand, he hurried away. The deed took the poor girl completely by surprise;--for although it has occupied me some time to relate all that passed between her and the generous stranger, yet in reality their dialogue was of scarcely more than two minutes’ duration; and the dress-maker had not yet recovered from the grief into which the accident to her parcel had plunged her. When, therefore, the light of the lamp flashed upon a bright yellow coin, she could scarcely believe her eyes:--she fancied that her benefactor had made a mistake, and intended to give her a shilling,--and then, in spite of the cold night, the warm blood rushed to her cheeks, at the idea of any one treating her as a mendicant--for she had her little feelings of pride, poor though she were! But her next thought was that the stranger might really have intended to present her with a sovereign; and--so strange a sentiment is human pride, even in the most virtuous bosoms--her soul revolted not from receiving that amount. And now, lest this circumstance should induce you to form an evil opinion of my heroine, I must inform you that it was no selfish nor avaricious feeling that made her draw a distinction between the gift of a shilling and that of a sovereign:--but she had been tenderly and genteelly brought up--and the comparison which her mind drew, was simply as between the alms that one would toss to a mendicant, and the pecuniary aid which a delicate benevolence would administer to a person in temporary embarrassment.

“Of all these things she thought as she retraced her way along Oxford Street,--holding her umbrella with her right hand, and with her left arm encircling the parcel more carefully than before. She came to the conclusion that the sovereign was not given by mistake; and she resolved to avail herself of the bounty which Providence itself had appeared to bestow upon her in the hour of her bitterest need. She thought of the little brother who was anxiously expecting her return, and who had fared so scantily for the last few days,--that little brother of only eight years old, whom the sudden, premature, and almost simultaneous death of their parents, about two years previously, had left so completely dependant upon her! As she drew near the street in which she lived, she stopped at the baker’s where she was accustomed to deal, and purchased some nice buns;--and then she hurried on until she reached the house wherein she rented a small back room on the third floor. On entering the little chamber, which, though poorly furnished, was very clean and neat, a beautiful boy, with light brown curly hair and fine blue eyes, but with cheeks somewhat pale, sprang towards her, exclaiming ‘Oh! dear sister Julia, I am so glad you have come back: for I cannot bear to be left alone so long!’--‘I have brought you something nice, Harry,’ said the kind girl, smiling sweetly upon him; and, she placed the bag containing the buns in his hand. Joy sparkled in his eyes;--but in another moment he observed that his sister had brought back the parcel, which she had opened, and was carefully examining the silk-dress to ascertain the amount of injury done to it. Throwing the cakes upon the table, the boy hastened to question her; but poor Julia could not answer him--scalding tears were trickling down her cheeks--a suffocating grief filled her bosom,--for she found, to her dismay, that the dress was completely spoilt!

“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!

“Again was Julia preparing to sally forth and visit the various ladies for whom she was accustomed to work, when her landlady brought her up a note. It was from Lady Caroline Jerningham, requesting Miss Murray to call upon her in the evening at a stated hour, as her ladyship had a quantity of work to place in her hands. The young maiden was overjoyed at the receipt of this missive, which not only promised her employment, but likewise seemed to be an assurance of the tender interest which the charming Lady Caroline had taken in her. She did not therefore stir out until the evening;--and little Harry was delighted that his sister remained at home with him. But when the appointed hour drew near, she tranquillised her brother with a promise of a speedy return; and away she sped, with a heart full of hope, towards Hanover Square. On reaching the splendid mansion occupied by the Dowager-Marchioness, Julia was received by Lady Caroline’s own maid, and was forthwith conducted to the chamber of her fair patroness, who treated her in the most kind and condescending manner. ‘I regret, Miss Murray,’ she said, ‘that I am forced to admit you thus stealthily into the house; but my mother is of a peculiar temper, although in reality possessed of a good heart.’--‘I understand your ladyship,’ returned Julia: ‘the Marchioness cannot forgive me for what she considers neglect. I am however deeply grateful to your ladyship for thinking otherwise, and for giving me such substantial proofs that you entertain so favourable an opinion.’--‘My dear Miss Murray,’ observed Lady Caroline, ‘I will do any thing I can to serve you; for I can well imagine how grateful must be the sympathy of a friend to one who is acquainted with sorrow!’--These words were uttered with almost a mournful emphasis, as if the fair speaker craved that sympathy and friendship for herself which she proffered to another;--and Julia could not help regarding her with mingled surprise, gratitude, and tender interest. They were alone together--that elegant patrician lady and that beautiful milliner,--the maid having retired; and it appeared as if a species of sisterly feeling suddenly sprang up between them, inspiring them with mutual confidence, and for the time annihilating the barrier that social distinctions had raised up between them in the eyes of the world. Thus was it that when Lady Caroline saw Julia’s looks fixed upon her in so earnest and plaintive a manner, she felt herself irresistibly urged to respond to that tacit yet eloquent proffer of sympathy and affection. ‘Ah! my dear Miss Murray,’ she said, ‘you must not imagine that unhappiness exists only with those who have to toil for their daily bread. Perhaps, indeed, their lot is preferable to that of the rich who have causes of grief;--for _you_ have a constant occupation which allows little leisure for disagreeable reflection; whereas _I_ have so much time----’.--Lady Caroline checked herself, turned away, and hastily passed a handkerchief across her face. She had perhaps said more than she intended: for, from speaking of the richer and poorer classes in general terms, she had been carried into personal illustration of the truth of her remarks by pointedly placing herself and Julia in juxta-position. Miss Murray, though totally devoid of artfulness, was yet endowed with an intellect keen enough to perceive this fact: and she now learnt, then--as indeed she had previously suspected--that Lady Caroline was unhappy. But it was not for her to invite a revelation of the fair patrician’s cause of sorrow: she therefore remained silent.

“‘Julia,’ said her ladyship, suddenly turning towards her again, and taking her hand as she thus spoke,--‘Julia,’ she repeated, in an earnest, appealing tone, ‘I will be a friend to you; but it may happen that I also shall require the aid and sympathy of a friend----’; and, once more checking herself, she sighed profoundly.--‘I would serve you night and day, dear lady!’ exclaimed the young milliner, pressing to her lips the hand which still grasped her own.--‘I have not read your disposition inaccurately, dearest girl,’ responded Lady Caroline: then, assuming a more cheerful tone, she said, ‘Be it understood, we are friends! And now you must leave me, as my mother will be enquiring after me.’--Julia received a parcel containing a variety of costly stuffs, which she was to make up into dresses for her fair patroness, and which would furnish her with work for at least a month; and, as she was leaving the room, Lady Caroline said, ‘My own maid will call upon you every Saturday evening and bring away whatever you may have finished, until the whole be complete.’--They then separated, Lady Caroline pressing Julia’s hand warmly at parting; and the young dressmaker hurried homeward, her heart beating with joy at the kindness which she had experienced and the friendship she had formed. ‘After all,’ she murmured to herself, as she ascended the stair-case to her chamber, where little Harry was sitting up to await her return.--‘after all, the adventure of the spoilt dress has proved a service, rather than an injury, to me: and perhaps,’ she added,--but it was her heart, and not her lips, that now spoke,--‘the affair of the gilt counter may likewise bring me good luck!’

“Julia now addressed herself to the work of which she had such profusion; and while she sate plying her needle, with little Harry playing about the room, she often thought of the handsome unknown. Every day, after the frugal dinner, she took her brother out to walk for an hour, that a little exercise and fresh air might benefit them both; and, of an evening, when she laid aside her work, she gave him instruction in many useful branches of education. During the day, too, he learnt his lessons; and never did she suffer him to go out alone into the streets--no, not even on the slightest errand. In fact, this excellent young woman took as much care of her little orphan brother as if she had been his parent, instead of his sister; and it was a charming as well as touching sight to behold them repairing to the parish church on a Sabbath-morning,--each attired with so much neatness, and yet in a plain and unobtrusive manner. Well, three weeks had passed since the interview between Julia and Lady Caroline; and on each Saturday evening her ladyship’s maid called to receive and pay for the work that was finished. The domestic was sure to have some pretty present from her mistress for Julia, and a handsome toy--such as a transparent slate, or puzzle, or a miniature carpenter’s tool-box--for Harry; and the grateful milliner sent back her kindest but most respectful regards to her good patroness. But during those three weeks she had neither seen nor heard any thing of the handsome stranger;--and yet, had he not promised that he would shortly call again? Wherefore should he call? Julia never paused to ask herself that question;--but she did sometimes admit, within the secret recesses of her own heart, that she thought it somewhat unkind he did not fulfil his promise, after the distress she had endured in consequence of the mistake he had made respecting the gilt counter. One day the landlady tapped at Julia’s door; and, on being desired to enter, the good woman informed her that ‘_the gentleman in the cloak_,’ was waiting in the parlour below. A blush instantly spread itself over Julia’s cheeks; whereupon the landlady said in a low but impressive tone, ‘you need not be ashamed of an honest attachment, Miss; and I know you are too good a girl to form any other. In fact, I told the gentleman what an excellent creature you were, and how well you behaved to your little brother.’--‘You told him all _that_?’ exclaimed Julia, looking up in a surprise mingled with secret pleasure, while the blush upon her beauteous countenance deepened.--‘Certainly I did, Miss,’ replied the landlady: ‘but not to-day. It was when he called on account of that unpleasant little affair, you know; and before he sent me up to fetch you down, he asked no end of questions about you; and he seemed so pleased when I told him that you were such a good, industrious young person, and so kind to your orphan brother; and how you kept yourself so quiet and respectable, having no acquaintances scarcely, and certainly no visitors except your lady-customers or their maids.’--‘But the gentleman did not ask all those questions?’ said Julia, in a hesitating manner and with a tremulous voice, while her heart palpitated with emotions of unknown pleasure.--‘Indeed he did, Miss,’ returned the landlady. ‘But, dear me! now I think of it, he charged me not to tell you that he had asked any thing at all concerning you: and by the same token, he gave me a sovereign to hold my tongue in this respect; and therefore, Miss, you must not even _look_ as if you knew a syllable of what occurred on that occasion. I am sure he is some great person in disguise; and I am also certain that he has fallen in love with you.’--Julia’s countenance now became scarlet; and she was about to make a remonstrative reply, when little Harry, who began to grow impatient of so much mysterious whispering between his sister and the landlady, approached them, saying, ‘Is any thing the matter, dear Julia?’--‘Nothing, my darling boy,’ was the cheerful reply: ‘I shall return in a few minutes;’--and Julia hastened down stairs, the landlady remaining with Harry.

“Though the young maiden endeavoured to compose herself as much as possible, yet all that the landlady had told her rushed to her mind with renewed force and stronger significancy just as she crossed the threshold of the parlour and appeared in the presence of _the gentleman in the cloak_. He observed her confusion--noticed the blush that mantled on her cheeks--and, mistaking the cause said, as he took her hand, ‘I am afraid, Miss Murray, that you consider it indiscreet for me thus to pay my respects to you; and indeed, that fear has prevented me from calling sooner.’--Julia started, cast down her eyes, and made no reply; for in her artless innocence, it had never before struck her that, an evil construction might be placed upon the visits of the gentleman: but now the conviction that such was indeed the result to be apprehended, was forced--yes, painfully forced--upon her sensitive mind. The stranger read what was passing in her imagination; and if he were delighted to observe that the danger which he had specified was previously unsuspected by her ingenuous soul, he was not the less gratified to acquire the certainty that her pure thoughts were shocked by the idea of compromising her reputation.--‘Fear not, Miss Murray,’ he continued, again taking her hand; ‘I should be the last person on the face of the earth to do you a wilful injury in any way. I have merely called, as in duty bound, to assure myself that you have perfectly recovered from the effects of the distressing ordeal through which you were compelled to pass in consequence of my carelessness. But innocence, Miss Murray,’ he added, emphatically, ‘will invariably triumph in the long run; and virtue will not ever languish unrewarded. Your exemplary conduct, Miss Murray, must sooner or later be adequately recompensed: your tenderness towards your orphan brother must ensure for you the esteem and respect of all liberal and honest persons. May I request, as a particular favour, that you will presently call on Mr. Richardson, the solicitor, in Berners Street, close by; as I know that he has some tidings, of rather an agreeable character, to impart to you.’--With these words, the stranger pressed the young maiden’s hand, and respectfully took his leave of her.