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Mary Barton

by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell · English · Gutenberg #2153 · 901,733 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Mary Barton

Author: Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell


        
Release date: April 1, 2000 [eBook #2153]
                Most recently updated: December 8, 2013

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2153

Credits: E-text prepared by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset, and revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY BARTON ***


E-text prepared by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset,
and revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.



Editorial note:

      _Mary Barton_, Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell's first novel,
      was published (anonymously) in 1848 by Chapman and Hall.





MARY BARTON

A Tale of Manchester Life

by

ELIZABETH GASKELL

   "'How knowest thou,' may the distressed Novel-wright exclaim,
   'that I, here where I sit, am the Foolishest of existing
   mortals; that this my Long-ear of a fictitious Biography shall
   not find one and the other, into whose still longer ears it
   may be the means, under Providence, of instilling somewhat?'
   We answer, 'None knows, none can certainly know: therefore,
   write on, worthy Brother, even as thou canst, even as it is
   given thee.'"

      CARLYLE.



CONTENTS

            PREFACE.
         I. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.
        II. A MANCHESTER TEA-PARTY.
       III. JOHN BARTON'S GREAT TROUBLE.
        IV. OLD ALICE'S HISTORY.
         V. THE MILL ON FIRE--JEM WILSON TO THE RESCUE.
        VI. POVERTY AND DEATH.
       VII. JEM WILSON'S REPULSE.
      VIII. MARGARET'S DEBUT AS A PUBLIC SINGER.
        IX. BARTON'S LONDON EXPERIENCES.
         X. RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.
    XI. MR. CARSON'S INTENTIONS REVEALED.
       XII. OLD ALICE'S BAIRN.
      XIII. A TRAVELLER'S TALES.
       XIV. JEM'S INTERVIEW WITH POOR ESTHER.
        XV. A VIOLENT MEETING BETWEEN THE RIVALS.
       XVI. MEETING BETWEEN MASTERS AND WORKMEN.
      XVII. BARTON'S NIGHT-ERRAND.
     XVIII. MURDER.
       XIX. JEM WILSON ARRESTED ON SUSPICION.
        XX. MARY'S DREAM--AND THE AWAKENING.
       XXI. ESTHER'S MOTIVE IN SEEKING MARY.
      XXII. MARY'S EFFORTS TO PROVE AN ALIBI.
     XXIII. THE SUB-POENA.
      XXIV. WITH THE DYING.
       XXV. MRS. WILSON'S DETERMINATION.
      XXVI. THE JOURNEY TO LIVERPOOL.
     XXVII. IN THE LIVERPOOL DOCKS.
    XXVIII. "JOHN CROPPER, AHOY!"
      XXIX. A TRUE BILL AGAINST JEM.
       XXX. JOB LEGH'S DECEPTION.
      XXXI. HOW MARY PASSED THE NIGHT.
     XXXII. THE TRIAL AND VERDICT--"NOT GUILTY."
    XXXIII. REQUIESCAT IN PACE.
     XXXIV. THE RETURN HOME.
      XXXV. "FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES."
     XXXVI. JEM'S INTERVIEW WITH MR. DUNCOMBE.
    XXXVII. DETAILS CONNECTED WITH THE MURDER.
   XXXVIII. CONCLUSION.




PREFACE.


Three years ago I became anxious (from circumstances that need not be
more fully alluded to) to employ myself in writing a work of fiction.
Living in Manchester, but with a deep relish and fond admiration for
the country, my first thought was to find a frame-work for my story
in some rural scene; and I had already made a little progress in a
tale, the period of which was more than a century ago, and the place
on the borders of Yorkshire, when I bethought me how deep might be
the romance in the lives of some of those who elbowed me daily in the
busy streets of the town in which I resided. I had always felt a deep
sympathy with the care-worn men, who looked as if doomed to struggle
through their lives in strange alternations between work and want;
tossed to and fro by circumstances, apparently in even a greater
degree than other men. A little manifestation of this sympathy, and
a little attention to the expression of feelings on the part of some
of the work-people with whom I was acquainted, had laid open to me
the hearts of one or two of the more thoughtful among them; I saw
that they were sore and irritable against the rich, the even tenor
of whose seemingly happy lives appeared to increase the anguish
caused by the lottery-like nature of their own. Whether the bitter
complaints made by them, of the neglect which they experienced from
the prosperous--especially from the masters whose fortunes they had
helped to build up--were well-founded or no, it is not for me to
judge. It is enough to say, that this belief of the injustice and
unkindness which they endure from their fellow-creatures, taints what
might be resignation to God's will, and turns it to revenge in too
many of the poor uneducated factory-workers of Manchester.

The more I reflected on this unhappy state of things between those
so bound to each other by common interests, as the employers and
the employed must ever be, the more anxious I became to give some
utterance to the agony which, from time to time, convulses this dumb
people; the agony of suffering without the sympathy of the happy, or
of erroneously believing that such is the case. If it be an error,
that the woes, which come with ever-returning tide-like flood to
overwhelm the workmen in our manufacturing towns, pass unregarded
by all but the sufferers, it is at any rate an error so bitter in
its consequences to all parties, that whatever public effort can do
in the way of legislation, or private effort in the way of merciful
deeds, or helpless love in the way of "widow's mites," should be
done, and that speedily, to disabuse the work-people of so miserable
a misapprehension. At present they seem to me to be left in a state,
wherein lamentations and tears are thrown aside as useless, but in
which the lips are compressed for curses, and the hands clenched and
ready to smite.

I know nothing of Political Economy, or the theories of trade. I have
tried to write truthfully; and if my accounts agree or clash with any
system, the agreement or disagreement is unintentional.

To myself the idea which I have formed of the state of feeling among
too many of the factory-people in Manchester, and which I endeavoured
to represent in this tale (completed above a year ago), has received
some confirmation from the events which have so recently occurred
among a similar class on the Continent.

OCTOBER, 1848.




CHAPTER I.

A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.


   Oh! 'tis hard, 'tis hard to be working
     The whole of the live-long day,
   When all the neighbours about one
     Are off to their jaunts and play.

   There's Richard he carries his baby,
     And Mary takes little Jane,
   And lovingly they'll be wandering
     Through field and briery lane.

   MANCHESTER SONG.


There are some fields near Manchester, well known to the inhabitants
as "Green Heys Fields," through which runs a public footpath to a
little village about two miles distant. In spite of these fields
being flat and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great and
usual recommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm about
them which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district,
who sees and feels the effect of contrast in these common-place but
thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling manufacturing town
he left but half-an-hour ago. Here and there an old black and white
farm-house, with its rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times and
other occupations than those which now absorb the population of the
neighbourhood. Here in their seasons may be seen the country business
of hay-making, ploughing, &c., which are such pleasant mysteries
for townspeople to watch; and here the artisan, deafened with noise
of tongues and engines, may come to listen awhile to the delicious
sounds of rural life: the lowing of cattle, the milk-maids' call,
the clatter and cackle of poultry in the old farm-yards. You cannot
wonder, then, that these fields are popular places of resort at
every holiday time; and you would not wonder, if you could see, or I
properly describe, the charm of one particular stile, that it should
be, on such occasions, a crowded halting-place. Close by it is a
deep, clear pond, reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy
trees that bend over it to exclude the sun. The only place where
its banks are shelving is on the side next to a rambling farm-yard,
belonging to one of those old-world, gabled, black and white houses
I named above, overlooking the field through which the public
footpath leads. The porch of this farm-house is covered by a
rose-tree; and the little garden surrounding it is crowded with a
medley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, planted long ago, when the
garden was the only druggist's shop within reach, and allowed to grow
in scrambling and wild luxuriance--roses, lavender, sage, balm (for
tea), rosemary, pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most
republican and indiscriminate order. This farm-house and garden are
within a hundred yards of the stile of which I spoke, leading from
the large pasture field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge of
hawthorn and black-thorn; and near this stile, on the further side,
there runs a tale that primroses may often be found, and occasionally
the blue sweet violet on the grassy hedge bank.

I do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, or
a holiday seized in right of Nature and her beautiful spring time by
the workmen, but one afternoon (now ten or a dozen years ago) these
fields were much thronged. It was an early May evening--the April
of the poets; for heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and
the round, soft, white clouds which were blown by a west wind over
the dark blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and more
threatening. The softness of the day tempted forth the young green
leaves, which almost visibly fluttered into life; and the willows,
which that morning had had only a brown reflection in the water
below, were now of that tender gray-green which blends so delicately
with the spring harmony of colours.

Groups of merry and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages might
range from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. They were
most of them factory girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress of
that particular class of maidens; namely, a shawl, which at mid-day
or in fine weather was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towards
evening, or if the day were chilly, became a sort of Spanish mantilla
or Scotch plaid, and was brought over the head and hung loosely down,
or was pinned under the chin in no unpicturesque fashion.

Their faces were not remarkable for beauty; indeed, they were below
the average, with one or two exceptions; they had dark hair, neatly
and classically arranged, dark eyes, but sallow complexions and
irregular features. The only thing to strike a passer-by was an
acuteness and intelligence of countenance, which has often been
noticed in a manufacturing population.

There were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, rambling among
these fields, ready to bandy jokes with any one, and particularly
ready to enter into conversation with the girls, who, however, held
themselves aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent way,
assuming an indifferent manner to the noisy wit or obstreperous
compliments of the lads. Here and there came a sober quiet couple,
either whispering lovers, or husband and wife, as the case might
be; and if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by an infant,
carried for the most part by the father, while occasionally even
three or four little toddlers had been carried or dragged thus
far, in order that the whole family might enjoy the delicious May
afternoon together.

Sometime in the course of that afternoon, two working men met with
friendly greeting at the stile so often named. One was a thorough
specimen of a Manchester man; born of factory workers, and himself
bred up in youth, and living in manhood, among the mills. He was
below the middle size and slightly made; there was almost a stunted
look about him; and his wan, colourless face gave you the idea, that
in his childhood he had suffered from the scanty living consequent
upon bad times and improvident habits. His features were strongly
marked, though not irregular, and their expression was extreme
earnestness; resolute either for good or evil; a sort of latent,
stern enthusiasm. At the time of which I write, the good predominated
over the bad in the countenance, and he was one from whom a stranger
would have asked a favour with tolerable faith that it would
be granted. He was accompanied by his wife, who might, without
exaggeration, have been called a lovely woman, although now her face
was swollen with crying, and often hidden behind her apron. She
had the fresh beauty of the agricultural districts; and somewhat
of the deficiency of sense in her countenance, which is likewise
characteristic of the rural inhabitants in comparison with the
natives of the manufacturing towns. She was far advanced in
pregnancy, which perhaps occasioned the overpowering and hysterical
nature of her grief. The friend whom they met was more handsome and
less sensible-looking than the man I have just described; he seemed
hearty and hopeful, and although his age was greater, yet there was
far more of youth's buoyancy in his appearance. He was tenderly
carrying a baby in arms, while his wife, a delicate, fragile-looking
woman, limping in her gait, bore another of the same age; little,
feeble twins, inheriting the frail appearance of their mother.

The last-mentioned man was the first to speak, while a sudden look
of sympathy dimmed his gladsome face. "Well, John, how goes it with
you?" and, in a lower voice, he added, "Any news of Esther, yet?"
Meanwhile the wives greeted each other like old friends, the soft and
plaintive voice of the mother of the twins seeming to call forth only
fresh sobs from Mrs. Barton.

"Come, women," said John Barton, "you've both walked far enough. My
Mary expects to have her bed in three weeks; and as for you, Mrs.
Wilson, you know you're but a cranky sort of a body at the best of
times." This was said so kindly, that no offence could be taken. "Sit
you down here; the grass is well nigh dry by this time; and you're
neither of you nesh [1] folk about taking cold. Stay," he added, with
some tenderness, "here's my pocket-handkerchief to spread under
you, to save the gowns women always think so much of; and now, Mrs.
Wilson, give me the baby, I may as well carry him, while you talk and
comfort my wife; poor thing, she takes on sadly about Esther."

   [Footnote 1: "Nesh;" Anglo-Saxon, nesc, tender.]

These arrangements were soon completed: the two women sat down on the
blue cotton handkerchiefs of their husbands, and the latter, each
carrying a baby, set off for a further walk; but as soon as Barton
had turned his back upon his wife, his countenance fell back into an
expression of gloom.

"Then you've heard nothing of Esther, poor lass?" asked Wilson.

"No, nor shan't, as I take it. My mind is, she's gone off with
somebody. My wife frets, and thinks she's drowned herself, but
I tell her, folks don't care to put on their best clothes to drown
themselves; and Mrs. Bradshaw (where she lodged, you know) says the
last time she set eyes on her was last Tuesday, when she came down
stairs, dressed in her Sunday gown, and with a new ribbon in her
bonnet, and gloves on her hands, like the lady she was so fond of
thinking herself."

"She was as pretty a creature as ever the sun shone on."

"Ay, she was a farrantly [2] lass; more's the pity now," added Barton,
with a sigh. "You see them Buckinghamshire people as comes to work
in Manchester, has quite a different look with them to us Manchester
folk. You'll not see among the Manchester wenches such fresh rosy
cheeks, or such black lashes to gray eyes (making them look like
black), as my wife and Esther had. I never seed two such pretty women
for sisters; never. Not but what beauty is a sad snare. Here was
Esther so puffed up, that there was no holding her in. Her spirit was
always up, if I spoke ever so little in the way of advice to her; my
wife spoiled her, it is true, for you see she was so much older than
Esther she was more like a mother to her, doing every thing for her."


   [Footnote 2: "Farrantly," comely, pleasant-looking.]


"I wonder she ever left you," observed his friend.

"That's the worst of factory work, for girls. They can earn so much
when work is plenty, that they can maintain themselves any how. My
Mary shall never work in a factory, that I'm determined on. You see
Esther spent her money in dress, thinking to set off her pretty face;
and got to come home so late at night, that at last I told her my
mind: my missis thinks I spoke crossly, but I meant right, for I
loved Esther, if it was only for Mary's sake. Says I, 'Esther, I see
what you'll end at with your artificials, and your fly-away veils,
and stopping out when honest women are in their beds; you'll be a
street-walker, Esther, and then, don't you go to think I'll have you
darken my door, though my wife is your sister.' So says she, 'Don't
trouble yourself, John. I'll pack up and be off now, for I'll never
stay to hear myself called as you call me.' She flushed up like a
turkey-cock, and I thought fire would come out of her eyes; but when
she saw Mary cry (for Mary can't abide words in a house), she went
and kissed her, and said she was not so bad as I thought her. So we
talked more friendly, for, as I said, I liked the lass well enough,
and her pretty looks, and her cheery ways. But she said (and at the
time I thought there was sense in what she said) we should be much
better friends if she went into lodgings, and only came to see us now
and then."

"Then you still were friendly. Folks said you'd cast her off, and
said you'd never speak to her again."

"Folks always make one a deal worse than one is," said John Barton,
testily. "She came many a time to our house after she left off living
with us. Last Sunday se'nnight--no! it was this very last Sunday, she
came to drink a cup of tea with Mary; and that was the last time we
set eyes on her."

"Was she any ways different in her manner?" asked Wilson.

"Well, I don't know. I have thought several times since, that she was
a bit quieter, and more womanly-like; more gentle, and more blushing,
and not so riotous and noisy. She comes in, toward four o'clock,
when afternoon church was loosing, and she goes and hangs her bonnet
up on the old nail we used to call hers, while she lived with us. I
remember thinking what a pretty lass she was, as she sat on a low
stool by Mary, who was rocking herself, and in rather a poor way.
She laughed and cried by turns, but all so softly and gently, like
a child, that I couldn't find in my heart to scold her, especially
as Mary was fretting already. One thing I do remember I did say, and
pretty sharply too. She took our little Mary by the waist, and--"

"Thou must leave off calling her 'little' Mary, she's growing up into
as fine a lass as one can see on a summer's day; more of her mother's
stock than thine," interrupted Wilson.

"Well, well, I call her 'little,' because her mother's name is Mary.
But, as I was saying, she takes Mary in a coaxing sort of way, and,
'Mary,' says she, 'what should you think if I sent for you some day
and made a lady of you?' So I could not stand such talk as that to my
girl, and I said, 'Thou'd best not put that nonsense i' the girl's
head I can tell thee; I'd rather see her earning her bread by the
sweat of her brow, as the Bible tells her she should do, ay, though
she never got butter to her bread, than be like a do-nothing lady,
worrying shopmen all morning, and screeching at her pianny all
afternoon, and going to bed without having done a good turn to any
one of God's creatures but herself.'"

"Thou never could abide the gentlefolk," said Wilson, half amused at
his friend's vehemence.

"And what good have they ever done me that I should like them?" asked
Barton, the latent fire lighting up his eye: and bursting forth, he
continued, "If I am sick, do they come and nurse me? If my child lies
dying (as poor Tom lay, with his white wan lips quivering, for want
of better food than I could give him), does the rich man bring the
wine or broth that might save his life? If I am out of work for weeks
in the bad times, and winter comes, with black frost, and keen east
wind, and there is no coal for the grate, and no clothes for the bed,
and the thin bones are seen through the ragged clothes, does the rich
man share his plenty with me, as he ought to do, if his religion
wasn't a humbug? When I lie on my death-bed, and Mary (bless her)
stands fretting, as I know she will fret," and here his voice
faltered a little, "will a rich lady come and take her to her own
home if need be, till she can look round, and see what best to do?
No, I tell you, it's the poor, and the poor only, as does such things
for the poor. Don't think to come over me with th' old tale, that the
rich know nothing of the trials of the poor. I say, if they don't
know, they ought to know. We're their slaves as long as we can work;
we pile up their fortunes with the sweat of our brows; and yet we are
to live as separate as if we were in two worlds; ay, as separate as
Dives and Lazarus, with a great gulf betwixt us: but I know who was
best off then," and he wound up his speech with a low chuckle that
had no mirth in it.

"Well, neighbour," said Wilson, "all that may be very true, but what
I want to know now is about Esther--when did you last hear of her?"

"Why, she took leave of us that Sunday night in a very loving way,
kissing both wife Mary, and daughter Mary (if I must not call her
little), and shaking hands with me; but all in a cheerful sort of
manner, so we thought nothing about her kisses and shakes. But on
Wednesday night comes Mrs. Bradshaw's son with Esther's box, and
presently Mrs. Bradshaw follows with the key; and when we began to
talk, we found Esther told her she was coming back to live with us,
and would pay her week's money for not giving notice; and on Tuesday
night she carried off a little bundle (her best clothes were on her
back, as I said before), and told Mrs. Bradshaw not to hurry herself
about the big box, but bring it when she had time. So of course she
thought she should find Esther with us; and when she told her story,
my missis set up such a screech, and fell down in a dead swoon. Mary
ran up with water for her mother, and I thought so much about my
wife, I did not seem to care at all for Esther. But the next day I
asked all the neighbours (both our own and Bradshaw's), and they'd
none of 'em heard or seen nothing of her. I even went to a policeman,
a good enough sort of man, but a fellow I'd never spoke to before
because of his livery, and I asks him if his 'cuteness could find any
thing out for us. So I believe he asks other policemen; and one on
'em had seen a wench, like our Esther, walking very quickly, with a
bundle under her arm, on Tuesday night, toward eight o'clock, and
get into a hackney coach, near Hulme Church, and we don't know th'
number, and can't trace it no further. I'm sorry enough for the girl,
for bad's come over her, one way or another, but I'm sorrier for my
wife. She loved her next to me and Mary, and she's never been the
same body since poor Tom's death. However, let's go back to them;
your old woman may have done her good."

As they walked homewards with a brisker pace, Wilson expressed a wish
that they still were the near neighbours they once had been.

"Still our Alice lives in the cellar under No. 14, in Barber Street,
and if you'd only speak the word she'd be with you in five minutes,
to keep your wife company when she's lonesome. Though I'm Alice's
brother, and perhaps ought not to say it, I will say there's none
more ready to help with heart or hand than she is. Though she may
have done a hard day's wash, there's not a child ill within the
street but Alice goes to offer to sit up, and does sit up too, though
may be she's to be at her work by six next morning."

"She's a poor woman, and can feel for the poor, Wilson," was Barton's
reply; and then he added, "Thank you kindly for your offer, and
mayhap I may trouble her to be a bit with my wife, for while I'm
at work, and Mary's at school, I know she frets above a bit. See,
there's Mary!" and the father's eye brightened, as in the distance,
among a group of girls, he spied his only daughter, a bonny lassie
of thirteen or so, who came bounding along to meet and to greet her
father, in a manner which showed that the stern-looking man had a
tender nature within. The two men had crossed the last stile while
Mary loitered behind to gather some buds of the coming hawthorn, when
an over-grown lad came past her, and snatched a kiss, exclaiming,
"For old acquaintance sake, Mary."

"Take that for old acquaintance sake, then," said the girl, blushing
rosy red, more with anger than shame, as she slapped his face. The
tones of her voice called back her father and his friend, and the
aggressor proved to be the eldest son of the latter, the senior by
eighteen years of his little brothers.

"Here, children, instead o' kissing and quarrelling, do ye each take
a baby, for if Wilson's arms be like mine they are heartily tired."

Mary sprang forward to take her father's charge, with a girl's
fondness for infants, and with some little foresight of the event
soon to happen at home; while young Wilson seemed to lose his rough,
cubbish nature as he crowed and cooed to his little brother.

"Twins is a great trial to a poor man, bless 'em," said the
half-proud, half-weary father, as he bestowed a smacking kiss on the
babe ere he parted with it.




CHAPTER II.

A MANCHESTER TEA-PARTY.


   Polly, put the kettle on,
     And let's have tea!
   Polly, put the kettle on,
     And we'll all have tea.


"Here we are, wife; didst thou think thou'd lost us?" quoth
hearty-voiced Wilson, as the two women rose and shook themselves
in preparation for their homeward walk. Mrs. Barton was evidently
soothed, if not cheered, by the unburdening of her fears and thoughts
to her friend; and her approving look went far to second her
husband's invitation that the whole party should adjourn from Green
Heys Fields to tea, at the Bartons' house. The only faint opposition
was raised by Mrs. Wilson, on account of the lateness of the hour at
which they would probably return, which she feared on her babies'
account.

"Now, hold your tongue, missis, will you," said her husband,
good-temperedly. "Don't you know them brats never goes to sleep till
long past ten? and haven't you a shawl, under which you can tuck one
lad's head, as safe as a bird's under its wing? And as for t'other
one, I'll put it in my pocket rather than not stay, now we are this
far away from Ancoats."

"Or I can lend you another shawl," suggested Mrs. Barton.

"Ay, any thing rather than not stay."

The matter being decided, the party proceeded home, through many
half-finished streets, all so like one another that you might have
easily been bewildered and lost your way. Not a step, however, did
our friends lose; down this entry, cutting off that corner, until
they turned out of one of these innumerable streets into a little
paved court, having the backs of houses at the end opposite to
the opening, and a gutter running through the middle to carry off
household slops, washing suds, &c. The women who lived in the court
were busy taking in strings of caps, frocks, and various articles of
linen, which hung from side to side, dangling so low, that if our
friends had been a few minutes sooner, they would have had to stoop
very much, or else the half-wet clothes would have flapped in their
faces; but although the evening seemed yet early when they were in
the open fields--among the pent-up houses, night, with its mists, and
its darkness, had already begun to fall.

Many greetings were given and exchanged between the Wilsons and these
women, for not long ago they had also dwelt in this court.

Two rude lads, standing at a disorderly looking house-door,
exclaimed, as Mary Barton (the daughter) passed, "Eh, look! Polly
Barton's gotten a sweetheart."

Of course this referred to young Wilson, who stole a look to see how
Mary took the idea. He saw her assume the air of a young fury, and to
his next speech she answered not a word.

Mrs. Barton produced the key of the door from her pocket; and on
entering the house-place it seemed as if they were in total darkness,
except one bright spot, which might be a cat's eye, or might be, what
it was, a red-hot fire, smouldering under a large piece of coal,
which John Barton immediately applied himself to break up, and the
effect instantly produced was warm and glowing light in every corner
of the room. To add to this (although the coarse yellow glare seemed
lost in the ruddy glow from the fire), Mrs. Barton lighted a dip by
sticking it in the fire, and having placed it satisfactorily in a
tin candlestick, began to look further about her, on hospitable
thoughts intent. The room was tolerably large, and possessed many
conveniences. On the right of the door, as you entered, was a longish
window, with a broad ledge. On each side of this, hung blue-and-white
check curtains, which were now drawn, to shut in the friends met to
enjoy themselves. Two geraniums, unpruned and leafy, which stood
on the sill, formed a further defence from out-door pryers. In
the corner between the window and the fire-side was a cupboard,
apparently full of plates and dishes, cups and saucers, and some
more nondescript articles, for which one would have fancied their
possessors could find no use--such as triangular pieces of glass to
save carving knives and forks from dirtying table-cloths. However,
it was evident Mrs. Barton was proud of her crockery and glass, for
she left her cupboard door open, with a glance round of satisfaction
and pleasure. On the opposite side to the door and window was the
staircase, and two doors; one of which (the nearest to the fire)
led into a sort of little back kitchen, where dirty work, such
as washing up dishes, might be done, and whose shelves served as
larder, and pantry, and storeroom, and all. The other door, which
was considerably lower, opened into the coal-hole--the slanting
closet under the stairs; from which, to the fire-place, there was a
gay-coloured piece of oil-cloth laid. The place seemed almost crammed
with furniture (sure sign of good times among the mills). Beneath the
window was a dresser with three deep drawers. Opposite the fire-place
was a table, which I should call a Pembroke, only that it was made
of deal, and I cannot tell how far such a name may be applied to
such humble material. On it, resting against the wall, was a bright
green japanned tea-tray, having a couple of scarlet lovers embracing
in the middle. The fire-light danced merrily on this, and really
(setting all taste but that of a child's aside) it gave a richness
of colouring to that side of the room. It was in some measure propped
up by a crimson tea-caddy, also of japan ware. A round table on one
branching leg really for use, stood in the corresponding corner to
the cupboard; and, if you can picture all this with a washy, but
clean stencilled pattern on the walls, you can form some idea of John
Barton's home.

The tray was soon hoisted down, and before the merry chatter of
cups and saucers began, the women disburdened themselves of their
out-of-door things, and sent Mary up stairs with them. Then came a
long whispering, and chinking of money, to which Mr. and Mrs. Wilson
were too polite to attend; knowing, as they did full well, that it
all related to the preparations for hospitality; hospitality that,
in their turn, they should have such pleasure in offering. So they
tried to be busily occupied with the children, and not to hear Mrs.
Barton's directions to Mary.

"Run, Mary dear, just round the corner, and get some fresh eggs at
Tipping's (you may get one a-piece, that will be five-pence), and see
if he has any nice ham cut, that he would let us have a pound of."

"Say two pounds, missis, and don't be stingy," chimed in the husband.

"Well, a pound and a half, Mary. And get it Cumberland ham, for
Wilson comes from there-away, and it will have a sort of relish of
home with it he'll like,--and Mary" (seeing the lassie fain to be
off), "you must get a pennyworth of milk and a loaf of bread--mind
you get it fresh and new--and, and--that's all, Mary."

"No, it's not all," said her husband. "Thou must get sixpennyworth of
rum, to warm the tea; thou'll get it at the 'Grapes.' And thou just
go to Alice Wilson; he says she lives just right round the corner,
under 14, Barber Street" (this was addressed to his wife), "and tell
her to come and take her tea with us; she'll like to see her brother,
I'll be bound, let alone Jane and the twins."

"If she comes she must bring a tea-cup and saucer, for we have but
half-a-dozen, and here's six of us," said Mrs. Barton.

"Pooh! pooh! Jem and Mary can drink out of one, surely."

But Mary secretly determined to take care that Alice brought her
tea-cup and saucer, if the alternative was to be her sharing any
thing with Jem.

Alice Wilson had but just come in. She had been out all day in
the fields, gathering wild herbs for drinks and medicine, for in
addition to her invaluable qualities as a sick nurse and her worldly
occupation as a washerwoman, she added a considerable knowledge of
hedge and field simples; and on fine days, when no more profitable
occupation offered itself, she used to ramble off into the lanes and
meadows as far as her legs could carry her. This evening she had
returned loaded with nettles, and her first object was to light a
candle and see to hang them up in bunches in every available place in
her cellar room. It was the perfection of cleanliness: in one corner
stood the modest-looking bed, with a check curtain at the head, the
whitewashed wall filling up the place where the corresponding one
should have been. The floor was bricked, and scrupulously clean,
although so damp that it seemed as if the last washing would never
dry up. As the cellar window looked into an area in the street,
down which boys might throw stones, it was protected by an outside
shelter, and was oddly festooned with all manner of hedge-row, ditch,
and field plants, which we are accustomed to call valueless, but
which have a powerful effect either for good or for evil, and are
consequently much used among the poor. The room was strewed, hung,
and darkened with these bunches, which emitted no very fragrant odour
in their process of drying. In one corner was a sort of broad hanging
shelf, made of old planks, where some old hoards of Alice's were
kept. Her little bit of crockery ware was ranged on the mantelpiece,
where also stood her candlestick and box of matches. A small cupboard
contained at the bottom coals, and at the top her bread and basin of
oatmeal, her frying pan, tea-pot, and a small tin saucepan, which
served as a kettle, as well as for cooking the delicate little messes
of broth which Alice sometimes was able to manufacture for a sick
neighbour.

After her walk she felt chilly and weary, and was busy trying to
light her fire with the damp coals, and half green sticks, when Mary
knocked.

"Come in," said Alice, remembering, however, that she had barred the
door for the night, and hastening to make it possible for any one to
come in.

"Is that you, Mary Barton?" exclaimed she, as the light from her
candle streamed on the girl's face. "How you are grown since I used
to see you at my brother's! Come in, lass, come in."

"Please," said Mary, almost breathless, "mother says you're to come
to tea, and bring your cup and saucer, for George and Jane Wilson is
with us, and the twins, and Jem. And you're to make haste, please."

"I'm sure it's very neighbourly and kind in your mother, and I'll
come, with many thanks. Stay, Mary, has your mother got any nettles
for spring drink? If she hasn't I'll take her some."

"No, I don't think she has."

Mary ran off like a hare to fulfil what, to a girl of thirteen,
fond of power, was the more interesting part of her errand--the
money-spending part. And well and ably did she perform her business,
returning home with a little bottle of rum, and the eggs in one
hand, while her other was filled with some excellent red-and-white
smoke-flavoured Cumberland ham, wrapped up in paper.

She was at home, and frying ham, before Alice had chosen her nettles,
put out her candle, locked her door, and walked in a very foot-sore
manner as far as John Barton's. What an aspect of comfort did his
houseplace present, after her humble cellar. She did not think of
comparing; but for all that she felt the delicious glow of the fire,
the bright light that revelled in every corner of the room, the
savoury smells, the comfortable sounds of a boiling kettle, and the
hissing, frizzling ham. With a little old-fashioned curtsey she shut
the door, and replied with a loving heart to the boisterous and
surprised greeting of her brother.

And now all preparations being made, the party sat down; Mrs. Wilson
in the post of honour, the rocking chair on the right hand side
of the fire, nursing her baby, while its father, in an opposite
arm-chair, tried vainly to quieten the other with bread soaked in
milk.

Mrs. Barton knew manners too well to do any thing but sit at the
tea-table and make tea, though in her heart she longed to be able
to superintend the frying of the ham, and cast many an anxious
look at Mary as she broke the eggs and turned the ham, with a very
comfortable portion of confidence in her own culinary powers. Jem
stood awkwardly leaning against the dresser, replying rather gruffly
to his aunt's speeches, which gave him, he thought, the air of being
a little boy; whereas he considered himself as a young man, and not
so very young neither, as in two months he would be eighteen. Barton
vibrated between the fire and the tea-table, his only drawback
being a fancy that every now and then his wife's face flushed and
contracted as if in pain.

At length the business actually began. Knives and forks, cups and
saucers made a noise, but human voices were still, for human beings
were hungry, and had no time to speak. Alice first broke silence;
holding her tea-cup with the manner of one proposing a toast, she
said, "Here's to absent friends. Friends may meet, but mountains
never."

It was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly felt. Every
one thought of Esther, the absent Esther; and Mrs. Barton put down
her food, and could not hide the fast dropping tears. Alice could
have bitten her tongue out.

It was a wet blanket to the evening; for though all had been said
and suggested in the fields that could be said or suggested, every
one had a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor Mrs.
Barton, and a dislike to talk about any thing else while her tears
fell fast and scalding. So George Wilson, his wife and children, set
off early home, not before (in spite of _mal-à-propos_ speeches) they
had expressed a wish that such meetings might often take place, and
not before John Barton had given his hearty consent; and declared
that as soon as ever his wife was well again they would have just
such another evening.

"I will take care not to come and spoil it," thought poor Alice; and
going up to Mrs. Barton she took her hand almost humbly, and said,
"You don't know how sorry I am I said it."

To her surprise, a surprise that brought tears of joy into her
eyes, Mary Barton put her arms round her neck, and kissed the
self-reproaching Alice. "You didn't mean any harm, and it was me as
was so foolish; only this work about Esther, and not knowing where
she is, lies so heavy on my heart. Good night, and never think no
more about it. God bless you, Alice."

Many and many a time, as Alice reviewed that evening in her after
life, did she bless Mary Barton for these kind and thoughtful words.
But just then all she could say was, "Good night, Mary, and may God
bless _you_."




CHAPTER III.

JOHN BARTON'S GREAT TROUBLE.


   But when the morn came dim and sad,
     And chill with early showers,
   Her quiet eyelids closed--she had
     Another morn than ours!

   HOOD.


In the middle of that same night a neighbour of the Bartons was
roused from her sound, well-earned sleep, by a knocking, which had at
first made part of her dream; but starting up, as soon as she became
convinced of its reality, she opened the window, and asked who was
there?

"Me, John Barton," answered he, in a voice tremulous with agitation.
"My missis is in labour, and, for the love of God, step in while I
run for th' doctor, for she's fearful bad."

While the woman hastily dressed herself, leaving the window still
open, she heard cries of agony, which resounded in the little court
in the stillness of the night. In less than five minutes she was
standing by Mrs. Barton's bed-side, relieving the terrified Mary, who
went about, where she was told, like an automaton; her eyes tearless,
her face calm, though deadly pale, and uttering no sound, except when
her teeth chattered for very nervousness.

The cries grew worse.

The doctor was very long in hearing the repeated rings at his
night-bell, and still longer in understanding who it was that made
this sudden call upon his services; and then he begged Barton just
to wait while he dressed himself, in order that no time might be
lost in finding the court and house. Barton absolutely stamped with
impatience, outside the doctor's door, before he came down; and
walked so fast homewards, that the medical man several times asked
him to go slower.

"Is she so very bad?" asked he.

"Worse, much worser than ever I saw her before," replied John.

No! she was not--she was at peace. The cries were still for ever.
John had no time for listening. He opened the latched door, stayed
not to light a candle for the mere ceremony of showing his companion
up the stairs, so well known to himself; but, in two minutes was
in the room, where lay the dead wife, whom he had loved with all
the power of his strong heart. The doctor stumbled up stairs by the
fire-light, and met the awe-struck look of the neighbour, which at
once told him the state of things. The room was still, as he, with
habitual tip-toe step, approached the poor frail body, whom nothing
now could more disturb. Her daughter knelt by the bed-side, her face
buried in the clothes, which were almost crammed into her mouth, to
keep down the choking sobs. The husband stood like one stupified. The
doctor questioned the neighbour in whispers, and then approaching
Barton, said, "You must go down stairs. This is a great shock, but
bear it like a man. Go down."

He went mechanically and sat down on the first chair. He had no hope.
The look of death was too clear upon her face. Still, when he heard
one or two unusual noises, the thought burst on him that it might
only be a trance, a fit, a--he did not well know what,--but not
death! Oh, not death! And he was starting up to go up stairs again,
when the doctor's heavy cautious creaking footstep was heard on the
stairs. Then he knew what it really was in the chamber above.

"Nothing could have saved her--there has been some shock to the
system--" and so he went on; but, to unheeding ears, which yet
retained his words to ponder on; words not for immediate use in
conveying sense, but to be laid by, in the store-house of memory, for
a more convenient season. The doctor seeing the state of the case,
grieved for the man; and, very sleepy, thought it best to go, and
accordingly wished him good-night--but there was no answer, so he let
himself out; and Barton sat on, like a stock or a stone, so rigid,
so still. He heard the sounds above too, and knew what they meant.
He heard the stiff, unseasoned drawer, in which his wife kept her
clothes, pulled open. He saw the neighbour come down, and blunder
about in search of soap and water. He knew well what she wanted, and
_why_ she wanted them, but he did not speak, nor offer to help. At
last she went, with some kindly-meant words (a text of comfort, which
fell upon a deafened ear), and something about "Mary," but which
Mary, in his bewildered state, he could not tell.

He tried to realise it, to think it possible. And then his mind
wandered off to other days, to far different times. He thought of
their courtship; of his first seeing her, an awkward, beautiful
rustic, far too shiftless for the delicate factory work to which she
was apprenticed; of his first gift to her, a bead necklace, which had
long ago been put by, in one of the deep drawers of the dresser, to
be kept for Mary. He wondered if it was there yet, and with a strange
curiosity he got up to feel for it; for the fire by this time was
well-nigh out, and candle he had none. His groping hand fell on
the piled-up tea things, which at his desire she had left unwashed
till morning--they were all so tired. He was reminded of one of the
daily little actions, which acquire such power when they have been
performed for the last time, by one we love. He began to think over
his wife's daily round of duties; and something in the remembrance
that these would never more be done by her, touched the source of
tears, and he cried aloud. Poor Mary, meanwhile, had mechanically
helped the neighbour in all the last attentions to the dead; and when
she was kissed, and spoken to soothingly, tears stole quietly down
her cheeks: but she reserved the luxury of a full burst of grief till
she should be alone. She shut the chamber-door softly, after the
neighbour had gone, and then shook the bed by which she knelt, with
her agony of sorrow. She repeated, over and over again, the same
words; the same vain, unanswered address to her who was no more. "Oh,
mother! mother, are you really dead! Oh, mother, mother!"

At last she stopped, because it flashed across her mind that her
violence of grief might disturb her father. All was still below. She
looked on the face so changed, and yet so strangely like. She bent
down to kiss it. The cold, unyielding flesh struck a shudder to her
heart, and, hastily obeying her impulse, she grasped the candle, and
opened the door. Then she heard the sobs of her father's grief; and
quickly, quietly, stealing down the steps, she knelt by him, and
kissed his hand. He took no notice at first, for his burst of grief
would not be controlled. But when her shriller sobs, her terrified
cries (which she could not repress), rose upon his ear, he checked
himself.

"Child, we must be all to one another, now _she_ is gone," whispered
he.

"Oh, father, what can I do for you? Do tell me! I'll do any thing."

"I know thou wilt. Thou must not fret thyself ill, that's the first
thing I ask. Thou must leave me, and go to bed now, like a good girl
as thou art."

"Leave you, father! oh, don't say so."

"Ay, but thou must! thou must go to bed, and try and sleep; thou'lt
have enough to do and to bear, poor wench, to-morrow."

Mary got up, kissed her father, and sadly went up stairs to the
little closet, where she slept. She thought it was of no use
undressing, for that she could never, never sleep, so threw herself
on her bed in her clothes, and before ten minutes had passed away,
the passionate grief of youth had subsided into sleep.

Barton had been roused by his daughter's entrance, both from his
stupor and from his uncontrollable sorrow. He could think on what was
to be done, could plan for the funeral, could calculate the necessity
of soon returning to his work, as the extravagance of the past night
would leave them short of money, if he long remained away from the
mill. He was in a club, so that money was provided for the burial.
These things settled in his own mind, he recalled the doctor's words,
and bitterly thought of the shock his poor wife had so recently had,
in the mysterious disappearance of her cherished sister. His feelings
towards Esther almost amounted to curses. It was she who had brought
on all this sorrow. Her giddiness, her lightness of conduct, had
wrought this woe. His previous thoughts about her had been tinged
with wonder and pity, but now he hardened his heart against her for
ever.

One of the good influences over John Barton's life had departed that
night. One of the ties which bound him down to the gentle humanities
of earth was loosened, and henceforward the neighbours all remarked
he was a changed man. His gloom and his sternness became habitual
instead of occasional. He was more obstinate. But never to Mary.
Between the father and the daughter there existed in full force that
mysterious bond which unites those who have been loved by one who
is now dead and gone. While he was harsh and silent to others, he
humoured Mary with tender love; she had more of her own way than
is common in any rank with girls of her age. Part of this was the
necessity of the case; for, of course, all the money went through
her hands, and the household arrangements were guided by her will
and pleasure. But part was her father's indulgence, for he left her,
with full trust in her unusual sense and spirit, to choose her own
associates, and her own times for seeing them.

With all this, Mary had not her father's confidence in the matters
which now began to occupy him, heart and soul; she was aware that
he had joined clubs, and become an active member of a trades' union,
but it was hardly likely that a girl of Mary's age (even when two or
three years had elapsed since her mother's death) should care much
for the differences between the employers and the employed,--an
eternal subject for agitation in the manufacturing districts, which,
however it may be lulled for a time, is sure to break forth again
with fresh violence at any depression of trade, showing that in its
apparent quiet, the ashes had still smouldered in the breasts of a
few.

Among these few was John Barton. At all times it is a bewildering
thing to the poor weaver to see his employer removing from house to
house, each one grander than the last, till he ends in building one
more magnificent than all, or withdraws his money from the concern,
or sells his mill to buy an estate in the country, while all the time
the weaver, who thinks he and his fellows are the real makers of this
wealth, is struggling on for bread for their children, through the
vicissitudes of lowered wages, short hours, fewer hands employed,
&c. And when he knows trade is bad, and could understand (at least
partially) that there are not buyers enough in the market to purchase
the goods already made, and consequently that there is no demand for
more; when he would bear and endure much without complaining, could
he also see that his employers were bearing their share; he is, I
say, bewildered and (to use his own word) "aggravated" to see that
all goes on just as usual with the mill-owners. Large houses are
still occupied, while spinners' and weavers' cottages stand empty,
because the families that once occupied them are obliged to live in
rooms or cellars. Carriages still roll along the streets, concerts
are still crowded by subscribers, the shops for expensive luxuries
still find daily customers, while the workman loiters away his
unemployed time in watching these things, and thinking of the pale,
uncomplaining wife at home, and the wailing children asking in vain
for enough of food, of the sinking health, of the dying life of those
near and dear to him. The contrast is too great. Why should he alone
suffer from bad times?

I know that this is not really the case; and I know what is the truth
in such matters: but what I wish to impress is what the workman feels
and thinks. True, that with child-like improvidence, good times will
often dissipate his grumbling, and make him forget all prudence and
foresight.

But there are earnest men among these people, men who have endured
wrongs without complaining, but without ever forgetting or forgiving
those whom (they believe) have caused all this woe.

Among these was John Barton. His parents had suffered, his mother
had died from absolute want of the necessaries of life. He himself
was a good, steady workman, and, as such, pretty certain of steady
employment. But he spent all he got with the confidence (you may also
call it improvidence) of one who was willing, and believed himself
able, to supply all his wants by his own exertions. And when his
master suddenly failed, and all hands in that mill were turned back,
one Tuesday morning, with the news that Mr. Hunter had stopped,
Barton had only a few shillings to rely on; but he had good heart of
being employed at some other mill, and accordingly, before returning
home, he spent some hours in going from factory to factory, asking
for work. But at every mill was some sign of depression of trade;
some were working short hours, some were turning off hands, and for
weeks Barton was out of work, living on credit. It was during this
time his little son, the apple of his eye, the cynosure of all his
strong power of love, fell ill of the scarlet fever. They dragged him
through the crisis, but his life hung on a gossamer thread. Every
thing, the doctor said, depended on good nourishment, on generous
living, to keep up the little fellow's strength, in the prostration
in which the fever had left him. Mocking words! when the commonest
food in the house would not furnish one little meal. Barton tried
credit; but it was worn out at the little provision shops, which were
now suffering in their turn. He thought it would be no sin to steal,
and would have stolen; but he could not get the opportunity in the
few days the child lingered. Hungry himself, almost to an animal
pitch of ravenousness, but with the bodily pain swallowed up in
anxiety for his little sinking lad, he stood at one of the shop
windows where all edible luxuries are displayed; haunches of venison,
Stilton cheeses, moulds of jelly--all appetising sights to the common
passer by. And out of this shop came Mrs. Hunter! She crossed to her
carriage, followed by the shopman loaded with purchases for a party.
The door was quickly slammed to, and she drove away; and Barton
returned home with a bitter spirit of wrath in his heart, to see his
only boy a corpse!

You can fancy, now, the hoards of vengeance in his heart against the
employers. For there are never wanting those who, either in speech
or in print, find it their interest to cherish such feelings in the
working classes; who know how and when to rouse the dangerous power
at their command; and who use their knowledge with unrelenting
purpose to either party.

So while Mary took her own way, growing more spirited every day, and
growing in her beauty too, her father was chairman at many a trades'
union meeting; a friend of delegates, and ambitious of being a
delegate himself; a Chartist, and ready to do any thing for his
order.

But now times were good; and all these feelings were theoretical, not
practical. His most practical thought was getting Mary apprenticed to
a dressmaker; for he had never left off disliking a factory life for
a girl, on more accounts than one.

Mary must do something. The factories being, as I said, out of the
question, there were two things open--going out to service, and
the dressmaking business; and against the first of these, Mary set
herself with all the force of her strong will. What that will might
have been able to achieve had her father been against her, I cannot
tell; but he disliked the idea of parting with her, who was the light
of his hearth, the voice of his otherwise silent home. Besides, with
his ideas and feelings towards the higher classes, he considered
domestic servitude as a species of slavery; a pampering of artificial
wants on the one side, a giving-up of every right of leisure by day
and quiet rest by night on the other. How far his strong exaggerated
feelings had any foundation in truth, it is for you to judge. I am
afraid that Mary's determination not to go to service arose from far
less sensible thoughts on the subject than her father's. Three years
of independence of action (since her mother's death such a time
had now elapsed) had little inclined her to submit to rules as to
hours and associates, to regulate her dress by a mistress's ideas
of propriety, to lose the dear feminine privileges of gossiping
with a merry neighbour, and working night and day to help one who
was sorrowful. Besides all this, the sayings of her absent, her
mysterious aunt, Esther, had an unacknowledged influence over Mary.
She knew she was very pretty; the factory people as they poured from
the mills, and in their freedom told the truth (whatever it might be)
to every passer-by, had early let Mary into the secret of her beauty.
If their remarks had fallen on an unheeding ear, there were always
young men enough, in a different rank from her own, who were willing
to compliment the pretty weaver's daughter as they met her in the
streets. Besides, trust a girl of sixteen for knowing well if she is
pretty; concerning her plainness she may be ignorant. So with this
consciousness she had early determined that her beauty should make
her a lady; the rank she coveted the more for her father's abuse; the
rank to which she firmly believed her lost aunt Esther had arrived.
Now, while a servant must often drudge and be dirty, must be known as
a servant by all who visited at her master's house, a dressmaker's
apprentice must (or so Mary thought) be always dressed with a certain
regard to appearance; must never soil her hands, and need never
redden or dirty her face with hard labour. Before my telling you so
truly what folly Mary felt or thought, injures her without redemption
in your opinion, think what are the silly fancies of sixteen years of
age in every class, and under all circumstances. The end of all the
thoughts of father and daughter was, as I said before, Mary was to be
a dressmaker; and her ambition prompted her unwilling father to apply
at all the first establishments, to know on what terms of painstaking
and zeal his daughter might be admitted into ever so humble a
workwoman's situation. But high premiums were asked at all; poor man!
he might have known that without giving up a day's work to ascertain
the fact. He would have been indignant, indeed, had he known that if
Mary had accompanied him, the case might have been rather different,
as her beauty would have made her desirable as a show-woman. Then he
tried second-rate places; at all the payment of a sum of money was
necessary, and money he had none. Disheartened and angry he went home
at night, declaring it was time lost; that dressmaking was at all
events a toilsome business, and not worth learning. Mary saw that the
grapes were sour, and the next day set out herself, as her father
could not afford to lose another day's work; and before night (as
yesterday's experience had considerably lowered her ideas) she had
engaged herself as apprentice (so called, though there were no deeds
or indentures to the bond) to a certain Miss Simmonds, milliner and
dressmaker, in a respectable little street leading off Ardwick Green,
where her business was duly announced in gold letters on a black
ground, enclosed in a bird's-eye maple frame, and stuck in the front
parlour window; where the workwomen were called "her young ladies;"
and where Mary was to work for two years without any remuneration,
on consideration of being taught the business; and where afterwards
she was to dine and have tea, with a small quarterly salary (paid
quarterly, because so much more genteel than by the week), a _very_
small one, divisible into a minute weekly pittance. In summer she was
to be there by six, bringing her day's meals during the first two
years; in winter she was not to come till after breakfast. Her time
for returning home at night must always depend upon the quantity of
work Miss Simmonds had to do.

And Mary was satisfied; and seeing this, her father was contented
too, although his words were grumbling and morose; but Mary knew his
ways, and coaxed and planned for the future so cheerily, that both
went to bed with easy if not happy hearts.




CHAPTER IV.

OLD ALICE'S HISTORY.


   To envy nought beneath the ample sky;
   To mourn no evil deed, no hour mis-spent;
   And, like a living violet, silently
   Return in sweets to Heaven what goodness lent,
   Then bend beneath the chastening shower content.

   ELLIOTT.


Another year passed on. The waves of time seemed long since to have
swept away all trace of poor Mary Barton. But her husband still
thought of her, although with a calm and quiet grief, in the silent
watches of the night: and Mary would start from her hard-earned
sleep, and think in her half-dreamy, half-awakened state, she saw
her mother stand by her bed-side, as she used to do "in the days
of long-ago;" with a shaded candle and an expression of ineffable
tenderness, while she looked on her sleeping child. But Mary rubbed
her eyes and sank back on her pillow, awake, and knowing it was a
dream; and still, in all her troubles and perplexities, her heart
called on her mother for aid, and she thought, "If mother had but
lived, she would have helped me." Forgetting that the woman's sorrows
are far more difficult to mitigate than a child's, even by the mighty
power of a mother's love; and unconscious of the fact, that she was
far superior in sense and spirit to the mother she mourned. Aunt
Esther was still mysteriously absent, and people had grown weary of
wondering and began to forget. Barton still attended his club, and
was an active member of a trades' union; indeed, more frequently
than ever, since the time of Mary's return in the evening was so
uncertain; and, as she occasionally, in very busy times, remained
all night. His chiefest friend was still George Wilson, although he
had no great sympathy on the questions that agitated Barton's mind.
Still their hearts were bound by old ties to one another, and the
remembrance of former times gave an unspoken charm to their meetings.
Our old friend, the cub-like lad, Jem Wilson, had shot up into the
powerful, well-made young man, with a sensible face enough; nay, a
face that might have been handsome, had it not been here and there
marked by the small-pox. He worked with one of the great firms of
engineers, who send from out their towns of workshops engines and
machinery to the dominions of the Czar and the Sultan. His father and
mother were never weary of praising Jem, at all which commendation
pretty Mary Barton would toss her head, seeing clearly enough that
they wished her to understand what a good husband he would make, and
to favour his love, about which he never dared to speak, whatever
eyes and looks revealed.

One day, in the early winter time, when people were provided with
warm substantial gowns, not likely soon to wear out, and when,
accordingly, business was rather slack at Miss Simmonds', Mary
met Alice Wilson, coming home from her half-day's work at some
tradesman's house. Mary and Alice had always liked each other;
indeed, Alice looked with particular interest on the motherless girl,
the daughter of her whose forgiving kiss had so comforted her in many
sleepless hours. So there was a warm greeting between the tidy old
woman and the blooming young work-girl; and then Alice ventured to
ask if she would come in and take her tea with her that very evening.

"You'll think it dull enough to come just to sit with an old woman
like me, but there's a tidy young lass as lives in the floor above,
who does plain work, and now and then a bit in your own line, Mary;
she's grand-daughter to old Job Legh, a spinner, and a good girl she
is. Do come, Mary! I've a terrible wish to make you known to each
other. She's a genteel-looking lass, too."

At the beginning of this speech Mary had feared the intended
visitor was to be no other than Alice's nephew; but Alice was too
delicate-minded to plan a meeting, even for her dear Jem, when one
would have been an unwilling party; and Mary, relieved from her
apprehension by the conclusion, gladly agreed to come. How busy Alice
felt! it was not often she had any one to tea; and now her sense of
the duties of a hostess were almost too much for her. She made haste
home, and lighted the unwilling fire, borrowing a pair of bellows to
make it burn the faster. For herself she was always patient; she let
the coals take their time. Then she put on her pattens, and went to
fill her kettle at the pump in the next court, and on the way she
borrowed a cup; of odd saucers she had plenty, serving as plates
when occasion required. Half an ounce of tea and a quarter of a
pound of butter went far to absorb her morning's wages; but this
was an unusual occasion. In general, she used herb-tea for herself,
when at home, unless some thoughtful mistress made her a present of
tea-leaves from her more abundant household. The two chairs drawn out
for visitors, and duly swept and dusted; an old board arranged with
some skill upon two old candle-boxes set on end (rather ricketty
to be sure, but she knew the seat of old, and when to sit lightly;
indeed the whole affair was more for apparent dignity of position
than for any real ease); a little, very little round table put
just before the fire, which by this time was blazing merrily; her
unlackered, ancient, third-hand tea-tray arranged with a black
tea-pot, two cups with a red and white pattern, and one with the
old friendly willow pattern, and saucers, not to match (on one
of the extra supply, the lump of butter flourished away); all
these preparations complete, Alice began to look about her with
satisfaction, and a sort of wonder what more could be done to add to
the comfort of the evening. She took one of the chairs away from its
appropriate place by the table, and putting it close to the broad
large hanging shelf I told you about when I first described her
cellar-dwelling, and mounting on it, she pulled towards her an old
deal box, and took thence a quantity of the oat bread of the north,
the clap-bread of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and descending
carefully with the thin cakes threatening to break to pieces in her
hand, she placed them on the bare table, with the belief that her
visitors would have an unusual treat in eating the bread of her
childhood. She brought out a good piece of a four-pound loaf of
common household bread as well, and then sat down to rest, really
to rest, and not to pretend, on one of the rush-bottomed chairs.
The candle was ready to be lighted, the kettle boiled, the tea was
awaiting its doom in its paper parcel; all was ready.

A knock at the door! It was Margaret, the young workwoman who lived
in the rooms above, who having heard the bustle, and the subsequent
quiet, began to think it was time to pay her visit below. She was a
sallow, unhealthy, sweet-looking young woman, with a careworn look;
her dress was humble and very simple, consisting of some kind of
dark stuff gown, her neck being covered by a drab shawl or large
handkerchief, pinned down behind and at the sides in front. The old
woman gave her a hearty greeting, and made her sit down on the chair
she had just left, while she balanced herself on the board seat, in
order that Margaret might think it was quite her free and independent
choice to sit there.

"I cannot think what keeps Mary Barton. She's quite grand with her
late hours," said Alice, as Mary still delayed.

The truth was, Mary was dressing herself; yes, to come to poor old
Alice's--she thought it worth while to consider what gown she should
put on. It was not for Alice, however, you may be pretty sure; no,
they knew each other too well. But Mary liked making an impression,
and in this it must be owned she was pretty often gratified--and
there was this strange girl to consider just now. So she put on her
pretty new blue merino, made tight to her throat, her little linen
collar and linen cuffs, and sallied forth to impress poor gentle
Margaret. She certainly succeeded. Alice, who never thought much
about beauty, had never told Margaret how pretty Mary was; and, as
she came in half-blushing at her own self-consciousness, Margaret
could hardly take her eyes off her, and Mary put down her long black
lashes with a sort of dislike of the very observation she had taken
such pains to secure. Can you fancy the bustle of Alice to make the
tea, to pour it out, and sweeten it to their liking, to help and help
again to clap-bread and bread-and-butter? Can you fancy the delight
with which she watched her piled-up clap-bread disappear before the
hungry girls, and listened to the praises of her home-remembered
dainty?

"My mother used to send me some clap-bread by any north-country
person--bless her! She knew how good such things taste when far away
from home. Not but what every one likes it. When I was in service my
fellow-servants were always glad to share with me. Eh, it's a long
time ago, yon."

"Do tell us about it, Alice," said Margaret.

"Why, lass, there's nothing to tell. There was more mouths at home
than could be fed. Tom, that's Will's father (you don't know Will,
but he's a sailor to foreign parts), had come to Manchester, and sent
word what terrible lots of work was to be had, both for lads and
lasses. So father sent George first (you know George, well enough,
Mary), and then work was scarce out toward Burton, where we lived,
and father said I maun try and get a place. And George wrote as how
wages were far higher in Manchester than Milnthorpe or Lancaster;
and, lasses, I was young and thoughtless, and thought it was a fine
thing to go so far from home. So, one day, th' butcher he brings us a
letter fra George, to say he'd heard on a place--and I was all agog
to go, and father was pleased, like; but mother said little, and that
little was very quiet. I've often thought she was a bit hurt to see
me so ready to go--God forgive me! But she packed up my clothes, and
some o' the better end of her own as would fit me, in yon little
paper box up there--it's good for nought now, but I would liefer live
without fire than break it up to be burnt; and yet it's going on for
eighty years old, for she had it when she was a girl, and brought all
her clothes in it to father's, when they were married. But, as I was
saying, she did not cry, though the tears was often in her eyes; and
I seen her looking after me down the lane as long as I were in sight,
with her hand shading her eyes--and that were the last look I ever
had on her."

Alice knew that before long she should go to that mother; and,
besides, the griefs and bitter woes of youth have worn themselves out
before we grow old; but she looked so sorrowful that the girls caught
her sadness, and mourned for the poor woman who had been dead and
gone so many years ago.

"Did you never see her again, Alice? Did you never go home while she
was alive?" asked Mary.

"No, nor since. Many a time and oft have I planned to go. I plan
it yet, and hope to go home again before it please God to take me.
I used to try and save money enough to go for a week when I was in
service; but first one thing came, and then another. First, missis's
children fell ill of the measles, just when th' week I'd ask'd for
came, and I couldn't leave them, for one and all cried for me to
nurse them. Then missis herself fell sick, and I could go less than
ever. For, you see, they kept a little shop, and he drank, and missis
and me was all there was to mind children, and shop, and all, and
cook and wash besides."

Mary was glad she had not gone into service, and said so.

"Eh, lass! thou little knows the pleasure o' helping others; I was as
happy there as could be; almost as happy as I was at home. Well, but
next year I thought I could go at a leisure time, and missis telled
me I should have a fortnight then, and I used to sit up all that
winter working hard at patchwork, to have a quilt of my own making
to take to my mother. But master died, and missis went away fra
Manchester, and I'd to look out for a place again."

"Well, but," interrupted Mary, "I should have thought that was the
best time to go home."

"No, I thought not. You see it was a different thing going home for
a week on a visit, may be with money in my pocket to give father a
lift, to going home to be a burden to him. Besides, how could I hear
o' a place there? Anyways I thought it best to stay, though perhaps
it might have been better to ha' gone, for then I should ha' seen
mother again;" and the poor old woman looked puzzled.

"I'm sure you did what you thought right," said Margaret, gently.

"Ay, lass, that's it," said Alice, raising her head and speaking more
cheerfully. "That's the thing, and then let the Lord send what He
sees fit; not but that I grieved sore, oh, sore and sad, when toward
spring next year, when my quilt were all done to th' lining, George
came in one evening to tell me mother was dead. I cried many a
night at after; [3] I'd no time for crying by day, for that missis
was terrible strict; she would not hearken to my going to th'
funeral; and indeed I would have been too late, for George set off
that very night by th' coach, and th' letter had been kept or summut
(posts were not like th' posts now-a-days), and he found the burial
all over, and father talking o' flitting; for he couldn't abide the
cottage after mother was gone."


   [Footnote 3: A common Lancashire phrase. "Come to me, Tyrrel,
                soon, _at after_ supper." SHAKSPEARE, Richard III.]


"Was it a pretty place?" asked Mary.

"Pretty, lass! I never seed such a bonny bit anywhere. You see there
are hills there as seem to go up into th' skies, not near may be, but
that makes them all the bonnier. I used to think they were the golden
hills of heaven, about which my mother sang when I was a child,

   'Yon are the golden hills o' heaven,
      Where ye sall never win.'

Something about a ship and a lover that should hae been na lover,
the ballad was. Well, and near our cottage were rocks. Eh, lasses!
ye don't know what rocks are in Manchester! Gray pieces o' stone as
large as a house, all covered over wi' moss of different colours,
some yellow, some brown; and the ground beneath them knee-deep in
purple heather, smelling sae sweet and fragrant, and the low music of
the humming-bee for ever sounding among it. Mother used to send Sally
and me out to gather ling and heather for besoms, and it was such
pleasant work! We used to come home of an evening loaded so as you
could not see us, for all that it was so light to carry. And then
mother would make us sit down under the old hawthorn tree (where
we used to make our house among the great roots as stood above th'
ground), to pick and tie up the heather. It seems all like yesterday,
and yet it's a long long time agone. Poor sister Sally has been
in her grave this forty year and more. But I often wonder if the
hawthorn is standing yet, and if the lasses still go to gather
heather, as we did many and many a year past and gone. I sicken at
heart to see the old spot once again. May be next summer I may set
off, if God spares me to see next summer."

"Why have you never been in all these many years?" asked Mary.

"Why, lass! first one wanted me and then another; and I couldn't
go without money either, and I got very poor at times. Tom was a
scapegrace, poor fellow, and always wanted help of one kind or
another; and his wife (for I think scapegraces are always married
long before steady folk) was but a helpless kind of body. She were
always ailing, and he were always in trouble; so I had enough to do
with my hands and my money too, for that matter. They died within
twelvemonth of each other, leaving one lad (they had had seven, but
the Lord had taken six to Himself), Will, as I was telling you on;
and I took him myself, and left service to make a bit on a home-place
for him, and a fine lad he was, the very spit of his father as to
looks, only steadier. For he was steady, although nought would serve
him but going to sea. I tried all I could to set him again a sailor's
life. Says I, 'Folks is as sick as dogs all the time they're at sea.
Your own mother telled me (for she came from foreign parts, being a
Manx woman) that she'd ha thanked any one for throwing her into the
water.' Nay, I sent him a' the way to Runcorn by th' Duke's canal,
that he might know what th' sea were; and I looked to see him come
back as white as a sheet wi' vomiting. But the lad went on to
Liverpool and saw real ships, and came back more set than ever on
being a sailor, and he said as how he had never been sick at all, and
thought he could stand the sea pretty well. So I telled him he mun
do as he liked; and he thanked me and kissed me, for all I was very
frabbit [4] with him; and now he's gone to South America, at t'other
side of the sun, they tell me."


   [Footnote 4: "Frabbit," peevish.]


Mary stole a glance at Margaret to see what she thought of Alice's
geography; but Margaret looked so quiet and demure, that Mary was in
doubt if she were not really ignorant. Not that Mary's knowledge was
very profound, but she had seen a terrestrial globe, and knew where
to find France and the continents on a map.

After this long talking Alice seemed lost for a time in reverie; and
the girls, respecting her thoughts, which they suspected had wandered
to the home and scenes of her childhood, were silent. All at once she
recalled her duties as hostess, and by an effort brought back her
mind to the present time.

"Margaret, thou must let Mary hear thee sing. I don't know about fine
music myself, but folks say Margaret is a rare singer, and I know she
can make me cry at any time by singing 'Th' Owdham Weaver.' Do sing
that, Margaret, there's a good lass."

With a faint smile, as if amused at Alice's choice of a song,
Margaret began.

Do you know "The Oldham Weaver?" Not unless you are Lancashire born
and bred, for it is a complete Lancashire ditty. I will copy it for
you.


   THE OLDHAM WEAVER.

   I.

   Oi'm a poor cotton-weyver, as mony a one knoowas,
   Oi've nowt for t' yeat, an' oi've woorn eawt my clooas,
   Yo'ad hardly gi' tuppence for aw as oi've on,
   My clogs are boath brosten, an' stuckins oi've none,
      Yo'd think it wur hard,
      To be browt into th' warld,
   To be--clemmed, [5] an' do th' best as yo con.

   II.

   Owd Dicky o' Billy's kept telling me lung,
   Wee s'd ha' better toimes if I'd but howd my tung,
   Oi've howden my tung, till oi've near stopped my breath,
   Oi think i' my heeart oi'se soon clem to deeath,
      Owd Dicky's weel crammed,
      He never wur clemmed,
   An' he ne'er picked ower i' his loife. [6]

   III.

   We tow'rt on six week--thinking aitch day wur th' last,
   We shifted, an' shifted, till neaw we're quoite fast;
   We lived upo' nettles, whoile nettles wur good,
   An' Waterloo porridge the best o' eawr food,
      Oi'm tellin' yo' true,
      Oi can find folk enow,
   As wur livin' na better nor me.

   IV.

   Owd Billy o' Dans sent th' baileys one day,
   Fur a shop deebt oi eawd him, as oi could na pay,
   But he wur too lat, fur owd Billy o' th' Bent,
   Had sowd th' tit an' cart, an' ta'en goods fur th' rent,
      We'd neawt left bo' th' owd stoo',
      That wur seeats fur two,
   An' on it ceawred Marget an' me.

   V.

   Then t' baileys leuked reawnd as sloy as a meawse,
   When they seed as aw t' goods were ta'en eawt o' t' heawse,
   Says one chap to th' tother, "Aws gone, theaw may see;"
   Says oi, "Ne'er freet, mon, yeaur welcome ta' me."
      They made no moor ado
      But whopped up th' eawd stoo',
   An' we booath leet, whack--upo' t' flags!

   VI.

   Then oi said to eawr Marget, as we lay upo' t' floor,
   "We's never be lower i' this warld, oi'm sure,
   If ever things awtern, oi'm sure they mun mend,
   For oi think i' my heart we're booath at t' far eend;
      For meeat we ha' none;
      Nor looms t' weyve on,--
   Edad! they're as good lost as fund."

   VII.

   Eawr Marget declares had hoo cloo'as to put on,
   Hoo'd goo up to Lunnon an' talk to th' greet mon;
   An' if things were na awtered when there hoo had been,
   Hoo's fully resolved t' sew up meawth an' eend;
      Hoo's neawt to say again t' king,
      But hoo loikes a fair thing,
   An' hoo says hoo can tell when hoo's hurt.


   [Footnote 5: "Clem," to starve with hunger. "Hard is the
                choice, when the valiant must eat their arms
                or _clem_."--_Ben Jonson._]

   [Footnote 6: To "pick ower," means to throw the shuttle in
                hand-loom weaving.]


The air to which this is sung is a kind of droning recitative,
depending much on expression and feeling. To read it, it may,
perhaps, seem humorous; but it is that humour which is near akin
to pathos, and to those who have seen the distress it describes,
it is a powerfully pathetic song. Margaret had both witnessed the
destitution, and had the heart to feel it; and withal, her voice was
of that rich and rare order, which does not require any great compass
of notes to make itself appreciated. Alice had her quiet enjoyment of
tears. But Margaret, with fixed eye, and earnest, dreamy look, seemed
to become more and more absorbed in realising to herself the woe she
had been describing, and which she felt might at that very moment be
suffering and hopeless within a short distance of their comparative
comfort.

Suddenly she burst forth with all the power of her magnificent voice,
as if a prayer from her very heart for all who were in distress, in
the grand supplication, "Lord, remember David." Mary held her breath,
unwilling to lose a note, it was so clear, so perfect, so imploring.
A far more correct musician than Mary might have paused with equal
admiration of the really scientific knowledge, with which the poor
depressed-looking young needle-woman used her superb and flexile
voice. Deborah Travers herself (once an Oldham factory girl, and
afterwards the darling of fashionable crowds as Mrs. Knyvett) might
have owned a sister in her art.

She stopped; and with tears of holy sympathy in her eyes, Alice
thanked the songstress, who resumed her calm, demure manner, much to
Mary's wonder, for she looked at her unweariedly, as if surprised
that the hidden power should not be perceived in the outward
appearance.

When Alice's little speech of thanks was over, there was quiet enough
to hear a fine, though rather quavering, male voice, going over again
one or two strains of Margaret's song.

"That's grandfather!" exclaimed she. "I must be going, for he said he
should not be at home till past nine."

"Well, I'll not say nay, for I've to be up by four for a very heavy
wash at Mrs. Simpson's; but I shall be terrible glad to see you again
at any time, lasses; and I hope you'll take to one another."

As the girls ran up the cellar steps together, Margaret said: "Just
step in and see grandfather. I should like him to see you."

And Mary consented.




CHAPTER V.

THE MILL ON FIRE--JEM WILSON TO THE RESCUE.


   Learned he was; nor bird, nor insect flew,
   But he its leafy home and history knew;
   Nor wild-flower decked the rock, nor moss the well,
   But he its name and qualities could tell.

   ELLIOTT.


There is a class of men in Manchester, unknown even to many of the
inhabitants, and whose existence will probably be doubted by many,
who yet may claim kindred with all the noble names that science
recognises. I said "in Manchester," but they are scattered all over
the manufacturing districts of Lancashire. In the neighbourhood of
Oldham there are weavers, common hand-loom weavers, who throw the
shuttle with unceasing sound, though Newton's "Principia" lie open on
the loom, to be snatched at in work hours, but revelled over in meal
times, or at night. Mathematical problems are received with interest,
and studied with absorbing attention by many a broad-spoken,
common-looking, factory-hand. It is perhaps less astonishing that the
more popularly interesting branches of natural history have their
warm and devoted followers among this class. There are botanists
among them, equally familiar with either the Linnæan or the Natural
system, who know the name and habitat of every plant within a day's
walk from their dwellings; who steal the holiday of a day or two when
any particular plant should be in flower, and tying up their simple
food in their pocket-handkerchiefs, set off with single purpose to
fetch home the humble-looking weed. There are entomologists, who may
be seen with a rude-looking net, ready to catch any winged insect,
or a kind of dredge, with which they rake the green and slimy pools;
practical, shrewd, hard-working men, who pore over every new specimen
with real scientific delight. Nor is it the common and more obvious
divisions of Entomology and Botany that alone attract these earnest
seekers after knowledge. Perhaps it may be owing to the great annual
town-holiday of Whitsun-week so often falling in May or June that the
two great, beautiful families of Ephemeridæ and Phryganidæ have been
so much and so closely studied by Manchester workmen, while they have
in a great measure escaped general observation. If you will refer
to the preface to Sir J. E. Smith's Life (I have it not by me, or
I would copy you the exact passage), you will find that he names
a little circumstance corroborative of what I have said. Sir J. E.
Smith, being on a visit to Roscoe, of Liverpool, made some inquiries
from him as to the habitat of a very rare plant, said to be found in
certain places in Lancashire. Mr. Roscoe knew nothing of the plant;
but stated, that if any one could give him the desired information,
it would be a hand-loom weaver in Manchester, whom he named. Sir J.
E. Smith proceeded by coach to Manchester, and on arriving at that
town, he inquired of the porter who was carrying his luggage if he
could direct him to So and So.

"Oh, yes," replied the man. "He does a bit in my way;" and, on
further investigation, it turned out, that both the porter, and his
friend the weaver, were skilful botanists, and able to give Sir J. E.
Smith the very information which he wanted.

Such are the tastes and pursuits of some of the thoughtful, little
understood, working men of Manchester.

And Margaret's grandfather was one of these. He was a little
wiry-looking old man, who moved with a jerking motion, as if his
limbs were worked by a string like a child's toy, with dun coloured
hair lying thin and soft at the back and sides of his head; his
forehead was so large it seemed to overbalance the rest of his face,
which had indeed lost its natural contour by the absence of all the
teeth. The eyes absolutely gleamed with intelligence; so keen, so
observant, you felt as if they were almost wizard-like. Indeed, the
whole room looked not unlike a wizard's dwelling. Instead of pictures
were hung rude wooden frames of impaled insects; the little table was
covered with cabalistic books; and a case of mysterious instruments
lay beside, one of which Job Legh was using when his grand-daughter
entered.

On her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as to rest midway
on his forehead, and gave Mary a short, kind welcome. But Margaret
he caressed as a mother caresses her first-born; stroking her with
tenderness, and almost altering his voice as he spoke to her.

Mary looked round on the odd, strange things she had never seen at
home, and which seemed to her to have a very uncanny look.

"Is your grandfather a fortune-teller?" whispered she to her new
friend.

"No," replied Margaret, in the same voice; "but you're not the first
as has taken him for such. He is only fond of such things as most
folks know nothing about."

"And do you know aught about them, too?"

"I know a bit about some of the things grandfather is fond on; just
because he's fond on 'em I tried to learn about them."

"What things are these?" said Mary, struck with the weird looking
creatures that sprawled around the room in their roughly-made glass
cases.

But she was not prepared for the technical names which Job Legh
pattered down on her ear, on which they fell like hail on a skylight;
and the strange language only bewildered her more than ever. Margaret
saw the state of the case, and came to the rescue.

"Look, Mary, at this horrid scorpion. He gave me such a fright:
I'm all of a twitter yet when I think of it. Grandfather went to
Liverpool one Whitsun-week to go strolling about the docks and pick
up what he could from the sailors, who often bring some queer thing
or another from the hot countries they go to; and so he sees a chap
with a bottle in his hand, like a druggist's physic-bottle; and says
grandfather, 'What have ye gotten there?' So the sailor holds it up,
and grandfather knew it was a rare kind o' scorpion, not common even
in the East Indies where the man came from; and says he, 'How did
ye catch this fine fellow, for he wouldn't be taken for nothing I'm
thinking?' And the man said as how when they were unloading the ship
he'd found him lying behind a bag of rice, and he thought the cold
had killed him, for he was not squashed nor injured a bit. He did
not like to part with any of the spirit out of his grog to put the
scorpion in, but slipped him into the bottle, knowing there were
folks enow who would give him something for him. So grandfather gives
him a shilling."

"Two shilling," interrupted Job Legh, "and a good bargain it was."

"Well! grandfather came home as proud as Punch, and pulled the bottle
out of his pocket. But you see th' scorpion were doubled up, and
grandfather thought I couldn't fairly see how big he was. So he
shakes him out right before the fire; and a good warm one it was, for
I was ironing, I remember. I left off ironing, and stooped down over
him, to look at him better, and grandfather got a book, and began to
read how this very kind were the most poisonous and vicious species,
how their bite were often fatal, and then went on to read how people
who were bitten got swelled, and screamed with pain. I was listening
hard, but as it fell out, I never took my eyes off the creature,
though I could not ha' told I was watching it. Suddenly it seemed
to give a jerk, and before I could speak, it gave another, and in
a minute it was as wild as could be, running at me just like a mad
dog."

"What did you do?" asked Mary.

"Me! why, I jumped first on a chair, and then on all the things I'd
been ironing on the dresser, and I screamed for grandfather to come
up by me, but he did not hearken to me."

"Why, if I'd come up by thee, who'd ha' caught the creature, I should
like to know?"

"Well, I begged grandfather to crush it, and I had the iron right
over it once, ready to drop, but grandfather begged me not to hurt it
in that way. So I couldn't think what he'd have, for he hopped round
the room as if he were sore afraid, for all he begged me not to
injure it. At last he goes to th' kettle, and lifts up the lid, and
peeps in. What on earth is he doing that for, thinks I; he'll never
drink his tea with a scorpion running free and easy about the room.
Then he takes the tongs, and he settles his spectacles on his nose,
and in a minute he had lifted the creature up by th' leg, and dropped
him into the boiling water."

"And did that kill him?" said Mary.

"Ay, sure enough; he boiled for longer time than grandfather liked
though. But I was so afeard of his coming round again. I ran to the
public-house for some gin, and grandfather filled the bottle, and
then we poured off the water, and picked him out of the kettle, and
dropped him into the bottle, and he were there above a twelvemonth."

"What brought him to life at first?" asked Mary.

"Why, you see, he were never really dead, only torpid--that is, dead
asleep with the cold, and our good fire brought him round."

"I'm glad father does not care for such things," said Mary.

"Are you! Well, I'm often downright glad grandfather is so fond of
his books, and his creatures, and his plants. It does my heart good
to see him so happy, sorting them all at home, and so ready to go in
search of more, whenever he's a spare day. Look at him now! he's gone
back to his books, and he'll be as happy as a king, working away till
I make him go to bed. It keeps him silent, to be sure; but so long
as I see him earnest, and pleased, and eager, what does that matter?
Then, when he has his talking bouts, you can't think how much he has
to say. Dear grandfather! you don't know how happy we are!"

Mary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this, for Margaret
did not speak in an under tone; but no! he was far too deep and eager
in solving a problem. He did not even notice Mary's leave-taking,
and she went home with the feeling that she had that night made the
acquaintance of two of the strangest people she ever saw in her life.
Margaret, so quiet, so common place, until her singing powers were
called forth; so silent from home, so cheerful and agreeable at home;
and her grandfather so very different to any one Mary had ever seen.
Margaret had said he was not a fortune-teller, but she did not know
whether to believe her.

To resolve her doubts, she told the history of the evening to her
father, who was interested by her account, and curious to see
and judge for himself. Opportunities are not often wanting where
inclination goes before, and ere the end of that winter Mary looked
upon Margaret almost as an old friend. The latter would bring her
work when Mary was likely to be at home in the evenings and sit with
her; and Job Legh would put a book and his pipe in his pocket and
just step round the corner to fetch his grand-child, ready for a talk
if he found Barton in; ready to pull out pipe and book if the girls
wanted him to wait, and John was still at his club. In short, ready
to do whatever would give pleasure to his darling Margaret.

I do not know what points of resemblance (or dissimilitude, for the
one joins people as often as the other) attracted the two girls to
each other. Margaret had the great charm of possessing good strong
common sense, and do you not perceive how involuntarily this is
valued? It is so pleasant to have a friend who possesses the power
of setting a difficult question in a clear light; whose judgment can
tell what is best to be done; and who is so convinced of what is
"wisest, best," that in consideration of the end, all difficulties
in the way diminish. People admire talent, and talk about their
admiration. But they value common sense without talking about it, and
often without knowing it.

So Mary and Margaret grew in love one toward the other; and Mary told
many of her feelings in a way she had never done before to any one.
Most of her foibles also were made known to Margaret, but not all.
There was one cherished weakness still concealed from every one. It
concerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. A gallant,
handsome young man; but--not beloved. Yet Mary hoped to meet him
every day in her walks, blushed when she heard his name, and tried
to think of him as her future husband, and above all, tried to think
of herself as his future wife. Alas! poor Mary! Bitter woe did thy
weakness work thee.

She had other lovers. One or two would gladly have kept her company,
but she held herself too high, they said. Jem Wilson said nothing,
but loved on and on, ever more fondly; he hoped against hope; he
would not give up, for it seemed like giving up life to give up
thought of Mary. He did not dare to look to any end of all this; the
present, so that he saw her, touched the hem of her garment, was
enough. Surely, in time, such deep love would beget love.

He would not relinquish hope, and yet her coldness of manner was
enough to daunt any man; and it made Jem more despairing than he
would acknowledge for a long time even to himself.

But one evening he came round by Barton's house, a willing messenger
for his father, and opening the door saw Margaret sitting asleep
before the fire. She had come in to speak to Mary; and worn out by a
long working, watching night, she fell asleep in the genial warmth.

An old-fashioned saying about a pair of gloves came into Jem's mind,
and stepping gently up he kissed Margaret with a friendly kiss.

She awoke, and perfectly understanding the thing, she said, "For
shame of yourself, Jem! What would Mary say?"

Lightly said, lightly answered.

"She'd nobbut say, practice makes perfect." And they both laughed.
But the words Margaret had said rankled in Jem's mind. Would Mary
care? Would she care in the very least? They seemed to call for an
answer by night, and by day; and Jem felt that his heart told him
Mary was quite indifferent to any action of his. Still he loved on,
and on, ever more fondly.

Mary's father was well aware of the nature of Jem Wilson's feelings
for his daughter, but he took no notice of them to any one, thinking
Mary full young yet for the cares of married life, and unwilling,
too, to entertain the idea of parting with her at any time, however
distant. But he welcomed Jem at his house, as he would have done his
father's son, whatever were his motives for coming; and now and then
admitted the thought, that Mary might do worse when her time came,
than marry Jem Wilson, a steady workman at a good trade, a good son
to his parents, and a fine manly spirited chap--at least when Mary
was not by: for when she was present he watched her too closely, and
too anxiously, to have much of what John Barton called "spunk" in
him.

It was towards the end of February, in that year, and a bitter black
frost had lasted for many weeks. The keen east wind had long since
swept the streets clean, though on a gusty day the dust would rise
like pounded ice, and make people's faces quite smart with the cold
force with which it blew against them. Houses, sky, people, and every
thing looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over with
a dark shade of Indian ink. There was some reason for this grimy
appearance on human beings, whatever there might be for the dun looks
of the landscape; for soft water had become an article not even to
be purchased; and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainly trying
to procure a little by breaking the thick gray ice that coated the
ditches and ponds in the neighbourhood. People prophesied a long
continuance to this already lengthened frost; said the spring would
be very late; no spring fashions required; no summer clothing
purchased for a short uncertain summer. Indeed there was no end to
the evil prophesied during the continuance of that bleak east wind.

Mary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was fading, from Miss
Simmonds', with her shawl held up to her mouth, and her head bent
as if in deprecation of the meeting wind. So she did not perceive
Margaret till, she was close upon her at the very turning into the
court.

"Bless me, Margaret! is that you? Where are you bound to?"

"To nowhere but your own house (that is, if you'll take me in). I've
a job of work to finish to-night; mourning, as must be in time for
the funeral to-morrow; and grandfather has been out moss-hunting, and
will not be home till late."

"Oh, how charming it will be. I'll help you if you're backward. Have
you much to do?"

"Yes, I only got the order yesterday at noon; and there's three girls
beside the mother; and what with trying on and matching the stuff
(for there was not enough in the piece they chose first), I'm above
a bit behindhand. I've the skirts all to make. I kept that work till
candlelight; and the sleeves, to say nothing of little bits to the
bodies; for the missis is very particular, and I could scarce keep
from smiling while they were crying so, really taking on sadly I'm
sure, to hear first one and then t'other clear up to notice the sit
of her gown. They weren't to be misfits I promise you, though they
were in such trouble."

"Well, Margaret, you're right welcome as you know, and I'll sit down
and help you with pleasure, though I was tired enough of sewing
to-night at Miss Simmonds'."

By this time Mary had broken up the raking coal, and lighted her
candle; and Margaret settled herself to her work on one side of the
table, while her friend hurried over her tea at the other. The things
were then lifted _en masse_ to the dresser; and dusting her side of
the table with the apron she always wore at home, Mary took up some
breadths and began to run them together.

"Who's it all for, for if you told me I've forgotten?"

"Why for Mrs. Ogden as keeps the greengrocer's shop in Oxford Road.
Her husband drank himself to death, and though she cried over him and
his ways all the time he was alive, she's fretted sadly for him now
he's dead."

"Has he left her much to go upon?" asked Mary, examining the texture
of the dress. "This is beautifully fine soft bombazine."

"No, I'm much afeared there's but little, and there's several young
children, besides the three Miss Ogdens."

"I should have thought girls like them would ha' made their own
gowns," observed Mary.

"So I dare say they do, many a one, but now they seem all so busy
getting ready for the funeral; for it's to be quite a grand affair,
well-nigh twenty people to breakfast, as one of the little ones told
me; the little thing seemed to like the fuss, and I do believe it
comforted poor Mrs. Ogden to make all the piece o' work. Such a smell
of ham boiling and fowls roasting while I waited in the kitchen; it
seemed more like a wedding nor [7] a funeral. They said she'd spend a
matter o' sixty pound on th' burial."


   [Footnote 7: "Nor," generally used in Lancashire for "than."
                "They had lever sleep _nor_ be in
                laundery."--_Dunbar_.]


"I thought you said she was but badly off," said Mary.

"Ay, I know she's asked for credit at several places, saying her
husband laid hands on every farthing he could get for drink. But th'
undertakers urge her on you see, and tell her this thing's usual,
and that thing's only a common mark of respect, and that every body
has t'other thing, till the poor woman has no will o' her own. I
dare say, too, her heart strikes her (it always does when a person's
gone) for many a word and many a slighting deed to him, who's stiff
and cold; and she thinks to make up matters, as it were, by a grand
funeral, though she and all her children, too, may have to pinch many
a year to pay the expenses, if ever they pay them at all."

"This mourning, too, will cost a pretty penny," said Mary. "I often
wonder why folks wear mourning; it's not pretty or becoming; and it
costs a deal of money just when people can spare it least; and if
what the Bible tells us be true, we ought not to be sorry when a
friend, who's been good, goes to his rest; and as for a bad man,
one's glad enough to get shut [8] on him. I cannot see what good
comes out o' wearing mourning."


   [Footnote 8: "Shut," quit.]


"I'll tell you what I think th' fancy was sent for (Old Alice calls
every thing 'sent for,' and I believe she's right). It does do good,
though not as much as it costs, that I do believe, in setting people
(as is cast down by sorrow and feels themselves unable to settle to
any thing but crying) something to do. Why now I told you how they
were grieving; for, perhaps, he was a kind husband and father, in
his thoughtless way, when he wasn't in liquor. But they cheered up
wonderful while I was there, and I asked 'em for more directions than
usual, that they might have something to talk over and fix about; and
I left 'em my fashion-book (though it were two months old) just a
purpose."

"I don't think every one would grieve a that way. Old Alice
wouldn't."

"Old Alice is one in a thousand. I doubt, too, if she would fret
much, however sorry she might be. She would say it were sent, and
fall to trying to find out what good it were to do. Every sorrow in
her mind is sent for good. Did I ever tell you, Mary, what she said
one day when she found me taking on about something?"

"No; do tell me. What were you fretting about, first place?"

"I can't tell you just now; perhaps I may sometime."

"When?"

"Perhaps this very evening, if it rises in my heart; perhaps never.
It's a fear that sometimes I can't abide to think about, and
sometimes I don't like to think on any thing else. Well, I was
fretting about this fear, and Alice comes in for something, and finds
me crying. I would not tell her no more than I would you, Mary; so
she says, 'Well, dear, you must mind this, when you're going to fret
and be low about any thing, "An anxious mind is never a holy mind."'
Oh, Mary, I have so often checked my grumbling sin' [9] she said
that."


   [Footnote 9: "Sin'," since. "_Sin_ that his lord was twenty
                yere of age." _Prologue to Canterbury Tales._]


The weary sound of stitching was the only sound heard for a little
while, till Mary inquired,

"Do you expect to get paid for this mourning?"

"Why I do not much think I shall. I've thought it over once or twice,
and I mean to bring myself to think I shan't, and to like to do it as
my bit towards comforting them. I don't think they can pay, and yet
they're just the sort of folk to have their minds easier for wearing
mourning. There's only one thing I dislike making black for, it does
so hurt the eyes."

Margaret put down her work with a sigh, and shaded her eyes. Then she
assumed a cheerful tone, and said,

"You'll not have to wait long, Mary, for my secret's on the tip of
my tongue. Mary! do you know I sometimes think I'm growing a little
blind, and then what would become of grandfather and me? Oh, God help
me, Lord help me!"

She fell into an agony of tears, while Mary knelt by her, striving
to soothe and to comfort her; but, like an inexperienced person,
striving rather to deny the correctness of Margaret's fear, than
helping her to meet and overcome the evil.

"No," said Margaret, quietly fixing her tearful eyes on Mary; "I know
I'm not mistaken. I have felt one going some time, long before I ever
thought what it would lead to; and last autumn I went to a doctor;
and he did not mince the matter, but said unless I sat in a darkened
room, with my hands before me, my sight would not last me many years
longer. But how could I do that, Mary? For one thing, grandfather
would have known there was somewhat the matter; and, oh! it will
grieve him sore whenever he's told, so the later the better; and
besides, Mary, we've sometimes little enough to go upon, and what
I earn is a great help. For grandfather takes a day here, and a day
there, for botanising or going after insects, and he'll think little
enough of four or five shillings for a specimen; dear grandfather!
and I'm so loath to think he should be stinted of what gives him
such pleasure. So I went to another doctor to try and get him to say
something different, and he said, 'Oh, it was only weakness,' and
gived me a bottle of lotion; but I've used three bottles (and each of
'em cost two shillings), and my eye is so much worse, not hurting so
much, but I can't see a bit with it. There now, Mary," continued she,
shutting one eye, "now you only look like a great black shadow, with
the edges dancing and sparkling."

"And can you see pretty well with th' other?"

"Yes, pretty near as well as ever. Th' only difference is, that if
I sew a long time together, a bright spot like th' sun comes right
where I'm looking; all the rest is quite clear but just where I want
to see. I've been to both doctors again, and now they're both o' the
same story; and I suppose I'm going dark as fast as may be. Plain
work pays so bad, and mourning has been so plentiful this winter, I
were tempted to take in any black work I could; and now I'm suffering
from it."

"And yet, Margaret, you're going on taking it in; that's what you'd
call foolish in another."

"It is, Mary! and yet what can I do? Folk mun live; and I think I
should go blind any way, and I darn't tell grandfather, else I would
leave it off, but he will so fret."

Margaret rocked herself backward and forward to still her emotion.

"Oh Mary!" she said, "I try to get his face off by heart, and I stare
at him so when he's not looking, and then shut my eyes to see if I
can remember his dear face. There's one thing, Mary, that serves a
bit to comfort me. You'll have heard of old Jacob Butterworth, the
singing weaver? Well, I know'd him a bit, so I went to him, and said
how I wished he'd teach me the right way o' singing; and he says
I've a rare fine voice, and I go once a week, and take a lesson fra'
him. He's been a grand singer in his day. He's led th' chorusses at
the Festivals, and got thanked many a time by London folk; and one
foreign singer, Madame Catalani, turned round and shook him by th'
hand before the Oud Church [10] full o' people. He says I may gain
ever so much money by singing; but I don't know. Any rate it's sad
work, being blind."


   [Footnote 10: "Old Church;" now the Cathedral of Manchester.]


She took up her sewing, saying her eyes were rested now, and for some
time they sewed on in silence.

Suddenly there were steps heard in the little paved court; person
after person ran past the curtained window.

"Something's up," said Mary. She went to the door and stopping the
first person she saw, inquired the cause of the commotion.

"Eh, wench! donna ye see the fire-light? Carsons' mill is blazing
away like fun;" and away her informant ran.

"Come, Margaret, on wi' your bonnet, and let's go to see Carsons'
mill; it's afire, and they say a burning mill is such a grand sight.
I never saw one."

"Well, I think it's a fearful sight. Besides I've all this work to
do."

But Mary coaxed in her sweet manner, and with her gentle caresses,
promising to help with the gowns all night long if necessary, nay,
saying she should quite enjoy it.

The truth was, Margaret's secret weighed heavily and painfully on her
mind, and she felt her inability to comfort; besides, she wanted to
change the current of Margaret's thoughts; and in addition to these
unselfish feelings, came the desire she had honestly expressed, of
seeing a factory on fire.

So in two minutes they were ready. At the threshold of the house they
met John Barton, to whom they told their errand.

"Carsons' mill! Ay, there is a mill on fire somewhere, sure enough,
by the light, and it will be a rare blaze, for there's not a drop
o' water to be got. And much Carsons will care, for they're well
insured, and the machines are a' th' oud-fashioned kind. See if they
don't think it a fine thing for themselves. They'll not thank them as
tries to put it out."

He gave way for the impatient girls to pass. Guided by the ruddy
light more than by any exact knowledge of the streets that led to the
mill, they scampered along with bent heads, facing the terrible east
wind as best they might.

Carsons' mill ran lengthways from east to west. Along it went one
of the oldest thoroughfares in Manchester. Indeed all that part of
the town was comparatively old; it was there that the first cotton
mills were built, and the crowded alleys and back streets of the
neighbourhood made a fire there particularly to be dreaded. The
staircase of the mill ascended from the entrance at the western end,
which faced into a wide dingy-looking street, consisting principally
of public-houses, pawn-brokers' shops, rag and bone warehouses,
and dirty provision shops. The other, the east end of the factory,
fronted into a very narrow back street, not twenty feet wide, and
miserably lighted and paved. Right against this end of the factory
were the gable ends of the last house in the principal street--a
house which from its size, its handsome stone facings, and the
attempt at ornament in the front, had probably been once a
gentleman's house; but now the light which streamed from its enlarged
front windows made clear the interior of the splendidly fitted up
room, with its painted walls, its pillared recesses, its gilded and
gorgeous fittings up, its miserable, squalid inmates. It was a gin
palace.

Mary almost wished herself away, so fearful (as Margaret had said)
was the sight when they joined the crowd assembled to witness the
fire. There was a murmur of many voices whenever the roaring of the
flames ceased for an instant. It was easy to perceive the mass were
deeply interested.

"What do they say?" asked Margaret, of a neighbour in the crowd, as
she caught a few words, clear and distinct, from the general murmur.

"There never is anyone in the mill, surely!" exclaimed Mary, as the
sea of upward-turned faces moved with one accord to the eastern end,
looking into Dunham Street, the narrow back lane already mentioned.

The western end of the mill, whither the raging flames were driven
by the wind, was crowned and turreted with triumphant fire. It sent
forth its infernal tongues from every window hole, licking the black
walls with amorous fierceness; it was swayed or fell before the
mighty gale, only to rise higher and yet higher, to ravage and roar
yet more wildly. This part of the roof fell in with an astounding
crash, while the crowd struggled more and more to press into Dunham
Street, for what were magnificent terrible flames, what were falling
timbers or tottering walls, in comparison with human life?

There, where the devouring flames had been repelled by the yet more
powerful wind, but where yet black smoke gushed out from every
aperture, there, at one of the windows on the fourth story, or
rather a doorway where a crane was fixed to hoist up goods, might
occasionally be seen, when the thick gusts of smoke cleared partially
away for an instant, the imploring figures of two men. They had
remained after the rest of the workmen for some reason or other, and,
owing to the wind having driven the fire in the opposite direction,
had perceived no sight or sound of alarm, till long after (if any
thing could be called long in that throng of terrors which passed by
in less time than half an hour) the fire had consumed the old wooden
staircase at the other end of the building. I am not sure whether it
was not the first sound of the rushing crowd below that made them
fully aware of their awful position.

"Where are the engines?" asked Margaret of her neighbour.

"They're coming, no doubt; but, bless you, I think it's bare ten
minutes since we first found out th' fire; it rages so wi' this wind,
and all so dry-like."

"Is no one gone for a ladder?" gasped Mary, as the men were
perceptibly, though not audibly, praying the great multitude below
for help.

"Ay, Wilson's son and another man were off like a shot, well nigh
five minute agone. But th' masons, and slaters, and such like, have
left their work, and locked up the yards."

Wilson! then, was that man whose figure loomed out against the ever
increasing dull hot light behind, whenever the smoke was clear,--was
that George Wilson? Mary sickened with terror. She knew he worked for
Carsons; but at first she had had no idea any lives were in danger;
and since she had become aware of this, the heated air, the roaring
flames, the dizzy light, and the agitated and murmuring crowd, had
bewildered her thoughts.

"Oh! let us go home, Margaret; I cannot stay."

"We cannot go! See how we are wedged in by folks. Poor Mary! ye won't
hanker after a fire again. Hark! listen!"

For through the hushed crowd, pressing round the angle of the mill,
and filling up Dunham Street, might be heard the rattle of the
engine, the heavy, quick tread of loaded horses.

"Thank God!" said Margaret's neighbour, "the engine's come."

Another pause; the plugs were stiff, and water could not be got.

Then there was a pressure through the crowd, the front rows bearing
back on those behind, till the girls were sick with the close ramming
confinement. Then a relaxation, and a breathing freely once more.

"'Twas young Wilson and a fireman wi' a ladder," said Margaret's
neighbour, a tall man who could overlook the crowd.

"Oh, tell us what you see?" begged Mary.

"They've gotten it fixed again the gin-shop wall. One o' the men i'
th' factory has fell back; dazed wi' the smoke, I'll warrant. The
floor's not given way there. God!" said he, bringing his eye lower
down, "th' ladder's too short! It's a' over wi' them, poor chaps. Th'
fire's coming slow and sure to that end, and afore they've either
gotten water, or another ladder, they'll be dead out and out. Lord
have mercy on them!"

A sob, as if of excited women, was heard in the hush of the crowd.
Another pressure like the former! Mary clung to Margaret's arm with
a pinching grasp, and longed to faint, and be insensible, to escape
from the oppressing misery of her sensations. A minute or two.

"They've taken th' ladder into th' Temple of Apollor. Can't press
back with it to the yard it came from."

A mighty shout arose; a sound to wake the dead. Up on high, quivering
in the air, was seen the end of the ladder, protruding out of a
garret window, in the gable end of the gin palace, nearly opposite to
the doorway where the men had been seen. Those in the crowd nearest
the factory, and consequently best able to see up to the garret
window, said that several men were holding one end, and guiding by
their weight its passage to the door-way. The garret window-frame had
been taken out before the crowd below were aware of the attempt.

At length--for it seemed long, measured by beating hearts, though
scarce two minutes had elapsed--the ladder was fixed, an aerial
bridge at a dizzy height, across the narrow street.

Every eye was fixed in unwinking anxiety, and people's very breathing
seemed stilled in suspense. The men were nowhere to be seen, but the
wind appeared, for the moment, higher than ever, and drove back the
invading flames to the other end.

Mary and Margaret could see now; right above them danced the ladder
in the wind. The crowd pressed back from under; firemen's helmets
appeared at the window, holding the ladder firm, when a man, with
quick, steady tread, and unmoving head, passed from one side to
the other. The multitude did not even whisper while he crossed the
perilous bridge, which quivered under him; but when he was across,
safe comparatively in the factory, a cheer arose for an instant,
checked, however, almost immediately, by the uncertainty of the
result, and the desire not in any way to shake the nerves of the
brave fellow who had cast his life on such a die.

"There he is again!" sprung to the lips of many, as they saw him at
the doorway, standing as if for an instant to breathe a mouthful of
the fresher air, before he trusted himself to cross. On his shoulders
he bore an insensible body.

"It's Jem Wilson and his father," whispered Margaret; but Mary knew
it before.

The people were sick with anxious terror. He could no longer balance
himself with his arms; every thing must depend on nerve and eye. They
saw the latter was fixed, by the position of the head, which never
wavered; the ladder shook under the double weight; but still he never
moved his head--he dared not look below. It seemed an age before the
crossing was accomplished. At last the window was gained; the bearer
relieved from his burden; both had disappeared.

Then the multitude might shout; and above the roaring flames, louder
than the blowing of the mighty wind, arose that tremendous burst of
applause at the success of the daring enterprise. Then a shrill cry
was heard, asking

"Is the oud man alive, and likely to do?"

"Ay," answered one of the firemen to the hushed crowd below. "He's
coming round finely, now he's had a dash of cowd water."

He drew back his head; and the eager inquiries, the shouts, the
sea-like murmurs of the moving rolling mass began again to be
heard--but for an instant though. In far less time than even that in
which I have endeavoured briefly to describe the pause of events, the
same bold hero stepped again upon the ladder, with evident purpose to
rescue the man yet remaining in the burning mill.

He went across in the same quick steady manner as before, and the
people below, made less acutely anxious by his previous success, were
talking to each other, shouting out intelligence of the progress of
the fire at the other end of the factory, telling of the endeavours
of the firemen at that part to obtain water, while the closely packed
body of men heaved and rolled from side to side. It was different
from the former silent breathless hush. I do not know if it were from
this cause, or from the recollection of peril past, or that he looked
below, in the breathing moment before returning with the remaining
person (a slight little man) slung across his shoulders, but Jem
Wilson's step was less steady, his tread more uncertain; he seemed to
feel with his foot for the next round of the ladder, to waver, and
finally to stop half-way. By this time the crowd was still enough;
in the awful instant that intervened no one durst speak, even to
encourage. Many turned sick with terror, and shut their eyes to avoid
seeing the catastrophe they dreaded. It came. The brave man swayed
from side to side, at first as slightly as if only balancing himself;
but he was evidently losing nerve, and even sense: it was only
wonderful how the animal instinct of self-preservation did not
overcome every generous feeling, and impel him at once to drop the
helpless, inanimate body he carried; perhaps the same instinct told
him, that the sudden loss of so heavy a weight would of itself be a
great and imminent danger.

"Help me! she's fainted," cried Margaret. But no one heeded. All eyes
were directed upwards. At this point of time a rope, with a running
noose, was dexterously thrown by one of the firemen, after the manner
of a lasso, over the head and round the bodies of the two men. True,
it was with rude and slight adjustment: but, slight as it was, it
served as a steadying guide; it encouraged the sinking heart, the
dizzy head. Once more Jem stepped onwards. He was not hurried by any
jerk or pull. Slowly and gradually the rope was hauled in, slowly and
gradually did he make the four or five paces between him and safety.
The window was gained, and all were saved. The multitude in the
street absolutely danced with triumph, and huzzaed and yelled till
you would have fancied their very throats would crack; and then with
all the fickleness of interest characteristic of a large body of
people, pressed and stumbled, and cursed and swore in the hurry to
get out of Dunham Street, and back to the immediate scene of the
fire, the mighty diapason of whose roaring flames formed an awful
accompaniment to the screams, and yells, and imprecations, of the
struggling crowd.

As they pressed away, Margaret was left, pale and almost sinking
under the weight of Mary's body, which she had preserved in an
upright position by keeping her arms tight round Mary's waist,
dreading, with reason, the trampling of unheeding feet.

Now, however, she gently let her down on the cold clean pavement; and
the change of posture, and the difference in temperature, now that
the people had withdrawn from their close neighbourhood, speedily
restored her to consciousness.

Her first glance was bewildered and uncertain. She had forgotten
where she was. Her cold, hard bed felt strange; the murky glare in
the sky affrighted her. She shut her eyes to think, to recollect.

Her next look was upwards. The fearful bridge had been withdrawn; the
window was unoccupied.

"They are safe," said Margaret.

"All? Are all safe, Margaret?" asked Mary.

"Ask yon fireman, and he'll tell you more about it than I can. But I
know they're all safe."

The fireman hastily corroborated Margaret's words.

"Why did you let Jem Wilson go twice?" asked Margaret.

"Let!--why we could not hinder him. As soon as ever he'd heard his
father speak (which he was na long a doing), Jem were off like a
shot; only saying he knowed better nor us where to find t'other man.
We'd all ha' gone, if he had na been in such a hurry, for no one can
say as Manchester firemen is ever backward when there's danger."

So saying, he ran off; and the two girls, without remark or
discussion, turned homewards. They were overtaken by the elder
Wilson, pale, grimy, and blear-eyed, but apparently as strong and
well as ever. He loitered a minute or two alongside of them, giving
an account of his detention in the mill; he then hastily wished
good-night, saying he must go home and tell his missis he was all
safe and well: but after he had gone a few steps, he turned back,
came on Mary's side of the pavement, and in an earnest whisper, which
Margaret could not avoid hearing, he said,

"Mary, if my boy comes across you to-night, give him a kind word or
two for my sake. Do! bless you, there's a good wench."

Mary hung her head and answered not a word, and in an instant he was
gone.

When they arrived at home, they found John Barton smoking his pipe,
unwilling to question, yet very willing to hear all the details
they could give him. Margaret went over the whole story, and it was
amusing to watch his gradually increasing interest and excitement.
First, the regular puffing abated, then ceased. Then the pipe was
fairly taken out of his mouth, and held suspended. Then he rose, and
at every further point he came a step nearer to the narrator.

When it was ended, he swore (an unusual thing for him) that if Jem
Wilson wanted Mary he should have her to-morrow, if he had not a
penny to keep her.

Margaret laughed, but Mary, who was now recovered from her agitation,
pouted, and looked angry.

The work which they had left was resumed: but with full hearts,
fingers never go very quickly; and I am sorry to say, that owing to
the fire, the two younger Miss Ogdens were in such grief for the loss
of their excellent father, that they were unable to appear before the
little circle of sympathising friends gathered together to comfort
the widow, and see the funeral set off.




CHAPTER VI.

POVERTY AND DEATH.


   "How little can the rich man know
     Of what the poor man feels,
   When Want, like some dark dæmon foe,
     Nearer and nearer steals!

   _He_ never tramp'd the weary round,
     A stroke of work to gain,
   And sicken'd at the dreaded sound
     Telling him 'twas in vain.

   Foot-sore, heart-sore, _he_ never came
     Back through the winter's wind,
   To a dark cellar, there no flame,
     No light, no food, to find.

   _He_ never saw his darlings lie
     Shivering, the flags their bed;
   _He_ never heard that maddening cry,
     'Daddy, a bit of bread!'"

   MANCHESTER SONG.


John Barton was not far wrong in his idea that the Messrs. Carson
would not be over much grieved for the consequences of the fire
in their mill. They were well insured; the machinery lacked the
improvements of late years, and worked but poorly in comparison with
that which might now be procured. Above all, trade was very slack;
cottons could find no market, and goods lay packed and piled in many
a warehouse. The mills were merely worked to keep the machinery,
human and metal, in some kind of order and readiness for better
times. So this was an excellent opportunity, Messrs. Carson thought,
for refitting their factory with first-rate improvements, for which
the insurance money would amply pay. They were in no hurry about
the business, however. The weekly drain of wages given for labour,
useless in the present state of the market, was stopped. The partners
had more leisure than they had known for years; and promised wives
and daughters all manner of pleasant excursions, as soon as the
weather should become more genial. It was a pleasant thing to be
able to lounge over breakfast with a review or newspaper in hand; to
have time for becoming acquainted with agreeable and accomplished
daughters, on whose education no money had been spared, but whose
fathers, shut up during a long day with calicoes and accounts, had
so seldom had leisure to enjoy their daughters' talents. There were
happy family evenings, now that the men of business had time for
domestic enjoyments. There is another side to the picture. There were
homes over which Carsons' fire threw a deep, terrible gloom; the
homes of those who would fain work, and no man gave unto them--the
homes of those to whom leisure was a curse. There, the family music
was hungry wails, when week after week passed by, and there was no
work to be had, and consequently no wages to pay for the bread the
children cried aloud for in their young impatience of suffering.
There was no breakfast to lounge over; their lounge was taken in bed,
to try and keep warmth in them that bitter March weather, and, by
being quiet, to deaden the gnawing wolf within. Many a penny that
would have gone little way enough in oatmeal or potatoes, bought
opium to still the hungry little ones, and make them forget their
uneasiness in heavy troubled sleep. It was mother's mercy. The
evil and the good of our nature came out strongly then. There were
desperate fathers; there were bitter-tongued mothers (O God! what
wonder!); there were reckless children; the very closest bonds of
nature were snapt in that time of trial and distress. There was Faith
such as the rich can never imagine on earth; there was "Love strong
as death;" and self-denial, among rude, coarse men, akin to that
of Sir Philip Sidney's most glorious deed. The vices of the poor
sometimes astound us _here_; but when the secrets of all hearts shall
be made known, their virtues will astound us in far greater degree.
Of this I am certain.

As the cold bleak spring came on (spring, in name alone), and
consequently as trade continued dead, other mills shortened hours,
turned off hands, and finally stopped work altogether.

Barton worked short hours; Wilson, of course, being a hand in
Carsons' factory, had no work at all. But his son, working at an
engineer's, and a steady man, obtained wages enough to maintain all
the family in a careful way. Still it preyed on Wilson's mind to be
so long indebted to his son. He was out of spirits and depressed.
Barton was morose, and soured towards mankind as a body, and the
rich in particular. One evening, when the clear light at six o'clock
contrasted strangely with the Christmas cold, and when the bitter
wind piped down every entry, and through every cranny, Barton sat
brooding over his stinted fire, and listening for Mary's step, in
unacknowledged trust that her presence would cheer him. The door was
opened, and Wilson came breathless in.

"You've not got a bit o' money by you, Barton?" asked he.

"Not I; who has now, I'd like to know. Whatten you want it for?"

"I donnot [11] want it for mysel, tho' we've none to spare. But don
ye know Ben Davenport as worked at Carsons'? He's down wi' the fever,
and ne'er a stick o' fire, nor a cowd [12] potato in the house."


   [Footnote 11: "Don" is constantly used in Lancashire for "do;"
                 as it was by our older writers. "And that may
                 non Hors _don_."--_Sir J. Mondeville._ "But for
                 th' entent to _don_ this sinne."--_Chaucer._]

   [Footnote 12: "Cowd," cold. Teut., _kaud_. Dutch, _koud_.]


"I han got no money, I tell ye," said Barton. Wilson looked
disappointed. Barton tried not to be interested, but he could not
help it in spite of his gruffness. He rose, and went to the cupboard
(his wife's pride long ago). There lay the remains of his dinner,
hastily put by ready for supper. Bread, and a slice of cold fat
boiled bacon. He wrapped them in his handkerchief, put them in the
crown of his hat, and said--"Come, let's be going."

"Going--art thou going to work this time o' day?"

"No, stupid, to be sure not. Going to see the fellow thou spoke
on." So they put on their hats and set out. On the way Wilson said
Davenport was a good fellow, though too much of the Methodee; that
his children were too young to work, but not too young to be cold and
hungry; that they had sunk lower and lower, and pawned thing after
thing, and that now they lived in a cellar in Berry Street, off Store
Street. Barton growled inarticulate words of no benevolent import to
a large class of mankind, and so they went along till they arrived
in Berry Street. It was unpaved; and down the middle a gutter forced
its way, every now and then forming pools in the holes with which the
street abounded. Never was the Old Edinburgh cry of "Gardez l'eau"
more necessary than in this street. As they passed, women from their
doors tossed household slops of _every_ description into the gutter;
they ran into the next pool, which overflowed and stagnated. Heaps of
ashes were the stepping-stones, on which the passer-by, who cared in
the least for cleanliness, took care not to put his foot. Our friends
were not dainty, but even they picked their way till they got to some
steps leading down into a small area, where a person standing would
have his head about one foot below the level of the street, and
might at the same time, without the least motion of his body, touch
the window of the cellar and the damp muddy wall right opposite.
You went down one step even from the foul area into the cellar in
which a family of human beings lived. It was very dark inside. The
window-panes were, many of them, broken and stuffed with rags, which
was reason enough for the dusky light that pervaded the place even at
mid-day. After the account I have given of the state of the street,
no one can be surprised that on going into the cellar inhabited by
Davenport, the smell was so foetid as almost to knock the two men
down. Quickly recovering themselves, as those inured to such things
do, they began to penetrate the thick darkness of the place, and to
see three or four little children rolling on the damp, nay wet, brick
floor, through which the stagnant, filthy moisture of the street
oozed up; the fire-place was empty and black; the wife sat on her
husband's lair, and cried in the dank loneliness.

"See, missis, I'm back again.--Hold your noise, children, and don't
mither [13] your mammy for bread; here's a chap as has got some for
you."


   [Footnote 13: "Mither," to trouble and perplex. "I'm welly
                 mithered"--I'm well nigh crazed.]


In that dim light, which was darkness to strangers, they clustered
round Barton, and tore from him the food he had brought with him. It
was a large hunch of bread, but it vanished in an instant.

"We mun do summut for 'em," said he to Wilson. "Yo stop here, and
I'll be back in half-an-hour."

So he strode, and ran, and hurried home. He emptied into the
ever-useful pocket-handkerchief the little meal remaining in the mug.
Mary would have her tea at Miss Simmonds'; her food for the day was
safe. Then he went up-stairs for his better coat, and his one, gay,
red-and-yellow silk pocket-handkerchief--his jewels, his plate, his
valuables, these were. He went to the pawn-shop; he pawned them for
five shillings; he stopped not, nor stayed, till he was once more
in London Road, within five minutes' walk of Berry Street--then he
loitered in his gait, in order to discover the shops he wanted. He
bought meat, and a loaf of bread, candles, chips, and from a little
retail yard he purchased a couple of hundredweights of coals. Some
money yet remained--all destined for them, but he did not yet know
how best to spend it. Food, light, and warmth, he had instantly seen
were necessary; for luxuries he would wait. Wilson's eyes filled with
tears when he saw Barton enter with his purchases. He understood
it all, and longed to be once more in work, that he might help in
some of these material ways, without feeling that he was using his
son's money. But though "silver and gold he had none," he gave
heart-service and love works of far more value. Nor was John Barton
behind in these. "The fever" was (as it usually is in Manchester) of
a low, putrid, typhoid kind; brought on by miserable living, filthy
neighbourhood, and great depression of mind and body. It is virulent,
malignant, and highly infectious. But the poor are fatalists with
regard to infection; and well for them it is so, for in their crowded
dwellings no invalid can be isolated. Wilson asked Barton if he
thought he should catch it, and was laughed at for his idea.

The two men, rough, tender nurses as they were, lighted the fire,
which smoked and puffed into the room as if it did not know the way
up the damp, unused chimney. The very smoke seemed purifying and
healthy in the thick clammy air. The children clamoured again for
bread; but this time Barton took a piece first to the poor, helpless,
hopeless woman, who still sat by the side of her husband, listening
to his anxious miserable mutterings. She took the bread, when it was
put into her hand, and broke a bit, but could not eat. She was past
hunger. She fell down on the floor with a heavy unresisting bang. The
men looked puzzled. "She's well-nigh clemmed," said Barton. "Folk
do say one mustn't give clemmed people much to eat; but, bless us,
she'll eat nought."

"I'll tell yo what I'll do," said Wilson. "I'll take these two big
lads, as does nought but fight, home to my missis's for to-night,
and I'll get a jug o' tea. Them women always does best with tea and
such-like slop."

So Barton was now left alone with a little child, crying (when it had
done eating) for mammy; with a fainting, dead-like woman; and with
the sick man, whose mutterings were rising up to screams and shrieks
of agonised anxiety. He carried the woman to the fire, and chafed her
hands. He looked around for something to raise her head. There was
literally nothing but some loose bricks. However, those he got; and
taking off his coat he covered them with it as well as he could. He
pulled her feet to the fire, which now began to emit some faint heat.
He looked round for water, but the poor woman had been too weak to
drag herself out to the distant pump, and water there was none. He
snatched the child, and ran up the area-steps to the room above, and
borrowed their only saucepan with some water in it. Then he began,
with the useful skill of a working-man, to make some gruel; and when
it was hastily made he seized a battered iron table-spoon (kept when
many other little things had been sold in a lot), in order to feed
baby, and with it he forced one or two drops between her clenched
teeth. The mouth opened mechanically to receive more, and gradually
she revived. She sat up and looked round; and recollecting all, fell
down again in weak and passive despair. Her little child crawled to
her, and wiped with its fingers the thick-coming tears which she
now had strength to weep. It was now high time to attend to the man.
He lay on straw, so damp and mouldy no dog would have chosen it in
preference to flags; over it was a piece of sacking, coming next to
his worn skeleton of a body; above him was mustered every article
of clothing that could be spared by mother or children this bitter
weather; and in addition to his own, these might have given as much
warmth as one blanket, could they have been kept on him; but as he
restlessly tossed to and fro, they fell off and left him shivering in
spite of the burning heat of his skin. Every now and then he started
up in his naked madness, looking like the prophet of woe in the
fearful plague-picture; but he soon fell again in exhaustion, and
Barton found he must be closely watched, lest in these falls he
should injure himself against the hard brick floor. He was thankful
when Wilson re-appeared, carrying in both hands a jug of steaming
tea, intended for the poor wife; but when the delirious husband saw
drink, he snatched at it with animal instinct, with a selfishness he
had never shown in health.

Then the two men consulted together. It seemed decided, without a
word being spoken on the subject, that both should spend the night
with the forlorn couple; that was settled. But could no doctor be
had? In all probability, no; the next day an infirmary order might be
begged, but meanwhile the only medical advice they could have must be
from a druggist's. So Barton (being the moneyed man) set out to find
a shop in London Road.

It is a pretty sight to walk through a street with lighted shops; the
gas is so brilliant, the display of goods so much more vividly shown
than by day, and of all shops a druggist's looks the most like the
tales of our childhood, from Aladdin's garden of enchanted fruits
to the charming Rosamond with her purple jar. No such associations
had Barton; yet he felt the contrast between the well-filled,
well-lighted shops and the dim gloomy cellar, and it made him moody
that such contrasts should exist. They are the mysterious problem of
life to more than him. He wondered if any in all the hurrying crowd
had come from such a house of mourning. He thought they all looked
joyous, and he was angry with them. But he could not, you cannot,
read the lot of those who daily pass you by in the street. How do you
know the wild romances of their lives; the trials, the temptations
they are even now enduring, resisting, sinking under? You may be
elbowed one instant by the girl desperate in her abandonment,
laughing in mad merriment with her outward gesture, while her soul
is longing for the rest of the dead, and bringing itself to think
of the cold-flowing river as the only mercy of God remaining to her
here. You may pass the criminal, meditating crimes at which you will
to-morrow shudder with horror as you read them. You may push against
one, humble and unnoticed, the last upon earth, who in Heaven will
for ever be in the immediate light of God's countenance. Errands of
mercy--errands of sin--did you ever think where all the thousands of
people you daily meet are bound? Barton's was an errand of mercy; but
the thoughts of his heart were touched by sin, by bitter hatred of
the happy, whom he, for the time, confounded with the selfish.

He reached a druggist's shop, and entered. The druggist (whose smooth
manners seemed to have been salved over with his own spermaceti)
listened attentively to Barton's description of Davenport's illness;
concluded it was typhus fever, very prevalent in that neighbourhood;
and proceeded to make up a bottle of medicine, sweet spirits of
nitre, or some such innocent potion, very good for slight colds, but
utterly powerless to stop, for an instant, the raging fever of the
poor man it was intended to relieve. He recommended the same course
they had previously determined to adopt, applying the next morning
for an infirmary order; and Barton left the shop with comfortable
faith in the physic given him; for men of his class, if they
believe in physic at all, believe that every description is equally
efficacious.

Meanwhile, Wilson had done what he could at Davenport's home. He
had soothed, and covered the man many a time; he had fed and hushed
the little child, and spoken tenderly to the woman, who lay still
in her weakness and her weariness. He had opened a door, but only
for an instant; it led into a back cellar, with a grating instead
of a window, down which dropped the moisture from pigsties, and
worse abominations. It was not paved; the floor was one mass of bad
smelling mud. It had never been used, for there was not an article of
furniture in it; nor could a human being, much less a pig, have lived
there many days. Yet the "back apartment" made a difference in the
rent. The Davenports paid threepence more for having two rooms. When
he turned round again, he saw the woman suckling the child from her
dry, withered breast.

"Surely the lad is weaned!" exclaimed he, in surprise. "Why, how old
is he?"

"Going on two year," she faintly answered. "But, oh! it keeps him
quiet when I've nought else to gi' him, and he'll get a bit of sleep
lying there, if he's getten [14] nought beside. We han done our best
to gi' the childer [15] food, howe'er we pinched ourselves."


   [Footnote 14: "For he had _geten_ him yet no benefice."--_Prologue
                 to Canterbury Tales._]

   [Footnote 15: Wicklife uses "_childre_" in his Apology, page 26.]


"Han [16] ye had no money fra th' town?"


   [Footnote 16: "What concord _han_ light and dark."--_Spenser._]


"No; my master is Buckinghamshire born; and he's feared the town
would send him back to his parish, if he went to th' board; so we've
just borne on in hope o' better times. But I think they'll never come
in my day;" and the poor woman began her weak high-pitched cry again.

"Here, sup [17] this drop o' gruel, and then try and get a bit o'
sleep. John and I'll watch by your master to-night."


   [Footnote 17: "And thay _soupe_ the brothe thereof."--_Sir J.
                 Mandeville._]


"God's blessing be on you!"

She finished the gruel, and fell into a deep sleep. Wilson covered
her with his coat as well as he could, and tried to move lightly
for fear of disturbing her; but there need have been no such dread,
for her sleep was profound and heavy with exhaustion. Once only she
roused to pull the coat round her little child.

And now all Wilson's care, and Barton's to boot, was wanted to
restrain the wild mad agony of the fevered man. He started up, he
yelled, he seemed infuriated by overwhelming anxiety. He cursed and
swore, which surprised Wilson, who knew his piety in health, and who
did not know the unbridled tongue of delirium. At length he seemed
exhausted, and fell asleep; and Barton and Wilson drew near the fire,
and talked together in whispers. They sat on the floor, for chairs
there were none; the sole table was an old tub turned upside-down.
They put out the candle and conversed by the flickering fire-light.

"Han yo known this chap long?" asked Barton.

"Better nor three year. He's worked wi' Carsons that long, and
were alway a steady, civil-spoken fellow, though, as I said afore,
somewhat of a Methodee. I wish I'd gotten a letter he sent his
missis, a week or two agone, when he were on tramp for work. It did
my heart good to read it; for, yo see, I were a bit grumbling mysel;
it seemed hard to be spunging on Jem, and taking a' his flesh-meat
money to buy bread for me and them as I ought to be keeping. But, yo
know, though I can earn nought, I mun eat summut. Well, as I telled
ye, I were grumbling, when she (indicating the sleeping woman by a
nod) brought me Ben's letter, for she could na read hersel. It were
as good as Bible-words; ne'er a word o' repining; a' about God being
our Father, and that we mun bear patiently whate'er He sends."

"Don ye think He's th' masters' Father, too? I'd be loath to have 'em
for brothers."

"Eh, John! donna talk so; sure there's many and many a master as good
or better nor us."

"If you think so, tell me this. How comes it they're rich, and we're
poor? I'd like to know that. Han they done as they'd be done by for
us?"

But Wilson was no arguer; no speechifier as he would have called it.
So Barton, seeing he was likely to have it his own way, went on.

"You'll say (at least many a one does), they'n [18] getten capital
an' we'n getten none. I say, our labour's our capital and we ought
to draw interest on that. They get interest on their capital somehow
a' this time, while ourn is lying idle, else how could they all live
as they do? Besides, there's many on 'em as had nought to begin wi';
there's Carsons, and Duncombes, and Mengies, and many another, as
comed into Manchester with clothes to their back, and that were all,
and now they're worth their tens of thousands, a' getten out of
our labour; why the very land as fetched but sixty pound twenty
year agone is now worth six hundred, and that, too, is owing to
our labour: but look at yo, and see me, and poor Davenport yonder;
whatten better are we? They'n screwed us down to th' lowest peg, in
order to make their great big fortunes, and build their great big
houses, and we, why we're just clemming, many and many of us. Can you
say there's nought wrong in this?"


   [Footnote 18: "They'n," contraction of "they han," they have.]


"Well, Barton, I'll not gainsay ye. But Mr. Carson spoke to me after
th' fire, and says he, 'I shall ha' to retrench, and be very careful
in my expenditure during these bad times, I assure ye;' so yo see th'
masters suffer too."

"Han they ever seen a child o' their'n die for want o' food?" asked
Barton, in a low, deep voice.

"I donnot mean," continued he, "to say as I'm so badly off. I'd
scorn to speak for mysel; but when I see such men as Davenport there
dying away, for very clemming, I cannot stand it. I've but gotten
Mary, and she keeps hersel pretty much. I think we'll ha' to give up
house-keeping; but that I donnot mind."

And in this kind of talk the night, the long heavy night of watching,
wore away. As far as they could judge, Davenport continued in the
same state, although the symptoms varied occasionally. The wife slept
on, only roused by a cry of her child now and then, which seemed to
have power over her, when far louder noises failed to disturb her.
The watchers agreed, that as soon as it was likely Mr. Carson would
be up and visible, Wilson should go to his house, and beg for an
Infirmary order. At length the gray dawn penetrated even into the
dark cellar. Davenport slept, and Barton was to remain there until
Wilson's return; so stepping out into the fresh air, brisk and
reviving, even in that street of abominations, Wilson took his way to
Mr. Carson's.

Wilson had about two miles to walk before he reached Mr. Carson's
house, which was almost in the country. The streets were not yet
bustling and busy. The shopmen were lazily taking down the shutters,
although it was near eight o'clock; for the day was long enough for
the purchases people made in that quarter of the town, while trade
was so flat. One or two miserable-looking women were setting off on
their day's begging expedition. But there were few people abroad. Mr.
Carson's was a good house, and furnished with disregard to expense.
But in addition to lavish expenditure, there was much taste shown,
and many articles chosen for their beauty and elegance adorned
his rooms. As Wilson passed a window which a housemaid had thrown
open, he saw pictures and gilding, at which he was tempted to stop
and look; but then he thought it would not be respectful. So he
hastened on to the kitchen door. The servants seemed very busy with
preparations for breakfast; but good-naturedly, though hastily,
told him to step in, and they could soon let Mr. Carson know he was
there. So he was ushered into a kitchen hung round with glittering
tins, where a roaring fire burnt merrily, and where numbers of
utensils hung round, at whose nature and use Wilson amused himself
by guessing. Meanwhile, the servants bustled to and fro; an out-door
man-servant came in for orders, and sat down near Wilson; the cook
broiled steaks, and the kitchen-maid toasted bread, and boiled eggs.

The coffee steamed upon the fire, and altogether the odours were so
mixed and appetising, that Wilson began to yearn for food to break
his fast, which had lasted since dinner the day before. If the
servants had known this, they would have willingly given him meat
and bread in abundance; but they were like the rest of us, and not
feeling hunger themselves, forgot it was possible another might. So
Wilson's craving turned to sickness, while they chattered on, making
the kitchen's free and keen remarks upon the parlour.

"How late you were last night, Thomas!"

"Yes, I was right weary of waiting; they told me to be at the rooms
by twelve; and there I was. But it was two o'clock before they called
me."

"And did you wait all that time in the street?" asked the housemaid,
who had done her work for the present, and come into the kitchen for
a bit of gossip.

"My eye as like! you don't think I'm such a fool as to catch my death
of cold, and let the horses catch their death too, as we should ha'
done if we'd stopped there. No! I put th' horses up in th' stables at
th' Spread Eagle, and went mysel, and got a glass or two by th' fire.
They're driving a good custom, them, wi' coachmen. There were five on
us, and we'd many a quart o' ale, and gin wi' it, to keep out cold."

"Mercy on us, Thomas; you'll get a drunkard at last!"

"If I do, I know whose blame it will be. It will be missis's, and
not mine. Flesh and blood can't sit to be starved to death on a
coach-box, waiting for folks as don't know their own mind."

A servant, semi-upper-housemaid, semi-lady's-maid, now came down with
orders from her mistress.

"Thomas, you must ride to the fishmonger's, and say missis can't give
above half-a-crown a pound for salmon for Tuesday; she's grumbling
because trade's so bad. And she'll want the carriage at three to go
to the lecture, Thomas; at the Royal Execution, you know."

"Ay, ay, I know."

"And you'd better all of you mind your P's and Q's, for she's very
black this morning. She's got a bad headache."

"It's a pity Miss Jenkins is not here to match her. Lord! how she and
missis did quarrel which had got the worst headaches; it was that
Miss Jenkins left for; she would not give up having bad headaches,
and missis could not abide any one to have 'em but herself."

"Missis will have her breakfast up-stairs, cook, and the cold
partridge as was left yesterday, and put plenty of cream in her
coffee, and she thinks there's a roll left, and she would like it
well buttered."

So saying, the maid left the kitchen to be ready to attend to the
young ladies' bell when they chose to ring, after their late assembly
the night before.

In the luxurious library, at the well-spread breakfast-table, sat
the two Mr. Carsons, father and son. Both were reading; the father
a newspaper, the son a review, while they lazily enjoyed their
nicely prepared food. The father was a prepossessing-looking old
man; perhaps self-indulgent you might guess. The son was strikingly
handsome, and knew it. His dress was neat and well appointed, and his
manners far more gentlemanly than his father's. He was the only son,
and his sisters were proud of him; his father and mother were proud
of him: he could not set up his judgment against theirs; he was proud
of himself.

The door opened and in bounded Amy, the sweet youngest daughter of
the house, a lovely girl of sixteen, fresh and glowing, and bright
as a rosebud. She was too young to go to assemblies, at which her
father rejoiced, for he had little Amy with her pretty jokes, and her
bird-like songs, and her playful caresses all the evening to amuse
him in his loneliness; and she was not too much tired, like Sophy and
Helen, to give him her sweet company at breakfast the next morning.

He submitted willingly while she blinded him with her hands, and
kissed his rough red face all over. She took his newspaper away after
a little pretended resistance, and would not allow her brother Harry
to go on with his review.

"I'm the only lady this morning, papa, so you know you must make a
great deal of me."

"My darling, I think you have your own way always, whether you're the
only lady or not."

"Yes, papa, you're pretty good and obedient, I must say that; but I'm
sorry to say Harry is very naughty, and does not do what I tell him;
do you, Harry?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean to accuse me of, Amy; I expected
praise and not blame; for did not I get you that eau de Portugal from
town, that you could not meet with at Hughes', you little ungrateful
puss?"

"Did you! Oh, sweet Harry; you're as sweet as eau de Portugal
yourself; you're almost as good as papa; but still you know you did
go and forget to ask Bigland for that rose, that new rose they say he
has got."

"No, Amy, I did not forget. I asked him, and he has got the Rose,
_sans reproche_; but do you know, little Miss Extravagance, a very
small one is half-a-guinea?"

"Oh, I don't mind. Papa will give it me, won't you, dear father? He
knows his little daughter can't live without flowers and scents."

Mr. Carson tried to refuse his darling, but she coaxed him into
acquiescence, saying she must have it, it was one of her necessaries.
Life was not worth having without flowers.

"Then, Amy," said her brother, "try and be content with peonies and
dandelions."

"Oh, you wretch! I don't call them flowers. Besides, you're every bit
as extravagant. Who gave half-a-crown for a bunch of lilies of the
valley at Yates', a month ago, and then would not let his poor little
sister have them, though she went on her knees to beg them? Answer me
that, Master Hal."

"Not on compulsion," replied her brother, smiling with his mouth,
while his eyes had an irritated expression, and he went first red,
then pale, with vexed embarrassment.

"If you please, sir," said a servant, entering the room, "here's one
of the mill people wanting to see you; his name is Wilson, he says."

"I'll come to him directly; stay, tell him to come in here."

Amy danced off into the conservatory which opened out of the room,
before the gaunt, pale, unwashed, unshaven weaver was ushered in.
There he stood at the door, sleeking his hair with old country habit,
and every now and then stealing a glance round at the splendour of
the apartment.

"Well, Wilson, and what do you want to-day, man?"

"Please, sir, Davenport's ill of the fever, and I'm come to know if
you've got an Infirmary order for him?"

"Davenport--Davenport; who is the fellow? I don't know the name."

"He's worked in your factory better nor three year, sir."

"Very likely; I don't pretend to know the names of the men I employ;
that I leave to the overlooker. So he's ill, eh?"

"Ay, sir, he's very bad; we want to get him in at the fever wards.

"I doubt if I have an in-patient's order to spare; they're always
wanted for accidents, you know. But I'll give you an out-patient's,
and welcome."

So saying, he rose up, unlocked a drawer, pondered a minute, and then
gave Wilson an out-patient's order to be presented the following
Monday. Monday! How many days there were before Monday!

Meanwhile, the younger Mr. Carson had ended his review, and began to
listen to what was going on. He finished his breakfast, got up, and
pulled five shillings out of his pocket, which he gave to Wilson
as he passed him, for the "poor fellow." He went past quickly, and
calling for his horse, mounted gaily, and rode away. He was anxious
to be in time to have a look and a smile from lovely Mary Barton, as
she went to Miss Simmonds'. But to-day he was to be disappointed.
Wilson left the house, not knowing whether to be pleased or grieved.
It was long to Monday, but they had all spoken kindly to him, and who
could tell if they might not remember this, and do something before
Monday. Besides, the cook, who, when she had had time to think, after
breakfast was sent in, had noticed his paleness, had had meat and
bread ready to put in his hand when he came out of the parlour; and a
full stomach makes every one of us more hopeful.

When he reached Berry Street, he had persuaded himself he bore good
news, and felt almost elated in his heart. But it fell when he opened
the cellar-door, and saw Barton and the wife both bending over the
sick man's couch with awe-struck, saddened look.

"Come here," said Barton. "There's a change comed over him sin' yo
left, is there not?"

Wilson looked. The flesh was sunk, the features prominent, bony, and
rigid. The fearful clay-colour of death was over all. But the eyes
were open and sensible, though the films of the grave were settling
upon them.

"He wakened fra his sleep, as yo left him in, and began to mutter and
moan; but he soon went off again, and we never knew he were awake
till he called his wife, but now she's here he's gotten nought to say
to her."

Most probably, as they all felt, he could not speak, for his strength
was fast ebbing. They stood round him still and silent; even the wife
checked her sobs, though her heart was like to break. She held her
child to her breast, to try and keep him quiet. Their eyes were all
fixed on the yet living one, whose moments of life were passing so
rapidly away. At length he brought (with jerking, convulsive effort)
his two hands into the attitude of prayer. They saw his lips move,
and bent to catch the words, which came in gasps, and not in tones.

"Oh Lord God! I thank thee, that the hard struggle of living is
over."

"Oh, Ben! Ben!" wailed forth his wife, "have you no thought for me?
Oh, Ben! Ben! do say one word to help me through life."

He could not speak again. The trump of the archangel would set his
tongue free; but not a word more would it utter till then. Yet he
heard, he understood, and though sight failed, he moved his hand
gropingly over the covering. They knew what he meant, and guided it
to her head, bowed and hidden in her hands, when she had sunk in her
woe. It rested there, with a feeble pressure of endearment. The face
grew beautiful, as the soul neared God. A peace beyond understanding
came over it. The hand was a heavy, stiff weight on the wife's
head. No more grief or sorrow for him. They reverently laid out the
corpse--Wilson fetching his only spare shirt to array it in. The wife
still lay hidden in the clothes, in a stupor of agony.

There was a knock at the door, and Barton went to open it. It
was Mary, who had received a message from her father, through a
neighbour, telling her where he was; and she had set out early to
come and have a word with him before her day's work; but some errands
she had to do for Miss Simmonds had detained her until now.

"Come in, wench!" said her father. "Try if thou canst comfort yon
poor, poor woman, kneeling down there. God help her." Mary did not
know what to say, or how to comfort; but she knelt down by her, and
put her arm round her neck, and in a little while fell to crying
herself so bitterly, that the source of tears was opened by sympathy
in the widow, and her full heart was, for a time, relieved.

And Mary forgot all purposed meeting with her gay lover, Harry
Carson; forgot Miss Simmonds' errands, and her anger, in the anxious
desire to comfort the poor lone woman. Never had her sweet face
looked more angelic, never had her gentle voice seemed so musical as
when she murmured her broken sentences of comfort.

"Oh, don't cry so, dear Mrs. Davenport, pray don't take on so. Sure
he's gone where he'll never know care again. Yes, I know how lonesome
you must feel; but think of your children. Oh! we'll all help to earn
food for 'em. Think how sorry _he'd_ be, if he sees you fretting so.
Don't cry so, please don't."

And she ended by crying herself, as passionately as the poor widow.

It was agreed that the town must bury him; he had paid to a burial
club as long as he could; but by a few weeks' omission, he had
forfeited his claim to a sum of money now. Would Mrs. Davenport and
the little child go home with Mary? The latter brightened up as she
urged this plan; but no! where the poor, fondly loved remains were,
there would the mourner be; and all that they could do was to make
her as comfortable as their funds would allow, and to beg a neighbour
to look in and say a word at times. So she was left alone with her
dead, and they went to work that had work, and he who had none, took
upon him the arrangements for the funeral.

Mary had many a scolding from Miss Simmonds that day for her absence
of mind. To be sure Miss Simmonds was much put out by Mary's
non-appearance in the morning with certain bits of muslin, and shades
of silk which were wanted to complete a dress to be worn that night;
but it was true enough that Mary did not mind what she was about;
she was too busy planning how her old black gown (her best when
her mother died) might be spunged, and turned, and lengthened into
something like decent mourning for the widow. And when she went home
at night (though it was very late, as a sort of retribution for her
morning's negligence), she set to work at once, and was so busy, and
so glad over her task, that she had, every now and then, to check
herself in singing merry ditties, that she felt little accorded with
the sewing on which she was engaged.

So when the funeral day came, Mrs. Davenport was neatly arrayed in
black, a satisfaction to her poor heart in the midst of her sorrow.
Barton and Wilson both accompanied her, as she led her two elder
boys, and followed the coffin. It was a simple walking funeral, with
nothing to grate on the feelings of any; far more in accordance with
its purpose, to my mind, than the gorgeous hearses, and nodding
plumes, which form the grotesque funeral pomp of respectable people.
There was no "rattling the bones over the stones," of the pauper's
funeral. Decently and quietly was he followed to the grave by one
determined to endure her woe meekly for his sake. The only mark of
pauperism attendant on the burial concerned the living and joyous,
far more than the dead, or the sorrowful. When they arrived in the
churchyard, they halted before a raised and handsome tombstone; in
reality a wooden mockery of stone respectabilities which adorned the
burial-ground. It was easily raised in a very few minutes, and below
was the grave in which pauper bodies were piled until within a foot
or two of the surface; when the soil was shovelled over, and stamped
down, and the wooden cover went to do temporary duty over another
hole. [19] But little they recked of this who now gave up their dead.


   [Footnote 19: The case, to my certain knowledge, in one
                 churchyard in Manchester. There may be more.]




CHAPTER VII.

JEM WILSON'S REPULSE.


   "How infinite the wealth of love and hope
   Garnered in these same tiny treasure-houses!
   And oh! what bankrupts in the world we feel,
   When Death, like some remorseless creditor,
   Seizes on all we fondly thought our own!"

   "THE TWINS."


The ghoul-like fever was not to be braved with impunity, and baulked
of its prey. The widow had reclaimed her children; her neighbours,
in the good Samaritan sense of the word, had paid her little arrears
of rent, and made her a few shillings beforehand with the world.
She determined to flit from that cellar to another less full of
painful associations, less haunted by mournful memories. The board,
not so formidable as she had imagined, had inquired into her case;
and, instead of sending her to Stoke Claypole, her husband's
Buckinghamshire parish, as she had dreaded, had agreed to pay her
rent. So food for four mouths was all she was now required to find;
only for three she would have said; for herself and the unweaned
child were but reckoned as one in her calculation.

She had a strong heart, now her bodily strength had been recruited by
a week or two of food, and she would not despair. So she took in some
little children to nurse, who brought their daily food with them,
which she cooked for them, without wronging their helplessness of a
crumb; and when she had restored them to their mothers at night, she
set to work at plain sewing, "seam, and gusset, and band," and sat
thinking how she might best cheat the factory inspector, and persuade
him that her strong, big, hungry Ben was above thirteen. Her plan of
living was so far arranged, when she heard, with keen sorrow, that
Wilson's twin lads were ill of the fever.

They had never been strong. They were like many a pair of twins,
and seemed to have but one life divided between them. One life, one
strength, and in this instance, I might almost say, one brain; for
they were helpless, gentle, silly children, but not the less dear
to their parents and to their strong, active, manly, elder brother.
They were late on their feet, late in talking, late every way; had to
be nursed and cared for when other lads of their age were tumbling
about in the street, and losing themselves, and being taken to the
police-office miles away from home.

Still want had never yet come in at the door to make love for these
innocents fly out at the window. Nor was this the case even now, when
Jem Wilson's earnings, and his mother's occasional charrings were
barely sufficient to give all the family their fill of food.

But when the twins, after ailing many days, and caring little for
their meat, fell sick on the same afternoon, with the same heavy
stupor of suffering, the three hearts that loved them so, each felt,
though none acknowledged to the other, that they had little chance
for life. It was nearly a week before the tale of their illness
spread as far as the court where the Wilsons had once dwelt, and the
Bartons yet lived.

Alice had heard of the illness of her little nephews several days
before, and had locked her cellar door, and gone off straight to her
brother's house, in Ancoats; but she was often absent for days, sent
for, as her neighbours knew, to help in some sudden emergency of
illness or distress, so that occasioned no surprise.

Margaret met Jem Wilson several days after his brothers were
seriously ill, and heard from him the state of things at his home.
She told Mary of it as she entered the court late that evening; and
Mary listened with saddened heart to the strange contrast which such
woeful tidings presented to the gay and loving words she had been
hearing on her walk home. She blamed herself for being so much taken
up with visions of the golden future, that she had lately gone but
seldom on Sunday afternoons, or other leisure time, to see Mrs.
Wilson, her mother's friend; and with hasty purpose of amendment she
only stayed to leave a message for her father with the next-door
neighbour, and then went off at a brisk pace on her way to the house
of mourning.

She stopped with her hand on the latch of the Wilsons' door, to
still her beating heart, and listened to the hushed quiet within.
She opened the door softly: there sat Mrs. Wilson in the old
rocking-chair, with one sick, death-like boy lying on her knee,
crying without let or pause, but softly, gently, as fearing to
disturb the troubled, gasping child; while behind her, old Alice let
her fast-dropping tears fall down on the dead body of the other twin,
which she was laying out on a board, placed on a sort of sofa-settee
in a corner of the room. Over the child, which yet breathed, the
father bent, watching anxiously for some ground of hope, where hope
there was none. Mary stepped slowly and lightly across to Alice.

"Ay, poor lad! God has taken him early, Mary."

Mary could not speak; she did not know what to say; it was so much
worse than she expected. At last she ventured to whisper,

"Is there any chance for the other one, think you?"

Alice shook her head, and told with a look that she believed there
was none. She next endeavoured to lift the little body, and carry it
to its old accustomed bed in its parents' room. But earnest as the
father was in watching the yet-living, he had eyes and ears for all
that concerned the dead, and sprang gently up, and took his dead son
on his hard couch in his arms with tender strength, and carried him
upstairs as if afraid of wakening him.

The other child gasped longer, louder, with more of effort.

"We mun get him away from his mother. He cannot die while she's
wishing him."

"Wishing him?" said Mary, in a tone of inquiry.

"Ay; donno ye know what wishing means? There's none can die in the
arms of those who are wishing them sore to stay on earth. The soul o'
them as holds them won't let the dying soul go free; so it has a hard
struggle for the quiet of death. We mun get him away fra' his mother,
or he'll have a hard death, poor lile [20] fellow."


   [Footnote 20: "Lile," a north-country word for "little."
                 "Wit _leil_ labour to live."--_Piers Ploughman._]


So without circumlocution she went and offered to take the sinking
child. But the mother would not let him go, and looking in Alice's
face with brimming and imploring eyes, declared in earnest whispers,
that she was not wishing him, that she would fain have him released
from his suffering. Alice and Mary stood by with eyes fixed on the
poor child, whose struggles seemed to increase, till at last his
mother said with a choking voice,

"May happen [21] yo'd better take him, Alice; I believe my heart's
wishing him a' this while, for I cannot, no, I cannot bring mysel to
let my two childer go in one day; I cannot help longing to keep him,
and yet he sha'not suffer longer for me."


   [Footnote 21: "May happen," perhaps.]


She bent down, and fondly, oh! with what passionate fondness, kissed
her child, and then gave him up to Alice, who took him with tender
care. Nature's struggles were soon exhausted, and he breathed his
little life away in peace.

Then the mother lifted up her voice and wept. Her cries brought her
husband down to try with his aching heart to comfort hers. Again
Alice laid out the dead, Mary helping with reverent fear. The father
and mother carried him up-stairs to the bed, where his little brother
lay in calm repose.

Mary and Alice drew near the fire, and stood in quiet sorrow for some
time. Then Alice broke the silence by saying,

"It will be bad news for Jem, poor fellow, when he comes home."

"Where is he?" asked Mary.

"Working over-hours at th' shop. They'n getten a large order fra'
forrin parts; and yo' know, Jem mun work, though his heart's
well-nigh breaking for these poor laddies."

Again they were silent in thought, and again Alice spoke first.

"I sometimes think the Lord is against planning. Whene'er I plan
over-much, He is sure to send and mar all my plans, as if He would
ha' me put the future into His hands. Afore Christmas-time I was as
full as full could be, of going home for good and all; yo' han heard
how I've wished it this terrible long time. And a young lass from
behind Burton came into place in Manchester last Martinmas; so after
awhile, she had a Sunday out, and she comes to me, and tells me some
cousins o' mine bid her find me out, and say how glad they should be
to ha' me to bide wi' 'em, and look after th' childer, for they'n
getten a big farm, and she's a deal to do among th' cows. So many
a winter's night did I lie awake and think, that please God, come
summer, I'd bid George and his wife good bye, and go home at last.
Little did I think how God Almighty would baulk me, for not leaving
my days in His hands, who had led me through the wilderness hitherto.
Here's George out o' work, and more cast down than ever I seed him;
wanting every chip o' comfort he can get, e'en afore this last heavy
stroke; and now I'm thinking the Lord's finger points very clear to
my fit abiding place; and I'm sure if George and Jane can say 'His
will be done,' it's no more than what I'm beholden to do."

So saying, she fell to tidying the room, removing as much as she
could every vestige of sickness; making up the fire, and setting on
the kettle for a cup of tea for her sister-in-law, whose low moans
and sobs were occasionally heard in the room below.

Mary helped her in all these little offices. They were busy in this
way when the door was softly opened, and Jem came in, all grimed and
dirty from his night-work, his soiled apron wrapped round his middle,
in guise and apparel in which he would have been sorry at another
time to have been seen by Mary. But just now he hardly saw her; he
went straight up to Alice, and asked how the little chaps were. They
had been a shade better at dinner-time, and he had been working away
through the long afternoon, and far into the night, in the belief
that they had taken the turn. He had stolen out during the half-hour
allowed at the works for tea, to buy them an orange or two, which now
puffed out his jacket-pocket.

He would make his aunt speak; he would not understand her shakes of
the head and fast coursing tears.

"They're both gone," said she.

"Dead!"

"Ay! poor fellows. They took worse about two o'clock. Joe went first,
as easy as a lamb, and Will died harder like."

"Both!"

"Ay, lad! both. The Lord has ta'en them from some evil to come, or He
would na ha' made choice o' them. Ye may rest sure o' that."

Jem went to the cupboard, and quietly extricated from his pocket
the oranges he had bought. But he stayed long there, and at last
his sturdy frame shook with his strong agony. The two women were
frightened, as women always are, on witnessing a man's overpowering
grief. They cried afresh in company. Mary's heart melted within her
as she witnessed Jem's sorrow, and she stepped gently up to the
corner where he stood, with his back turned to them, and putting her
hand softly on his arm, said,

"Oh, Jem, don't give way so; I cannot bear to see you."

Jem felt a strange leap of joy in his heart, and knew the power she
had of comforting him. He did not speak, as though fearing to destroy
by sound or motion the happiness of that moment, when her soft
hand's touch thrilled through his frame, and her silvery voice was
whispering tenderness in his ear. Yes! it might be very wrong; he
could almost hate himself for it; with death and woe so surrounding
him, it yet was happiness, was bliss, to be so spoken to by Mary.

"Don't, Jem, please don't," whispered she again, believing that his
silence was only another form of grief.

He could not contain himself. He took her hand in his firm yet
trembling grasp, and said, in tones that instantly produced a
revulsion in her mood,

"Mary, I almost loathe myself when I feel I would not give up this
minute, when my brothers lie dead, and father and mother are in such
trouble, for all my life that's past and gone. And, Mary (as she
tried to release her hand), you know what makes me feel so blessed."

She did know--he was right there. But as he turned to catch a look at
her sweet face, he saw that it expressed unfeigned distress, almost
amounting to vexation; a dread of him, that he thought was almost
repugnance.

He let her hand go, and she quickly went away to Alice's side.

"Fool that I was--nay, wretch that I was--to let myself take this
time of trouble to tell her how I loved her; no wonder that she turns
away from such a selfish beast."

Partly to relieve her from his presence, and partly from natural
desire, and partly, perhaps, from a penitent wish to share to the
utmost his parents' sorrow, he soon went up-stairs to the chamber of
death.

Mary mechanically helped Alice in all the duties she performed
through the remainder of that long night, but she did not see Jem
again. He remained up-stairs until after the early dawn showed Mary
that she need have no fear of going home through the deserted and
quiet streets, to try and get a little sleep before work hour. So
leaving kind messages to George and Jane Wilson, and hesitating
whether she might dare to send a few kind words to Jem, and deciding
that she had better not, she stepped out into the bright morning
light, so fresh a contrast to the darkened room where death had been.

            "They had
   Another morn than ours."

Mary lay down on her bed in her clothes; and whether it was this, or
the broad daylight that poured in through the sky-window, or whether
it was over-excitement, it was long before she could catch a wink of
sleep. Her thoughts ran on Jem's manner and words; not but what she
had known the tale they told for many a day; but still she wished he
had not put it so plainly.

"Oh dear," said she to herself, "I wish he would not mistake me so; I
never dare to speak a common word o' kindness, but his eye brightens
and his cheek flushes. It's very hard on me; for father and George
Wilson are old friends; and Jem and I ha' known each other since we
were quite children. I cannot think what possesses me, that I must
always be wanting to comfort him when he's downcast, and that I must
go meddling wi' him to-night, when sure enough it was his aunt's
place to speak to him. I don't care for him, and yet, unless I'm
always watching myself, I'm speaking to him in a loving voice. I
think I cannot go right, for I either check myself till I'm downright
cross to him, or else I speak just natural, and that's too kind and
tender by half. And I'm as good as engaged to be married to another;
and another far handsomer than Jem; only I think I like Jem's face
best for all that; liking's liking, and there's no help for it. Well,
when I'm Mrs. Harry Carson, may happen I can put some good fortune in
Jem's way. But will he thank me for it? He's rather savage at times,
that I can see, and perhaps kindness from me, when I'm another's,
will only go against the grain. I'll not plague myself wi' thinking
any more about him, that I won't."

So she turned on her pillow, and fell asleep, and dreamt of what was
often in her waking thoughts; of the day when she should ride from
church in her carriage, with wedding-bells ringing, and take up
her astonished father, and drive away from the old dim work-a-day
court for ever, to live in a grand house, where her father should
have newspapers, and pamphlets, and pipes, and meat dinners every
day,--and all day long if he liked.

Such thoughts mingled in her predilection for the handsome young
Mr. Carson, who, unfettered by work-hours, let scarcely a day pass
without contriving a meeting with the beautiful little milliner he
had first seen while lounging in a shop where his sisters were making
some purchases, and afterwards never rested till he had freely,
though respectfully, made her acquaintance in her daily walks. He
was, to use his own expression to himself, quite infatuated by her,
and was restless each day till the time came when he had a chance,
and, of late, more than a chance of meeting her. There was something
of keen practical shrewdness about her, which contrasted very
bewitchingly with the simple, foolish, unworldly ideas she had picked
up from the romances which Miss Simmonds' young ladies were in the
habit of recommending to each other.

Yes! Mary was ambitious, and did not favour Mr. Carson the less
because he was rich and a gentleman. The old leaven, infused years
ago by her aunt Esther, fermented in her little bosom, and perhaps
all the more, for her father's aversion to the rich and the gentle.
Such is the contrariness of the human heart, from Eve downwards, that
we all, in our old-Adam state, fancy things forbidden sweetest. So
Mary dwelt upon and enjoyed the idea of some day becoming a lady, and
doing all the elegant nothings appertaining to ladyhood. It was a
comfort to her, when scolded by Miss Simmonds, to think of the day
when she would drive up to the door in her own carriage, to order her
gowns from the hasty tempered yet kind dressmaker. It was a pleasure
to her to hear the general admiration of the two elder Miss Carsons,
acknowledged beauties in ball-room and street, on horseback and on
foot, and to think of the time when she should ride and walk with
them in loving sisterhood. But the best of her plans, the holiest,
that which in some measure redeemed the vanity of the rest, were
those relating to her father; her dear father, now oppressed with
care, and always a disheartened, gloomy person. How she would
surround him with every comfort she could devise (of course, he was
to live with them), till he should acknowledge riches to be very
pleasant things, and bless his lady-daughter! Every one who had shown
her kindness in her low estate should then be repaid a hundred-fold.

Such were the castles in air, the Alnaschar-visions in which Mary
indulged, and which she was doomed in after days to expiate with many
tears.

Meanwhile, her words--or, even more, her tones--would maintain their
hold on Jem Wilson's memory. A thrill would yet come over him when
he remembered how her hand had rested on his arm. The thought of her
mingled with all his grief, and it was profound, for the loss of his
brothers.




CHAPTER VIII.

MARGARET'S DEBUT AS A PUBLIC SINGER.


   "Deal gently with them, they have much endured.
   Scoff not at their fond hopes and earnest plans,
   Though they may seem to thee wild dreams and fancies.
   Perchance, in the rough school of stern experience,
   They've something learned which Theory does not teach;
   Or if they greatly err, deal gently still,
   And let their error but the stronger plead
   'Give us the light and guidance that we need!'"

   LOVE THOUGHTS.


One Sunday afternoon, about three weeks after that mournful night,
Jem Wilson set out with the ostensible purpose of calling on John
Barton. He was dressed in his best, his Sunday suit of course; while
his face glittered with the scrubbing he had bestowed on it. His dark
black hair had been arranged and re-arranged before the household
looking-glass, and in his button-hole he stuck a narcissus (a sweet
Nancy is its pretty Lancashire name), hoping it would attract Mary's
notice, so that he might have the delight of giving it her.

It was a bad beginning of his visit of happiness that Mary saw him
some minutes before he came into her father's house. She was sitting
at the end of the dresser, with the little window-blind drawn on one
side, in order that she might see the passers-by, in the intervals
of reading her Bible, which lay open before her. So she watched
all the greeting a friend gave Jem; she saw the face of condolence,
the sympathetic shake of the hand, and had time to arrange her own
face and manner before Jem came in, which he did, as if he had eyes
for no one but her father, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire,
while he read an old "Northern Star," borrowed from a neighbouring
public-house.

Then he turned to Mary, who, he felt by the sure instinct of love,
by which almost his body thought, was present. Her hands were busy
adjusting her dress; a forced and unnecessary movement Jem could not
help thinking. Her accost was quiet and friendly, if grave; she felt
that she reddened like a rose, and wished she could prevent it, while
Jem wondered if her blushes arose from fear, or anger, or love.

She was very cunning, I am afraid. She pretended to read diligently,
and not to listen to a word that was said, while, in fact, she heard
all sounds, even to Jem's long, deep sighs, which wrung her heart. At
last she took up her Bible, and as if their conversation disturbed
her, went up-stairs to her little room. And she had scarcely spoken
a word to Jem; scarcely looked at him; never noticed his beautiful
sweet Nancy, which only awaited her least word of praise to be hers!
He did not know--that pang was spared--that in her little dingy
bed-room, stood a white jug, filled with a luxuriant bunch of early
spring roses, making the whole room fragrant and bright. They were
the gift of her richer lover. So Jem had to go on sitting with John
Barton, fairly caught in his own trap, and had to listen to his talk,
and answer him as best he might.

"There's the right stuff in this here 'Star,' and no mistake. Such a
right-down piece for short hours."

"At the same rate of wages as now?" asked Jem.

"Ay, ay! else where's the use? It's only taking out o' the masters'
pocket what they can well afford. Did I ever tell yo what th'
Infirmary chap let me into, many a year agone?"

"No," said Jem, listlessly.

"Well! yo must know I were in th' Infirmary for a fever, and times
were rare and bad; and there be good chaps there to a man, while he's
wick, [22] whate'er they may be about cutting him up at after. [23]
So when I were better o' th' fever, but weak as water, they says to
me, says they, 'If yo can write, yo may stay in a week longer, and
help our surgeon wi' sorting his papers; and we'll take care yo've
your belly full o' meat and drink. Yo'll be twice as strong in a
week.' So there wanted but one word to that bargain. So I were set to
writing and copying; th' writing I could do well enough, but they'd
such queer ways o' spelling that I'd ne'er been used to, that I'd to
look first at th' copy and then at my letters, for all the world like
a cock picking up grains o' corn. But one thing startled me e'en
then, and I thought I'd make bold to ask the surgeon the meaning o't.
I've gotten no head for numbers, but this I know, that by _far th'
greater part o' th' accidents as comed in, happened in th' last two
hours o' work_, when folk getten tired and careless. Th' surgeon
said it were all true, and that he were going to bring that fact to
light."


   [Footnote 22: "Wick," alive. Anglo-Saxon, cwic. "The _quick_
                 and the dead."--_Book of Common Prayer._]

   [Footnote 23: "At after." "_At after souper goth this noble
                 king._" _Chaucer; The Squire's Tale._]


Jem was pondering Mary's conduct; but the pause made him aware he
ought to utter some civil listening noise; so he said

"Very true."

"Ay, it's true enough, my lad, that we're sadly over-borne, and worse
will come of it afore long. Block-printers is going to strike; they'n
getten a bang-up union, as won't let 'em be put upon. But there's
many a thing will happen afore long, as folk don't expect. Yo may
take my word for that, Jem."

Jem was very willing to take it, but did not express the curiosity
he should have done. So John Barton thought he'd try another hint or
two.

"Working folk won't be ground to the dust much longer. We'n a' had as
much to bear as human nature can bear. So, if th' masters can't do us
no good, and they say they can't, we mun try higher folk."

Still Jem was not curious. He gave up hope of seeing Mary again by
her own good free will; and the next best thing would be, to be alone
to think of her. So, muttering something which he meant to serve
as an excuse for his sudden departure, he hastily wished John good
afternoon, and left him to resume his pipe and his politics.

For three years past, trade had been getting worse and worse, and the
price of provisions higher and higher. This disparity between the
amount of the earnings of the working classes and the price of their
food, occasioned, in more cases than could well be imagined, disease
and death. Whole families went through a gradual starvation. They
only wanted a Dante to record their sufferings. And yet even his
words would fall short of the awful truth; they could only present an
outline of the tremendous facts of the destitution that surrounded
thousands upon thousands in the terrible years 1839, 1840, and 1841.
Even philanthropists who had studied the subject, were forced to own
themselves perplexed in their endeavour to ascertain the real causes
of the misery; the whole matter was of so complicated a nature,
that it became next to impossible to understand it thoroughly. It
need excite no surprise then to learn that a bad feeling between
working-men and the upper classes became very strong in this season
of privation. The indigence and sufferings of the operatives induced
a suspicion in the minds of many of them, that their legislators,
their magistrates, their employers, and even the ministers of
religion, were, in general, their oppressors and enemies; and were in
league for their prostration and enthralment. The most deplorable and
enduring evil that arose out of the period of commercial depression
to which I refer, was this feeling of alienation between the
different classes of society. It is so impossible to describe, or
even faintly to picture, the state of distress which prevailed in the
town at that time, that I will not attempt it; and yet I think again
that surely, in a Christian land, it was not known even so feebly
as words could tell it, or the more happy and fortunate would have
thronged with their sympathy and their aid. In many instances the
sufferers wept first, and then they cursed. Their vindictive feelings
exhibited themselves in rabid politics. And when I hear, as I have
heard, of the sufferings and privations of the poor, of provision
shops where ha'porths of tea, sugar, butter, and even flour, were
sold to accommodate the indigent,--of parents sitting in their
clothes by the fire-side during the whole night for seven weeks
together, in order that their only bed and bedding might be reserved
for the use of their large family,--of others sleeping upon the
cold hearth-stone for weeks in succession, without adequate means
of providing themselves with food or fuel (and this in the depth
of winter),--of others being compelled to fast for days together,
uncheered by any hope of better fortune, living, moreover, or rather
starving, in a crowded garret, or damp cellar, and gradually sinking
under the pressure of want and despair into a premature grave; and
when this has been confirmed by the evidence of their care-worn
looks, their excited feelings, and their desolate homes,--can I
wonder that many of them, in such times of misery and destitution,
spoke and acted with ferocious precipitation?

An idea was now springing up among the operatives, that originated
with the Chartists, but which came at last to be cherished as a
darling child by many and many a one. They could not believe that
government knew of their misery; they rather chose to think it
possible that men could voluntarily assume the office of legislators
for a nation, ignorant of its real state; as who should make domestic
rules for the pretty behaviour of children, without caring to know
that those children had been kept for days without food. Besides,
the starving multitudes had heard, that the very existence of their
distress had been denied in Parliament; and though they felt this
strange and inexplicable, yet the idea that their misery had still
to be revealed in all its depths, and that then some remedy would be
found, soothed their aching hearts, and kept down their rising fury.

So a petition was framed, and signed by thousands in the bright
spring days of 1839, imploring Parliament to hear witnesses who
could testify to the unparalleled destitution of the manufacturing
districts. Nottingham, Sheffield, Glasgow, Manchester, and many other
towns, were busy appointing delegates to convey this petition, who
might speak, not merely of what they had seen, and had heard, but
from what they had borne and suffered. Life-worn, gaunt, anxious,
hunger-stamped men, were those delegates.

One of them was John Barton. He would have been ashamed to own the
flutter of spirits his appointment gave him. There was the childish
delight of seeing London--that went a little way, and but a little
way. There was the vain idea of speaking out his notions before so
many grand folk--that went a little further; and last, there was the
really pure gladness of heart, arising from the idea that he was one
of those chosen to be instruments in making known the distresses of
the people, and consequently in procuring them some grand relief,
by means of which they should never suffer want or care any more.
He hoped largely, but vaguely, of the results of his expedition. An
argosy of the precious hopes of many otherwise despairing creatures,
was that petition to be heard concerning their sufferings.

The night before the morning on which the Manchester delegates were
to leave for London, Barton might be said to hold a levée, so many
neighbours came dropping in. Job Legh had early established himself
and his pipe by John Barton's fire, not saying much, but puffing
away, and imagining himself of use in adjusting the smoothing-irons
that hung before the fire, ready for Mary when she should want them.
As for Mary, her employment was the same as that of Beau Tibbs' wife,
"just washing her father's two shirts," in the pantry back-kitchen;
for she was anxious about his appearance in London. (The coat had
been redeemed, though the silk handkerchief was forfeited.) The door
stood open, as usual, between the houseplace and back-kitchen, so she
gave her greeting to their friends as they entered.

"So, John, yo're bound for London, are yo?" said one.

"Ay, I suppose I mun go," answered John, yielding to necessity as it
were.

"Well, there's many a thing I'd like yo to speak on to the Parliament
people. Thou'lt not spare 'em, John, I hope. Tell 'em our minds; how
we're thinking we've been clemmed long enough, and we donnot see
whatten good they'n been doing, if they can't give us what we're all
crying for sin' the day we were born."

"Ay, ay! I'll tell 'em that, and much more to it, when it gets to my
turn; but thou knows there's many will have their word afore me."

"Well, thou'lt speak at last. Bless thee, lad, do ask 'em to make
th' masters break th' machines. There's never been good times sin'
spinning-jennies came up."

"Machines is th' ruin of poor folk," chimed in several voices.

"For my part," said a shivering, half-clad man, who crept near the
fire, as if ague-stricken, "I would like thee to tell 'em to pass th'
Short-hours Bill. Flesh and blood gets wearied wi' so much work; why
should factory hands work so much longer nor other trades? Just ask
'em that, Barton, will ye?"

Barton was saved the necessity of answering, by the entrance of
Mrs. Davenport, the poor widow he had been so kind to; she looked
half-fed, and eager, but was decently clad. In her hand she brought a
little newspaper parcel, which she took to Mary, who opened it, and
then called out, dangling a shirt collar from her soapy fingers:

"See, father, what a dandy you'll be in London! Mrs. Davenport has
brought you this; made new cut, all after the fashion.--Thank you for
thinking on him."

"Eh, Mary!" said Mrs. Davenport, in a low voice. "Whatten's all I can
do, to what he's done for me and mine? But, Mary, sure I can help ye,
for you'll be busy wi' this journey."

"Just help me wring these out, and then I'll take 'em to th' mangle."

So Mrs. Davenport became a listener to the conversation; and after a
while joined in.

"I'm sure, John Barton, if yo are taking messages to the Parliament
folk, yo'll not object to telling 'em what a sore trial it is, this
law o' theirs, keeping childer fra' factory work, whether they be
weakly or strong. There's our Ben; why, porridge seems to go no way
wi' him, he eats so much; and I han gotten no money to send him t'
school, as I would like; and there he is, rampaging about th' streets
a' day, getting hungrier and hungrier, and picking up a' manner o'
bad ways; and th' inspector won't let him in to work in th' factory,
because he's not right age; though he's twice as strong as Sankey's
little ritling [24] of a lad, as works till he cries for his legs
aching so, though he is right age, and better."


   [Footnote 24: "Ritling," probably a corruption of "ricketling,"
                 a child that suffers from the rickets--a weakling.]


"I've one plan I wish to tell John Barton," said a pompous,
careful-speaking man, "and I should like him for to lay it afore
the Honourable House. My mother comed out o' Oxfordshire, and were
under-laundry-maid in Sir Francis Dashwood's family; and when we were
little ones, she'd tell us stories of their grandeur; and one thing
she named were, that Sir Francis wore two shirts a day. Now he were
all as one as a Parliament man; and many on 'em, I han no doubt, are
like extravagant. Just tell 'em, John, do, that they'd be doing th'
Lancashire weavers a great kindness, if they'd ha' their shirts a'
made o' calico; 'twould make trade brisk, that would, wi' the power
o' shirts they wear."

Job Legh now put in his word. Taking the pipe out of his mouth, and
addressing the last speaker, he said:

"I'll tell ye what, Bill, and no offence, mind ye; there's but
hundreds of them Parliament folk as wear so many shirts to their
back; but there's thousands and thousands o' poor weavers as han
only gotten one shirt i' th' world; ay, and don't know where t'
get another when that rag's done, though they're turning out miles
o' calico every day; and many a mile o't is lying in warehouses,
stopping up trade for want o' purchasers. Yo take my advice, John
Barton, and ask Parliament to set trade free, so as workmen can earn
a decent wage, and buy their two, ay and three, shirts a-year; that
would make weaving brisk."

He put his pipe in his mouth again, and redoubled his puffing to make
up for lost time.

"I'm afeard, neighbours," said John Barton, "I've not much chance o'
telling 'em all yo say; what I think on, is just speaking out about
the distress that they say is nought. When they hear o' children bor

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