# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 110

CHAPTER XXXIV.
POVERTY.
It is an awful thing how we forget The sacred ties that bind us each to each. Our pleasures might admonish us, and say, Tremble at that delight which is unshared; Its selfishness must be its punishment. All have their sorrows, and how strange it seems They do not soften more the general heart: Sorrows should be those universal links That draw all life together.
"It is of no use asking me to stay," said Lavinia to the manager: "you know that I never do any thing but what I choose!"
"You need not tell me that," interrupted the other; "but, if you had any sense, you would choose to do what I ask. I have ​promised the Duke of Bolton that you should sup with us to-night."
"I would not come," replied the actress, "if it were only to teach you not to make promises for me; but I cannot waste any more time talking to you!"
"His grace will go frantic with disappointment!" continued the manager; "that last ballad of yours completely turned his head! Indeed, if you would but play your cards properly, there is no saying what might happen!"
"Well," cried she, "since you have so brilliant an idea of my future prospects, perhaps you will, on the strength of them, advance me another week's salary!"
"Indeed I will not!" replied her companion; "you are already more in advance than I ever before allowed any of my company to be; and, as to your prospects, why you are throwing them away!"
"Well, well, it does not matter, and I won't keep you from supper. You may tell the duke, that we value things in proportion to ​the trouble that they give us, and that is the reason why I always give as much as I can!"
So saying, she hurried off; but the tears were in her eyes, and her hand trembled as it drew her cloak round her. She was soon in the dimly-lighted streets, made more dreary by a small heavy rain that was falling. Life is full of strange contrasts; and who that could have seen—weary, yet walking as fast as she could, for she had a long way to go; faint, for of late she had debarred herself common necessaries; cold, for the rain soon pierced her thin cloak—who would have believed that she was the brilliant actress who, not an hour since, was the gaze of every eye, while the whole house rang with applause?
"Ah, there is still light!" muttered she, as she stopped before a shop, whose shutters were, however, closed, but through which came the glimmer from within. She paused for a moment on the threshold, as if reluctant to enter.
"The only memorial I shall soon have of ​him—his gift!" said she, in a low sad whisper; and then, with the haste of one who makes a sudden resolution, with which they are almost afraid to trust themselves, she rapped loudly at the door. There was a moment's silence, then whispering within, and a voice asked—
"Who's there?"
"Oh!" replied Lavinia, "you know me very well; let me in, I have a locket you must take to-night, or you shall not have it to-morrow!"
It was a locket that Walter Maynard had given her immediately after her appearance in his comedy; one of the incidents turned upon a locket, and she had made, what is theatrically called, a hit in the scene. A heavy step approached the door; a sound was heard, as of a falling chain; then bolt after bolt was withdrawn, and at last the actress was admitted, and the door was instantly closed after her. It was a pawnbroker's shop, that last receptacle of human wretchedness—wretchedness that takes the most squalid and ​degrading form; over the door might be written Dante's "Lasciate Speranza!" for, truly, hope never enters there.
The various articles exhibited in the windows during the day, had been removed for greater security, and there only remained a blank. But the glass cases on the counter still sent forth a sort of dull glitter; they were filled with various ornaments, some pretty, though mostly tarnished by time, but each telling some little history of a happier hour. Still this was the least oppressive portion of the establishment; ornaments, even though hallowed by affection, are vanities; and, though even vanity be reluctantly parted with, it is but a brief pang. I believe there is not a woman in the world that would hesitate to part with the most costly toy in her possession, to save but an annoyance from the object she loved: but there were, collected together, evidence of far heavier sacrifices. There were cords passed along the ceiling, from whence hung articles of wearing apparel of the most common description, things that spoke of ​every-day use, and there was one whole line of little children's frocks; moreover, in one corner appeared, piled up, a large heap of blankets.
There is something fearfully wrong in what we call our highly civilized state of society, when poverty can be permitted to take the ghastly shapes of suffering that it does. It is enough, if we did but think, to make the heart sick, when we know the misery, the abject misery, which surrounds us in this vast city; and we might tremble to consider how much might be prevented—prevented both by individual and by general exertion. We are seated, perhaps leaning, in an easy chair, out feet on the fender, doing nothing or some light work, which is only an amusement; our meals have gratified not only hunger, but taste; we are under the pressure of not one single want; and yet, within an hundred yards from our door, there is a wretch dying of cold and hunger!
No one can deny the wide and ready benevolence which prevails in our country; but ​while the misery exists, that no one can deny does exist, there must be some want of either will or judgment. Too many people confound charity with donation; they are satisfied with having given the most ready vent to the generous impulse; they have gratified at once a high and a low feeling—the kindness, and, I fear, also the ostentation. That is not charity which goes about with a white pocket handkerchief in the hand, and is followed by a flourish of trumpets! No, charity is a calm, severe duty; it must be intellectual, to be advantageous. It is a strange mistake that it should ever be considered a merit; its fulfilment is only what we owe to each other, and is a debt never paid to its full extent.
It is a most difficult art to give; for if, in giving, we also give the habit of dependence, our gift has been that of an evil spirit, which always proves fatal. What we should seek to give are, habits, not only of industry, but of prudence: to look forward, is the first great lesson of human improvement. In the assistance hitherto offered to those in need, the ​self-respect of the obliged has been too much forgotten: we have degraded, where we should have encouraged. The remedy lies with time, and with knowledge; but there must be much to redress in the social system, which has luxury at one extreme, and starvation at the other.
Lavinia approached the counter with her usual careless air; and, laying down the locket, named its price. There were two men in the shop—brothers, from their obvious likeness—sallow, with sharp features, to which no possible change could bring any other expression than a sort of dull cunning. The eyes were small, and of a dead filmy black; they said nothing, even when fixed upon you. One of the brothers never moved from the high desk at which he was seated. He gave one cautious glance at the visitor; and, after that, never looked from his paper. The other took the locket, examined it. carefully, and laid it down, saying, in a voice that closely resembled the hissing of a snake—
"You ask too much!"
​ "Nay," replied the actress, "it is worth far more!"
"We may keep it by us," replied the pawnbroker, "for months; there is no demand for such articles."
"But," exclaimed she, eagerly, "I shall soon redeem it!"
"So you all say," returned the man, with imperturbable coolness.
"Ah!" cried Lavinia, "I will answer for redeeming it in a month '"
"We hear the same story every day," was the answer.
"But I shall have plenty of money in a few weeks!" interrupted Lavinia.
"Then you will not care for your old ornaments: you will go and buy new!" replied the man.
The actress laughed out, with something of the recklessness that was part of her nature. The man looked up in dismay from his desk, the one behind the counter opened his small black eyes with a gaze of stupid wonder—laughter was there such an unfamiliar sound.
​ "Well," continued she, "there is a good deal of truth in what you say; so, what will you give me?"
The man named about a tithe of the value of the article; her countenance fell as she said, in a hollow whisper, "I suppose I must take it!"
The pawnbroker took the locket, carefully put it aside, slowly counted out the money, still more slowly filled up the small printed ticket, and then passed money and card into Lavinia's hand, to whose impatient temper the delay had seemed interminable. She hurried off, and the door was closed; and, bolt after bolt, drawn after her. The rain poured in torrents, and she was wet through before she arrived at the door of the small inn in the city, which was her destination.
"I must dry myself," said she, approaching the kitchen fire, "before I go into his room."
She took off her cloak, wrung the rain from her long and dripping hair; and, while doing so, caught sight of herself in the small piece ​of glass which, put like a slate into a wooden frame, hung on a nail.
"I have forgotten to wipe off my rouge," muttered she; "a pretty figure I look, with these red streaks!" she took her handkerchief and removed the stains, then you saw that the cheek was pale and hollow. She stood before the fire for some time, though every gesture betrayed her impatience. When the landlady came in, she called her, and placed in her hands a small sum of money. "This is last week's bill!"
The woman half hesitated to take it, but she was very poor herself; as she took it she said, with great kindness, "I have been sitting with him, but he is very bad to-night!"
Lavinia started! "I am quite dry, the damp can do him no harm now;" so saying, she hurried up the narrow staircase to a small room, where, on a wretched bed, lay Walter Maynard!
There was the end of all his glorious fancies—of all his lofty aspirations. The poetry, which had so often made real life seem like a ​dream, had now reached its last dark close. Never more would the voice of the charmer, Hope, reach his ear, charm she never so wisely. Poor, neglected, and broken-hearted, Walter Maynard was dying.