THE NEW MONTHLY BELLE ASSEMBLÉE. MARCH, 1848. THE YOUNG WIDOW, AND THE GOLD LOCKET. (By the Author of "The Traduced," "The Eventful Epoch," &c. Of all descriptions of shops in this our shopridden capital, there is not one which supplies so much material for thought, or which is associated with so many of the humanities of life, as the shop of the pawnbroker. The common passenger hurries heedlessly by the three gilt balls-the immemorial sign of the mart which extracts the honey of wealth from the poison-flowers and stagnant pools of want and misery. But ah! did he reflect how many have entered within those half-open enticing doors, driven to their last shift, or filled with divers unutterable passions, his step would be less light, his heart would quake within him: he would see the once wealthy spendthrift hurrying there to "raise the wind" on his last article of plate-the card-playing, gambling lady in disguise, creeping there to deposit her jewels, on which mine uncle supplies her with the means of venturing one good rubber more: he would see the drunkard, with unabashed front, lounge in, and receive on his silver pencil-case, or silk handkerchief, just enough to enable him in the nearest tavern to lose his reason over his worshipped bottle. But honesty, too, and virtue, pressed down by misfortune, enter as frequently the pawnbroker's shop. To these mine uncle sometimes proves a real friend, though not often designedly so; for, true to the great principle of human nature, he first serves his own interest, and then, if circumstances permit, he will clear out a little corner of his heart for the transitory sojourn of pity, or it may be real sorrow, for the miseries of so large a portion of his fellow-kind. Broken hearts pass that threshold-pride bowed to the dust-absolute starvation, ruin, despair! Oh yes, there is a world of feelings and passions haunting the purlieus of pawnbroker's shops in London. Thoughts of suffering hearts that now may have ceased to beat, and living images of pale beings, hover like ghosts about us, as we pass the ominous region. We scarcely know how it is, but we can never see a pawnbroker's shop without being somewhat excited, or falling into a fit of sombre meditation. In the dingy window of an emporium of the description above-named, situated in a street north of Brunswick-square, might have been seen some time ago a gold locket. It was handsomely chased, and set with stones of some beauty, so that the price ticketed on it (thirty shillings) might not have much exceeded its real value. It happened one morning, as we were walking by, to attract our attention. "Ah!" we thought, as a shred of dark hair made itself visible beneath the glass, "ten to one but some tale of suffering, privation, or perhaps base ingratitude, might be told by that locket, did it possess the power of speech." What did the trinket there? why had it passed out of the hands of the original owner? It was evidently designed as a memento of affection; but the trust had been betrayed-love had been profaned; and for sordid money, a few shillings, the gift of a distant friend, or even of the dead, had been surrendered up-parted with for ever! Alas! alas! there must be callousness of feel ing, baseness here; or destitution and want of no common description had laid their lean hands on their victim, forcing him or her to a deed which the secret heart might condemn and mourn in vain. Again and again passing the shop, we observed the locket, the sacred bequest of the departed-for so our fancy declared it-ticketed for thirty shillings; but no one seemed inclined to become a purchaser. Our curiosity, far from being diminished by the frequent sight of the trinket, grew more strong, and our imagination tantalized us by calling up a variety of scenes, now dark and now pathetic, in connexion with the bauble. We would learn its history; how to do it was the question, for pawnbrokers keep K their secrets. By a little perseverance, and by means we need not trouble the reader by explaining, we accomplished our end. The brief history, then, is as follows: Near the bottom of Gray's-inn-road, and on the right hand as the wayfarer proceeds with his face towards Battle Bridge, there stands a row of old houses, which look peculiarly dark and forbidding, contrasted with the statelier new stuccoed domiciles rising in the immediate neighbourhood. Here, in a single room, on the top story, did Margaret pass the first months of her widowhood. From the small lattice behind, she could see the few trees which, a very short time since, flourished around the once famous well of St. Chad. Barbarous hands have now, we believe, utterly destroyed that fount of sweet Margaret Glindon was the daughter of a country squire: she married young and imprudently, and utterly against the wishes of her parents, inasmuch as the match was considered greatly beneath her. The father, though chiefly at the instigation of his second wife (Margaret's step-mother) cast her off, renounced her, erased her name from his will, and in spite of every prayer, and much humiliation on the part of the young married people, he remained inex-water, whose virtues were so highly prized by orable. the citizen of London in olden days. Yet the Margaret and her husband had fled to Lon- benevolent saint is not it would seem, entirely don, and the latter, with some difficulty, ob- forgotten, for his holy name appears on a row of tained a situation as junior clerk in a banking-houses, and a cow-keeper has painted it above house. The tale of struggles with the withering his door, inviting custom to "St. Chad's fiend poverty, of the love of two faithful hearts Dairy." bound up in each other, and the more so because isolated, and all unregarded by the rest of the world, is an every-day story in our great metropolis. The Malthusian may denounce early and imprudent marriages, and the philanthropist sigh for the woes they too frequently entail; but such have been, are, and still will be, so long as beauty and mind's worth have any power over man's poor yielding nature-so long as love, with its magnetic chain, draws heart to heart, and hope and fancy, looking beyond stern realities, paint to the eyes of the enamoured a paradise within the sweet world of their united destinies. Margaret had one child when her husband's health, injured by the arduous duties connected with his situation, began to decline. Like many other young men similarly circumstanced, he never thought of the expediency of insuring his life until it was too late. Consumption had laid hold of its victim before he made application, and then no office would accept him. So Walter Summers died, and she who had loved him to idolatry found herself a widow at the early age of twenty-four, friendless, penniless, and cast upon the great world of London. The father and step-mother had indignantly repelled Margaret during the life-time of her husband: would they relent now? She acquainted them with her deplorable situation. The step-mother entirely governed the infatuated old squire, and, at her dictation he returned a harsh and bitter answer. Margaret had dared them, and set their wishes at nought, in the day of her happiness; now misery had come upon her, and she must suffer the just penalty due to her disobedience. Margaret did not rend into fragments the cruel and unnatural letter, but she covered it with her tears, and, falling on her knees, confessed her sorrows merited. Yet she invoked the shade of her departed husband, and felt that, were the past all to be gone through again, she should act as she had done: for what was the hope of worldly honour and aggrandizement, when weighed in the balance with love such as hers? At the moment we view Margaret, she is not looking from the lattice just-named-very different indeed is her occupation. She sits at her small table, busily engaged with her needle, for the young widow gains a precarious and scanty livelihood by taking in plain-work. As she appears in sombre weeds, the white cap drawn closely around her beautiful face, pale, still, and reflective, we might well imagine ourselves gazing on a nun-a St. Cecilia. The child, a rosy urchin about three years of age, is amusing himself by attempting sundry impossible evolutions on the carpet-yes, there is a carpet now; and though its circumference is nearly bounded by the outer edge of the round claw-table, it gives a decent and comfortable aspect to the room. "One year-one year to-morrow," sighed the poor labourer; and the work, as she pursued the train of thought which occupied her mind, dropped from her hands. Tear after tear stole down her cheek, and she made no effort to wipe them away. "One little year-one terrible, one agonizing year since he closed his eyes, and said farewell-but not for ever. Oh! that farewell was not for ever-no, no, no!" She suddenly sank on her knees, and raised her clasped hands on a level with her head; her bosom heaved beneath her black dress, and with difficulty she restrained herself from bursting into loud sobs. The child ceased his play, and creeping up to his mother, clung to her, apparently in less sorrow than affright. Alas! alas! what could he know at that unconscious age of a bereaved mother's affliction, or his own loss? "Let me get it; it will soothe me. Yes, yes, always feel better after gazing at it." I She moved to a box in a corner of the room, and drew forth something that had been carefully deposited in its recesses. It was a gold locket set with stones, and contained some of the hair of her late husband; it had been given to her by him during the days of their courtship, and she treasured that memento of a love which could not die, as a precious, a blessed, a holy thing: rather, she thought, would she part with her own heart's blood, than that bauble and tiny shred of hair! Ah! and is it not passing beautiful and consolatory to be able to keep something of the departed loved ones, that shall be palpable to the sense-something that will not change-that, while all beside fast moulders to its original earth, is saved from the clutches of death, the corroding damp of the all-destroying tomb? Yes, we sometimes think the hair was created on purpose to survive Nature's decay, and preserve to the living a particle of those gone before-a sweet, unalterable souvenir-a visible link between us and the grave. How much the heart might pour forth, contemplating a lock of hair! the paper is coarse, for the letters seem traced by a wooden skewer rather than a pen. The words are as follows: "Mrs. Tomkins rites this here to prevent mistakes; so that Mrs. Summers shan't say, by no owed now a matter of eight shillin' and six pince for means, she an't had reglar notice. Mrs. Tomkins is rint; so unless Mrs. S. pays the cash in full, and no more ixcuses, she must quit the apartment she's now in this day week." The day intimated in the above notice arrives to-morrow, and Margaret is not provided with the money. Whither shall she go with her sick Margaret leaned back in her seat; she held child? This is the thought, the perplexing the treasured locket at some distance from her, strait which fills her heart with agony. Her furlooking and looking, as if her heart were de-niture (for she had furnished her own room), vouring it, her very soul transfusing itself into its small compass. Gradually she drew it nearer, and pressed it passionately to her lips: she whispered to it, as though it were some living and sensible object, and quiet melancholy smiles played over her pale and now tranquilized features. She strained her child to her breast, but still her eyes were riveted on that token of love it had become her companion, and it seemed ever to utter to her fancy a still small voice from the grave" Margaret, though my mortal part decay, I have not forgotten you: my spirit is with you still." : Another year has passed. The young widow still occupies the room in that little house near the forgotten well of St. Chad. It is evening, and she is alone with her child; but a change has come over the appearance of the room, as well as herself. The neat mahogany table has disappeared, its place being supplied by one of coarse deal. Chimney ornaments no longer adorn the mantelpiece. Instead of the cottonwick candle, a miserable farthing rushlight drips and flickers before her. Where is the small, but decent piece of carpet? There is no longer any in the room: the boards are bare and cold; the pallet in the corner has not a fragment of furniture, and an old gown and shawl are thrown over the single coarse blanket, beneath which is the straw mattress. Everything, in short, or rather the absence of everything which ought to be there, betokens privation, and the last strait of poverty. Margaret's face, though still pretty, is careworn and thin, and dark haloes surround the painfully prominent eyes. Her figure, while it is not bent or ungraceful, is reduced almost to a skeleton; and her slight fingers, as they are half buried in her hair, may almost be said to have been worked by the needle literally to the bone. On the mattress the child is asleep, not rosy now, but with a face of a cadaverous and sickly hue; a half-emptied phial of medicine near confirms the natural surmise-it is ill. And there sits the mother, anxiously watching her little one's slumber; but her eye at times glances towards a slip of paper which lies on the table, and the anguish it expresses seems, if possible, increased by that survey. The hand-writing on except the miserable relics we have mentioned, had been sold or pawned; every superfluous article of dress, also, had disappeared. Sickness, while it increased her expenses, had prevented her from applying so closely as usual to her work, and at all times the remuneration she received for her labour was lamentably small. Margaret suddenly started out of the bitter train of thought in which she had been indulging. She took the gold locket from her bosom; yes, that still remained in her possession: she could not, dared not part with that. Sacred pledge! which had been given by hands now dust! how had the sight of this bauble supported her-how had it soothed her through the long, long hours of labour and sorrow! Yet it was the last thing left capable of being converted into money. Oh! that look of distress and perplexity!-why scruple we to say it?for the first time a certain idea crossed her mind. She arose, looked around the wretched room, then on her sick child; "He wants the nourishment the doctor speaks of," she whispered; "and I cannot get it. To-morrowto-morrow," she continued, shuddering," turned out of the house to wander homeless in the streets! Oh, God! father of the widow and the orphan, support me!" She sank upon her half-broken stool, and stooped her face upon her hands: she did not sob or groan, but the tears might have been seen trickling, one by one, through her thin fingers. "Now Mrs. S.," exclaimed a voice, as the door of the room was unceremoniously opened, "I'm come in a quiet way like, just to ask if you're likely to pay me the cash to-morrow; for if you an't, I must tell you as a friend that I can't afford to lose my money. Oh, I'm very calm, I am; you needn't be frightened. I only gives you peaceable warning! If I an't got my eight-and-sixpince by twelve o'clock to-morrow, the broker will take your sticks!" "What, ma'am, the bed where the poor sick child is lying?" "Of course! I am very sorry, my good woman, and all that, but I can't keep you and sick children for nothin'. Go to the work-us with it !" "The workhouse !" exclaimed the forsaken squire's daughter, who entertained, perhaps, an Overwhelming were the emotions of Margaret as the landlady retired. She looked upon the locket with a longing, ardent, and straining gaze. There were the means of surmounting her difficulty, and of saving, perhaps, the life of her child. But part with it? pawn that which was dearer to her than her own existence?"Never! never!" she cried, as she wildly pressed it to her breast, and then covered it with kisses. "Spirit of my own dead husband! would'st thou not upbraid me, were I to commit the act? And yet, didst thou know the extremity to which I am driven-” She walked to and fro in indecision; her cheek colourless as ashes, but her eyes beaming lustrously through her tears. Her emotion, if possible, increased every moment, yet her resolution was gradually giving way. She looked anxiously at her sick child, and thought of the probable consequences of a removal. Love for the departed fought, as it were, inch by inch, against the temptation which assailed her, but dire necessity at length triumphed. Margaret called to a little girl on the floor below, who was in the habit occasionally of attending to her child; and the next minute her faded black bonnet was placed on her head, and her tattered shawl thrown over her shoulders. It was a dark night, and the wind blew briskly around the corner of the street. The woman at her apple-stall in the vicinity of the spirit-shop, which she is accustomed to look upon as a kind of castle of defence, had some difficulty in keeping her paper-encased candle from being blown out. The naked gas-burner at the greengrocer's one moment ejected long ribbons of blue and white flame, illumining the whole neighbourhood; and the next, like some fire-eater, seemed to have swallowed the said flame, darkness succeeding doubly thick by contrast. The fall of a house-tile at times was heard; and even the cry of the itinerant merchant, whose shop was carried upon his head; and the organ of the ragged, dirty native of the "land of flowers and song," had something wild and strange in their sound. In short, it was a windy, cheerless, uninviting night, every person keeping within, whom business and absolute necessity did not force without. Alone, up and down a street not far from Brunswick-square, a figure might have been seen, walking. Now she proceeded with a quick step, now lingered, and presently stopped altogether. Her air was that of a person perplexed, or of one contemplating some deed, but unable to perform it. Reaching the end of the street, she passed back again : at one time she walked on the kerb-stone, looking intently on the stones, as though counting them; then fearing to attract attention, she approached a shop, and began to peer through the window, as people may look who intend making a purchase. Poor dissembler! it would not do she again hurried away, and once more drew near a certain shop which seemed to be the point to which her perambulations always tended. As if invested with some terrible spell or charm, that house attracted her. There was a large purple transparency over the door; yet, whenever she got pretty close to it, and appeared about to enter, she stopped and shuddered, shrank back again, and hurried into the darkness beyond. "Not yet." sighed Margaret to herself; "my heart will not suffer me to do it ;" and she pressed both her hands over her bosom: “I repent of what I designed; I cannot part with it: it is my dear companion, my treasure, my life!" | Look! the young widowed mother makes her appearance again. The wind rudely buffets her, and she draws around her her poor scanty shawl. But her manner is more determined now, and there is a kind of desperation in her walk. She again approaches the house which exercised upon her such a spell before: she looks around, clasps her hands once, her eyes overflow with tears, but she hastily dashes them away, and, without another whispered word, hurries in through the half-opened door. And so Margaret, in her extremity, parted with the keepsake of her husband. The small sum which the pawnbroker advanced enabled her to satisfy her landlady, and relieved her present necessities. She would redeem the gold locket after a while, and on this account had abstained from injuring it by extracting the hair; yes, she would labour, beg, starve-do anything to gain it back; but weeks passed, and months, and strive as she might, the ill-paid labourer was unable to save the requisite sum. Meantime, interest was accumulating, and delay only rendered more arduous the task of redemption. Her child continued in a sickly state, and this circumstance greatly increased the difficulties that surrounded her. Margaret was in the habit, from time to time, of walking in the street where the pawnbroker's shop was situated, and of hovering around his premises. The poor dreamer took a melancholy pleasure in this: the trinket, it was true, she could not touch, she could not see; but there, as she stood at the window, the thought that |