Mary Barton

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. (Return)

Footnote 12:

"Cowd," cold. Teut. , kaud. Dutch, koud. (Return)

"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 fœtid 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. (Return)

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. (Return)

Footnote 15:

Wicklife uses "childre" in his Apology, page 26. (Return)

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

Footnote 16:

"What concord han light and dark." —Spenser. (Return)

"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. (Return)

"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. (Return)

"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. (Return)

 

 

CHAPTER VII.

JEM WILSON'S REPULSE.

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. (Return)

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. (Return)

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.

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.

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. (Return)

Footnote 23:

"At after.""At after souper goth this noble king." Chaucer; The Squire's Tale. (Return)

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. (Return)

"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 born on wet flags, without a rag t' cover 'em, or a bit o' food for th' mother; when they hear of folk lying down to die i' th' streets, or hiding their want i' some hole o' a cellar till death come to set 'em free; and when they hear o' all this plague, pestilence, and famine, they'll surely do somewhat wiser for us than we can guess at now.Howe'er, I han no objection, if so be there's an opening, to speak up for what yo say; anyhow, I'll do my best, and yo see now, if better times don't come after Parliament knows all."

Some shook their heads, but more looked cheery; and then one by one dropped off, leaving John and his daughter alone.

"Didst thou mark how poorly Jane Wilson looked?"asked he, as they wound up their hard day's work by a supper eaten over the fire, which glowed and glimmered through the room, and formed their only light.

"No, I can't say as I did.But she's never rightly held up her head since the twins died; and all along she has never been a strong woman."

"Never sin' her accident.Afore that I mind her looking as fresh and likely a girl as e'er a one in Manchester."

"What accident, father?"

"She cotched [25] her side again a wheel. It were afore wheels were boxed up. It were just when she were to have been married, and many a one thought George would ha' been off his bargain; but I knew he wern't the chap for that trick. Pretty near the first place she went to when she were able to go about again, was th' Oud Church; poor wench, all pale and limping she went up the aisle, George holding her up as tender as a mother, and walking as slow as e'er he could, not to hurry her, though there were plenty enow of rude lads to cast their jests at him and her. Her face were white like a sheet when she came in church, but afore she got to th' altar she were all one flush. But for a' that it's been a happy marriage, and George has stuck by me through life like a brother. He'll never hold up his head again if he loses Jane. I didn't like her looks to-night."

Footnote 25:

"Cotched," caught. (Return)

And so he went to bed, the fear of forthcoming sorrow to his friend mingling with his thoughts of to-morrow, and his hopes for the future.Mary watched him set off, with her hands over her eyes to shade them from the bright slanting rays of the morning sun, and then she turned into the house to arrange its disorder before going to her work.She wondered if she should like or dislike the evening and morning solitude; for several hours when the clock struck she thought of her father, and wondered where he was; she made good resolutions according to her lights; and by-and-bye came the distractions and events of the broad full day to occupy her with the present, and to deaden the memory of the absent.

One of Mary's resolutions was, that she would not be persuaded or induced to see Mr. Harry Carson during her father's absence.There was something crooked in her conscience after all; for this very resolution seemed an acknowledgment that it was wrong to meet him at any time; and yet she had brought herself to think her conduct quite innocent and proper, for although unknown to her father, and certain, even did he know it, to fail of obtaining his sanction, she esteemed her love-meetings with Mr. Carson as sure to end in her father's good and happiness.But now that he was away, she would do nothing that he would disapprove of; no, not even though it was for his own good in the end.

Now, amongst Miss Simmonds' young ladies was one who had been from the beginning a confidant in Mary's love affair, made so by Mr. Carson himself.He had felt the necessity of some third person to carry letters and messages, and to plead his cause when he was absent.In a girl named Sally Leadbitter he had found a willing advocate.She would have been willing to have embarked in a love-affair herself (especially a clandestine one), for the mere excitement of the thing; but her willingness was strengthened by sundry half-sovereigns, which from time to time Mr. Carson bestowed upon her.

Sally Leadbitter was vulgar-minded to the last degree; never easy unless her talk was of love and lovers; in her eyes it was an honour to have had a long list of wooers.So constituted, it was a pity that Sally herself was but a plain, red-haired, freckled girl; never likely, one would have thought, to become a heroine on her own account.But what she lacked in beauty she tried to make up for by a kind of witty boldness, which gave her what her betters would have called piquancy.Considerations of modesty or propriety never checked her utterance of a good thing.She had just talent enough to corrupt others.Her very good-nature was an evil influence.They could not hate one who was so kind; they could not avoid one who was so willing to shield them from scrapes by any exertion of her own; whose ready fingers would at any time make up for their deficiencies, and whose still more convenient tongue would at any time invent for them.The Jews, or Mohammedans (I forget which), believe that there is one little bone of our body, one of the vertebræ, if I remember rightly, which will never decay and turn to dust, but will lie incorrupt and indestructible in the ground until the Last Day: this is the Seed of the Soul.The most depraved have also their Seed of the Holiness that shall one day overcome their evil, their one good quality, lurking hidden, but safe, among all the corrupt and bad.

Sally's seed of the future soul was her love for her mother, an aged bedridden woman.For her she had self-denial; for her, her good-nature rose into tenderness; to cheer her lonely bed, her spirits, in the evenings when her body was often woefully tired, never flagged, but were ready to recount the events of the day, to turn them into ridicule, and to mimic, with admirable fidelity, any person gifted with an absurdity who had fallen under her keen eye.But the mother was lightly principled like Sally herself; nor was there need to conceal from her the reason why Mr. Carson gave her so much money.She chuckled with pleasure, and only hoped that the wooing would be long a-doing.

Still neither she, nor her daughter, nor Harry Carson liked this resolution of Mary, not to see him during her father's absence.

One evening (and the early summer evenings were long and bright now), Sally met Mr. Carson by appointment, to be charged with a letter for Mary, imploring her to see him, which Sally was to back with all her powers of persuasion.After parting from him she determined, as it was not so very late, to go at once to Mary's, and deliver the message and letter.

She found Mary in great sorrow.She had just heard of George Wilson's sudden death: her old friend, her father's friend, Jem's father—all his claims came rushing upon her.Though not guarded from unnecessary sight or sound of death, as the children of the rich are, yet it had so often been brought home to her this last three or four months.It was so terrible thus to see friend after friend depart.Her father, too, who had dreaded Jane Wilson's death the evening before he set off.And she, the weakly, was left behind while the strong man was taken.At any rate the sorrow her father had so feared for him was spared.Such were the thoughts which came over her.

She could not go to comfort the bereaved, even if comfort were in her power to give; for she had resolved to avoid Jem; and she felt that this of all others was not the occasion on which she could keep up a studiously cold manner.

And in this shock of grief, Sally Leadbitter was the last person she wished to see.However, she rose to welcome her, betraying her tear-swollen face.

"Well, I shall tell Mr. Carson to-morrow how you're fretting for him; it's no more nor he's doing for you, I can tell you."

"For him, indeed!"said Mary, with a toss of her pretty head.

"Ay, miss, for him!You've been sighing as if your heart would break now for several days, over your work; now arn't you a little goose not to go and see one who I am sure loves you as his life, and whom you love; 'How much, Mary?''This much,' as the children say" (opening her arms very wide).

"Nonsense," said Mary, pouting; "I often think I don't love him at all."

"And I'm to tell him that, am I, next time I see him?"asked Sally.

"If you like," replied Mary."I'm sure I don't care for that or any thing else now;" weeping afresh.

But Sally did not like to be the bearer of any such news.She saw she had gone on the wrong tack, and that Mary's heart was too full to value either message or letter as she ought.So she wisely paused in their delivery, and said in a more sympathetic tone than she had heretofore used,

"Do tell me, Mary, what's fretting you so?You know I never could abide to see you cry."

"George Wilson's dropped down dead this afternoon," said Mary, fixing her eyes for one minute on Sally, and the next hiding her face in her apron as she sobbed anew.

"Dear, dear!All flesh is grass; here to-day and gone to-morrow, as the Bible says.Still he was an old man, and not good for much; there's better folk than him left behind.Is th' canting old maid as was his sister alive yet?"

"I don't know who you mean," said Mary, sharply; for she did know, and did not like to have her dear, simple Alice so spoken of.

"Come, Mary, don't be so innocent.Is Miss Alice Wilson alive, then; will that please you?I haven't seen her hereabouts lately."

"No, she's left living here.When the twins died she thought she could, may be, be of use to her sister, who was sadly cast down, and Alice thought she could cheer her up; at any rate she could listen to her when her heart grew overburdened; so she gave up her cellar and went to live with them."

"Well, good go with her.I'd no fancy for her, and I'd no fancy for her making my pretty Mary into a Methodee."

"She wasn't a Methodee, she was Church o' England."

"Well, well, Mary, you're very particular.You know what I meant.Look, who is this letter from?"holding up Henry Carson's letter.

"I don't know, and don't care," said Mary, turning very red.

"My eye!as if I didn't know you did know and did care."

"Well, give it me," said Mary, impatiently, and anxious in her present mood for her visitor's departure.

Sally relinquished it unwillingly.She had, however, the pleasure of seeing Mary dimple and blush as she read the letter, which seemed to say the writer was not indifferent to her.

"You must tell him I can't come," said Mary, raising her eyes at last."I have said I won't meet him while father is away, and I won't."

"But, Mary, he does so look for you. You'd be quite sorry for him, he's so put out about not seeing you. Besides you go when your father's at home, without letting on [26] to him, and what harm would there be in going now?"

Footnote 26:

"Letting on," informing. In Anglo-Saxon, one meaning of "lætan" was "to admit;" and we say, to let out a secret. (Return)

"Well, Sally!you know my answer, I won't; and I won't."

"I'll tell him to come and see you himself some evening, instead o' sending me; he'd may be find you not so hard to deal with."

Mary flashed up.

"If he dares to come here while father's away, I'll call the neighbours in to turn him out, so don't be putting him up to that."

"Mercy on us!one would think you were the first girl that ever had a lover; have you never heard what other girls do and think no shame of?"

"Hush, Sally!that's Margaret Jennings at the door."

And in an instant Margaret was in the room.Mary had begged Job Legh to let her come and sleep with her.In the uncertain fire-light you could not help noticing that she had the groping walk of a blind person.

"Well, I must go, Mary," said Sally."And that's your last word?"

"Yes, yes; good-night."She shut the door gladly on her unwelcome visitor—unwelcome at that time at least.

"Oh Margaret, have ye heard this sad news about George Wilson?"

"Yes, that I have.Poor creatures, they've been sore tried lately.Not that I think sudden death so bad a thing; it's easy, and there's no terrors for him as dies.For them as survives it's very hard.Poor George!he were such a hearty looking man."

"Margaret," said Mary, who had been closely observing her friend, "thou'rt very blind to-night, arn't thou?Is it wi' crying?Your eyes are so swollen and red."

"Yes, dear!but not crying for sorrow.Han ye heard where I was last night?"

"No; where?"

"Look here."She held up a bright golden sovereign.Mary opened her large gray eyes with astonishment.

"I'll tell you all how and about it.You see there's a gentleman lecturing on music at th' Mechanics', and he wants folk to sing his songs.Well, last night th' counter got a sore throat and couldn't make a note.So they sent for me.Jacob Butterworth had said a good word for me, and they asked me would I sing?You may think I was frightened, but I thought now or never, and said I'd do my best.So I tried o'er the songs wi' th' lecturer, and then th' managers told me I were to make myself decent and be there by seven."

"And what did you put on?"asked Mary."Oh, why didn't you come in for my pretty pink gingham?"

"I did think on't; but you had na come home then.No!I put on my merino, as was turned last winter, and my white shawl, and did my hair pretty tidy; it did well enough.Well, but as I was saying, I went at seven.I couldn't see to read my music, but I took th' paper in wi' me, to ha' somewhat to do wi' my fingers.Th' folks' heads danced, as I stood as right afore 'em all as if I'd been going to play at ball wi' 'em.You may guess I felt squeamish, but mine weren't the first song, and th' music sounded like a friend's voice, telling me to take courage.So to make a long story short, when it were all o'er th' lecturer thanked me, and th' managers said as how there never was a new singer so applauded (for they'd clapped and stamped after I'd done, till I began to wonder how many pair o' shoes they'd get through a week at that rate, let alone their hands).So I'm to sing again o' Thursday; and I got a sovereign last night, and am to have half-a-sovereign every night th' lecturer is at th' Mechanics'."

"Well, Margaret, I'm right glad to hear it."

"And I don't think you've heard the best bit yet.Now that a way seemed opened to me, of not being a burden to any one, though it did please God to make me blind, I thought I'd tell grandfather.I only telled him about the singing and the sovereign last night, for I thought I'd not send him to bed wi' a heavy heart; but this morning I telled him all."

"And how did he take it?"

"He's not a man of many words; and it took him by surprise like."

"I wonder at that; I've noticed it in your ways ever since you telled me."

"Ay, that's it!If I'd not telled you, and you'd seen me every day, you'd not ha' noticed the little mite o' difference fra' day to day."

"Well, but what did your grandfather say?"

"Why, Mary," said Margaret, half smiling, "I'm a bit loath to tell yo, for unless yo knew grandfather's ways like me, yo'd think it strange.He were taken by surprise, and he said: 'Damn yo!'Then he began looking at his book as it were, and were very quiet, while I telled him all about it; how I'd feared, and how downcast I'd been; and how I were now reconciled to it, if it were th' Lord's will; and how I hoped to earn money by singing; and while I were talking, I saw great big tears come dropping on th' book; but in course I never let on that I saw 'em.Dear grandfather!and all day long he's been quietly moving things out o' my way, as he thought might trip me up, and putting things in my way, as he thought I might want; never knowing I saw and felt what he were doing; for, yo see, he thinks I'm out and out blind, I guess—as I shall be soon."

Margaret sighed, in spite of her cheerful and relieved tone.

Though Mary caught the sigh, she felt it was better to let it pass without notice, and began, with the tact which true sympathy rarely fails to supply, to ask a variety of questions respecting her friend's musical debut, which tended to bring out more distinctly how successful it had been.

"Why, Margaret," at length she exclaimed, "thou'lt become as famous, may be, as that grand lady fra' London, as we seed one night driving up to th' concert room door in her carriage."

"It looks very like it," said Margaret, with a smile."And be sure, Mary, I'll not forget to give thee a lift now an' then when that comes about.Nay, who knows, if thou'rt a good girl, but mayhappen I may make thee my lady's maid!Wouldn't that be nice?So I'll e'en sing to mysel' th' beginning o' one o' my songs,

"Nay, don't stop; or else give me something a bit more new, for somehow I never quite liked that part about thinking o' Donald mair."

"Well, though I'm a bit tir'd, I don't care if I do.Before I come, I were practising well nigh upon two hours this one which I'm to sing o' Thursday.Th' lecturer said he were sure it would just suit me, and I should do justice to it; and I should be right sorry to disappoint him, he were so nice and encouraging like to me.Eh!Mary, what a pity there isn't more o' that way, and less scolding and rating i' th' world!It would go a vast deal further.Beside, some o' th' singers said they were a'most certain it were a song o' his own, because he were so fidgetty and particular about it, and so anxious I should give it th' proper expression.And that makes me care still more.Th' first verse, he said, were to be sung 'tenderly, but joyously!'I'm afraid I don't quite hit that, but I'll try.

Now it falls into th' minor key, and must be very sad like.I feel as if I could do that better than t'other.

Margaret certainly made the most of this little song. As a factory worker, listening outside, observed, "She spun it reet [27] fine!" And if she only sang it at the Mechanics' with half the feeling she put into it that night, the lecturer must have been hard to please, if he did not admit that his expectations were more than fulfilled.

Footnote 27:

"Reet," right; often used for "very." (Return)

When it was ended, Mary's looks told more than words could have done what she thought of it; and partly to keep in a tear which would fain have rolled out, she brightened into a laugh, and said, "For certain, th' carriage is coming.So let us go and dream on it."

 

 

CHAPTER IX.

BARTON'S LONDON EXPERIENCES.

The next evening it was a warm, pattering, incessant rain, just the rain to waken up the flowers.But in Manchester, where, alas!there are no flowers, the rain had only a disheartening and gloomy effect; the streets were wet and dirty, the drippings from the houses were wet and dirty, and the people were wet and dirty.Indeed, most kept within-doors; and there was an unusual silence of footsteps in the little paved courts.

Mary had to change her clothes after her walk home; and had hardly settled herself before she heard some one fumbling at the door.The noise continued long enough to allow her to get up, and go and open it.There stood—could it be?yes it was, her father!

Drenched and way-worn, there he stood!He came in with no word to Mary in return for her cheery and astonished greeting.He sat down by the fire in his wet things, unheeding.But Mary would not let him so rest.She ran up and brought down his working-day clothes, and went into the pantry to rummage up their little bit of provision while he changed by the fire, talking all the while as gaily as she could, though her father's depression hung like lead on her heart.

For Mary, in her seclusion at Miss Simmonds',—where the chief talk was of fashions, and dress, and parties to be given, for which such and such gowns would be wanted, varied with a slight whispered interlude occasionally about love and lovers,—had not heard the political news of the day: that Parliament had refused to listen to the working-men, when they petitioned with all the force of their rough, untutored words to be heard concerning the distress which was riding, like the Conqueror on his Pale Horse, among the people; which was crushing their lives out of them, and stamping woe-marks over the land.

When he had eaten and was refreshed, they sat in silence for some time; for Mary wished him to tell her what oppressed him so, yet durst not ask.In this she was wise; for when we are heavy laden in our hearts, it falls in better with our humour to reveal our case in our own way, and our own time.

Mary sat on a stool at her father's feet in old childish guise, and stole her hand into his, while his sadness infected her, and she "caught the trick of grief, and sighed," she knew not why.

"Mary, we mun speak to our God to hear us, for man will not hearken; no, not now, when we weep tears o' blood."

In an instant Mary understood the fact, if not the details, that so weighed down her father's heart.She pressed his hand with silent sympathy.She did not know what to say, and was so afraid of speaking wrongly, that she was silent.But when his attitude had remained unchanged for more than half-an-hour, his eyes gazing vacantly and fixedly at the fire, no sound but now and then a deep drawn sigh to break the weary ticking of the clock, and the drip-drop from the roof without, Mary could bear it no longer.Any thing to rouse her father.Even bad news.

"Father, do you know George Wilson's dead?"(Her hand was suddenly and almost violently compressed.)"He dropped down dead in Oxford Road yester morning.It's very sad, isn't it, father?"

Her tears were ready to flow as she looked up in her father's face for sympathy.Still the same fixed look of despair, not varied by grief for the dead.

"Best for him to die," he said, in a low voice.

This was unbearable.Mary got up under pretence of going to tell Margaret that she need not come to sleep with her to-night, but really to ask Job Legh to come and cheer her father.

She stopped outside their door.Margaret was practising her singing, and through the still night air her voice rang out like that of an angel.

"Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God."

The old Hebrew prophetic words fell like dew on Mary's heart.She could not interrupt.She stood listening and "comforted," till the little buzz of conversation again began, and then entered and told her errand.

Both grandfather and grand-daughter rose instantly to fulfil her request.

"He's just tired out, Mary," said old Job."He'll be a different man to-morrow."

There is no describing the looks and tones that have power over an aching, heavy laden heart; but in an hour or so John Barton was talking away as freely as ever, though all his talk ran, as was natural, on the disappointment of his fond hope, of the forlorn hope of many.

"Ay, London's a fine place," said he, "and finer folk live in it than I ever thought on, or ever heerd tell on except in th' story-books.They are having their good things now, that afterwards they may be tormented."

Still at the old parable of Dives and Lazarus!Does it haunt the minds of the rich as it does those of the poor?

"Do tell us all about London, dear father," asked Mary, who was sitting at her old post by her father's knee.

"How can I tell yo a' about it, when I never seed one-tenth of it.It's as big as six Manchesters, they telled me.One-sixth may be made up o' grand palaces, and three-sixths o' middling kind, and th' rest o' holes o' iniquity and filth, such as Manchester knows nought on, I'm glad to say."

"Well, father, but did you see th' Queen?"

"I believe I didn't, though one day I thought I'd seen her many a time.You see," said he, turning to Job Legh, "there were a day appointed for us to go to Parliament House.We were most on us biding at a public-house in Holborn, where they did very well for us.Th' morning of taking our petition we'd such a spread for breakfast as th' Queen hersel might ha' sitten down to.I suppose they thought we wanted putting in heart.There were mutton kidneys, and sausages, and broiled ham, and fried beef and onions; more like a dinner nor a breakfast.Many on our chaps though, I could see, could eat but little.Th' food stuck in their throats when they thought o' them at home, wives and little ones, as had, may be at that very time, nought to eat.Well, after breakfast, we were all set to walk in procession, and a time it took to put us in order, two and two, and the petition as was yards long, carried by th' foremost pairs.The men looked grave enough, yo may be sure; and such a set of thin, wan, wretched-looking chaps as they were!"

"Yourself is none to boast on."

"Ay, but I were fat and rosy to many a one.Well, we walked on and on through many a street, much the same as Deansgate.We had to walk slowly, slowly, for th' carriages an' cabs as thronged th' streets.I thought by-and-bye we should may be get clear on 'em, but as th' streets grew wider they grew worse, and at last we were fairly blocked up at Oxford Street.We getten across at last though, and my eyes!the grand streets we were in then!They're sadly puzzled how to build houses though in London; there'd be an opening for a good steady master-builder there, as know'd his business.For yo see the houses are many on 'em built without any proper shape for a body to live in; some on 'em they've after thought would fall down, so they've stuck great ugly pillars out before 'em.And some on 'em (we thought they must be th' tailor's sign) had getten stone men and women as wanted clothes stuck on 'em.I were like a child, I forgot a' my errand in looking about me.By this it were dinner-time, or better, as we could tell by th' sun, right above our heads, and we were dusty and tired, going a step now and a step then.Well, at last we getten into a street grander nor all, leading to th' Queen's palace, and there it were I thought I saw th' Queen.Yo've seen th' hearses wi' white plumes, Job?"

Job assented.

"Well, them undertaker folk are driving a pretty trade in London. Wellnigh every lady we saw in a carriage had hired one o' them plumes for the day, and had it niddle noddling on her head. It were th' Queen's Drawing-room, they said, and th' carriages went bowling along toward her house, some wi' dressed up gentlemen like circus folk in 'em, and rucks [28] o' ladies in others. Carriages themselves were great shakes too. Some o' th' gentlemen as couldn't get inside hung on behind, wi' nosegays to smell at, and sticks to keep off folk as might splash their silk stockings. I wondered why they didn't hire a cab rather than hang on like a whip-behind boy; but I suppose they wished to keep wi' their wives, Darby and Joan like. Coachmen were little squat men, wi' wigs like th' oud fashioned parsons. Well, we could na get on for these carriages, though we waited and waited. Th' horses were too fat to move quick; they'n never known want o' food, one might tell by their sleek coats; and police pushed us back when we tried to cross. One or two on 'em struck wi' their sticks, and coachmen laughed, and some officers as stood nigh put their spy-glasses in their eye, and left 'em sticking there like mountebanks. One o' th' police struck me. 'Whatten business have yo to do that?' said I.

Footnote 28:

"Rucks," a great quantity. (Return)

"'You're frightening them horses,' says he, in his mincing way (for Londoners are mostly all tongue-tied, and can't say their a's and i's properly), 'and it's our business to keep you from molesting the ladies and gentlemen going to her Majesty's Drawing-room.'

"'And why are we to be molested?'asked I, 'going decently about our business, which is life and death to us, and many a little one clemming at home in Lancashire?Which business is of most consequence i' the sight o' God, think yo, our'n or them gran ladies and gentlemen as yo think so much on?'

"But I might as well ha' held my peace, for he only laughed."

John ceased.After waiting a little to see if he would go on of himself, Job said,

"Well, but that's not a' your story, man.Tell us what happened when yo got to th' Parliament House."

After a little pause John answered,

"If yo please, neighbour, I'd rather say nought about that. It's not to be forgotten or forgiven either by me or many another; but I canna tell of our down-casting just as a piece of London news. As long as I live, our rejection that day will bide in my heart; and as long as I live I shall curse them as so cruelly refused to hear us; but I'll not speak of it no [29] more."

Footnote 29:

A similar use of a double negative is not unfrequent in Chaucer; as in the "Miller's Tale": "That of no wife toke he non offering For curtesie, he sayd, he n'old non." (Return)

So, daunted in their inquiries, they sat silent for a few minutes.

Old Job, however, felt that some one must speak, else all the good they had done in dispelling John Barton's gloom was lost.So after awhile he thought of a subject, neither sufficiently dissonant from the last to jar on the full heart, nor too much the same to cherish the continuance of the gloomy train of thought.

"Did you ever hear tell," said he to Mary, "that I were in London once?"

"No!"said she, with surprise, and looking at Job with increased respect.

"Ay, but I were though, and Peg there too, though she minds nought about it, poor wench!You must know I had but one child, and she were Margaret's mother.I loved her above a bit, and one day when she came (standing behind me for that I should not see her blushes, and stroking my cheeks in her own coaxing way), and told me she and Frank Jennings (as was a joiner lodging near us) should be so happy if they were married, I could not find in my heart t' say her nay, though I went sick at the thought of losing her away from my home.Howe'er, she were my only child, and I never said nought of what I felt, for fear o' grieving her young heart.But I tried to think o' the time when I'd been young mysel, and had loved her blessed mother, and how we'd left father and mother and gone out into th' world together, and I'm now right thankful I held my peace, and didna fret her wi' telling her how sore I was at parting wi' her that were the light o' my eyes."

"But," said Mary, "you said the young man were a neighbour."

"Ay, so he were; and his father afore him.But work were rather slack in Manchester, and Frank's uncle sent him word o' London work and London wages, so he were to go there; and it were there Margaret was to follow him.Well, my heart aches yet at thought of those days.She so happy, and he so happy; only the poor father as fretted sadly behind their backs.They were married, and stayed some days wi' me afore setting off; and I've often thought sin' Margaret's heart failed her many a time those few days, and she would fain ha' spoken; but I knew fra' mysel it were better to keep it pent up, and I never let on what I were feeling.I knew what she meant when she came kissing, and holding my hand, and all her old childish ways o' loving me.Well, they went at last.You know them two letters, Margaret?"

"Yes, sure," replied his grand-daughter.

"Well, them two were the only letters I ever had fra' her, poor lass. She said in them she were very happy, and I believe she were. And Frank's family heard he were in good work. In one o' her letters, poor thing, she ends wi' saying, 'Farewell, Grandad!' wi' a line drawn under grandad, and fra' that an' other hints I knew she were in th' family way; and I said nought, but I screwed up a little money, thinking come Whitsuntide I'd take a holiday and go and see her an' th' little one. But one day towards Whitsuntide comed Jennings wi' a grave face, and says he, 'I hear our Frank and your Margaret's both getten the fever.' You might ha' knocked me down wi' a straw, for it seemed as if God told me what th' upshot would be. Old Jennings had gotten a letter, yo see, fra' the landlady they lodged wi'; a well-penned letter, asking if they'd no friends to come and nurse them. She'd caught it first, and Frank, who was as tender o' her as her own mother could ha' been, had nursed her till he'd caught it himsel; and she expecting her down-lying [30] every day. Well, t' make a long story short, Old Jennings and I went up by that night's coach. So you see, Mary, that was the way I got to London."

Footnote 30:

"Down-lying," lying-in. (Return)

"But how was your daughter when you got there?"asked Mary, anxiously.

"She were at rest, poor wench, and so were Frank.I guessed as much when I see'd th' landlady's face, all swelled wi' crying, when she opened th' door to us.We said, 'Where are they?'and I knew they were dead, fra' her look; but Jennings didn't, as I take it; for when she showed us into a room wi' a white sheet on th' bed, and underneath it, plain to be seen, two still figures, he screeched out as if he'd been a woman.

"Yet he'd other childer and I'd none. There lay my darling, my only one. She were dead, and there were no one to love me, no, not one. I disremember [31] rightly what I did; but I know I were very quiet, while my heart were crushed within me.

Footnote 31:

"Disremember," forget. (Return)

"Jennings could na' stand being in th' room at all, so th' landlady took him down, and I were glad to be alone.It grew dark while I sat there; and at last th' landlady come up again, and said, 'Come here.'So I got up and walked into th' light, but I had to hold by th' stair-rails, I were so weak and dizzy.She led me into a room, where Jennings lay on a sofa fast asleep, wi' his pocket handkercher over his head for a night-cap.She said he'd cried himself fairly off to sleep.There were tea on th' table all ready; for she were a kind-hearted body.But she still said, 'Come here,' and took hold o' my arm.So I went round the table, and there were a clothes-basket by th' fire, wi' a shawl put o'er it.'Lift that up,' says she, and I did; and there lay a little wee babby fast asleep.My heart gave a leap, and th' tears comed rushing into my eyes first time that day.'Is it hers?'said I, though I knew it were.'Yes,' said she.'She were getting a bit better o' the fever, and th' babby were born; and then the poor young man took worse and died, and she were not many hours behind.'

"Little mite of a thing!and yet it seemed her angel come back to comfort me.I were quite jealous o' Jennings whenever he went near the babby.I thought it were more my flesh and blood than his'n, and yet I were afeared he would claim it.However, that were far enough fra' his thoughts; he'd plenty other childer, and as I found out at after he'd all along been wishing me to take it.Well, we buried Margaret and her husband in a big, crowded, lonely churchyard in London.I were loath to leave them there, as I thought, when they rose again, they'd feel so strange at first away fra Manchester, and all old friends; but it couldna be helped.Well, God watches o'er their grave there as well as here.That funeral cost a mint o' money, but Jennings and I wished to do th' thing decent.Then we'd the stout little babby to bring home.We'd not overmuch money left; but it were fine weather, and we thought we'd take th' coach to Brummagem, and walk on.It were a bright May morning when last I saw London town, looking back from a big hill a mile or two off.And in that big mass o' a place I were leaving my blessed child asleep—in her last sleep.Well, God's will be done!She's gotten to heaven afore me; but I shall get there at last, please God, though it's a long while first.

"The babby had been fed afore we set out, and th' coach moving kept it asleep, bless its little heart. But when th' coach stopped for dinner it were awake, and crying for its pobbies. [32] So we asked for some bread and milk, and Jennings took it first for to feed it; but it made its mouth like a square, and let it run out at each o' th' four corners. 'Shake it, Jennings,' says I; 'that's the way they make water run through a funnel, when it's o'er full; and a child's mouth is broad end o' th' funnel, and th' gullet the narrow one.' So he shook it, but it only cried th' more. 'Let me have it,' says I, thinking he were an awkward oud chap. But it were just as bad wi' me. By shaking th' babby we got better nor a gill into its mouth, but more nor that came up again, wetting a' th' nice dry clothes landlady had put on. Well, just as we'd gotten to th' dinner-table, and helped oursels, and eaten two mouthful, came in th' guard, and a fine chap wi' a sample o' calico flourishing in his hand. 'Coach is ready!' says one; 'Half-a-crown your dinner!' says th' other. Well, we thought it a deal for both our dinners, when we'd hardly tasted 'em; but, bless your life, it were half-a-crown apiece, and a shilling for th' bread and milk as were possetted all over babby's clothes. We spoke up again [33] it; but every body said it were the rule, so what could two poor oud chaps like us do again it? Well, poor babby cried without stopping to take breath, fra' that time till we got to Brummagem for the night. My heart ached for th' little thing. It caught wi' its wee mouth at our coat sleeves and at our mouths, when we tried t' comfort it by talking to it. Poor little wench! It wanted its mammy, as were lying cold in th' grave. 'Well,' says I, 'it'll be clemmed to death, if it lets out its supper as it did its dinner. Let's get some woman to feed it; it comes natural to women to do for babbies.' So we asked th' chamber-maid at the inn, and she took quite kindly to it; and we got a good supper, and grew rare and sleepy, what wi' th' warmth, and wi' our long ride i' th' open air. Th' chamber-maid said she would like t' have it t' sleep wi' her, only missis would scold so; but it looked so quiet and smiling like, as it lay in her arms, that we thought 'twould be no trouble to have it wi' us. I says: 'See, Jennings, how women-folk do quieten babbies; it's just as I said.' He looked grave; he were always thoughtful-looking, though I never heard him say any thing very deep. At last says he—

Footnote 32:

"Pobbies," or "pobs," child's porridge. (Return)

Footnote 33:

"Again," for against."He that is not with me, he is ageyn me."—Wickliffe's Version. (Return)

"'Young woman!have you gotten a spare night-cap?'

"'Missis always keeps night-caps for gentlemen as does not like to unpack,' says she, rather quick.

"'Ay, but young woman, it's one of your night-caps I want.Th' babby seems to have taken a mind to yo; and may be in th' dark it might take me for yo if I'd getten your night-cap on.'

"The chambermaid smirked and went for a cap, but I laughed outright at th' oud bearded chap thinking he'd make hissel like a woman just by putting on a woman's cap.Howe'er he'd not be laughed out on't, so I held th' babby till he were in bed.Such a night as we had on it!Babby began to scream o' th' oud fashion, and we took it turn and turn about to sit up and rock it.My heart were very sore for th' little one, as it groped about wi' its mouth; but for a' that I could scarce keep fra' smiling at th' thought o' us two oud chaps, th' one wi' a woman's night-cap on, sitting on our hinder ends for half th' night, hushabying a babby as wouldn't be hushabied.Toward morning, poor little wench!it fell asleep, fairly tired out wi' crying, but even in its sleep it gave such pitiful sobs, quivering up fra' the very bottom of its little heart, that once or twice I almost wished it lay on its mother's breast, at peace for ever.Jennings fell asleep too; but I began for to reckon up our money.It were little enough we had left, our dinner the day afore had ta'en so much.I didn't know what our reckoning would be for that night lodging, and supper, and breakfast.Doing a sum alway sent me asleep ever sin' I were a lad; so I fell sound in a short time, and were only wakened by chambermaid tapping at th' door, to say she'd dress the babby afore her missis were up if we liked.But bless yo', we'd never thought o' undressing it th' night afore, and now it were sleeping so sound, and we were so glad o' the peace and quietness, that we thought it were no good to waken it up to screech again.

"Well! (there's Mary asleep for a good listener!) I suppose you're getting weary of my tale, so I'll not be long over ending it. Th' reckoning left us very bare, and we thought we'd best walk home, for it were only sixty mile, they telled us, and not stop again for nought, save victuals. So we left Brummagem, (which is as black a place as Manchester, without looking so like home), and walked a' that day, carrying babby turn and turn about. It were well fed by chambermaid afore we left, and th' day were fine, and folk began to have some knowledge o' th' proper way o' speaking, and we were more cheery at thoughts o' home (though mine, God knows, were lonesome enough). We stopped none for dinner, but at baggin-time [34] we getten a good meal at a public-house, an' fed th' babby as well as we could, but that were but poorly. We got a crust too, for it to suck—chambermaid put us up to that. That night, whether we were tired or whatten, I don't know, but it were dree [35] work, and poor wench had slept out her sleep, and began th' cry as wore my heart out again. Says Jennings, says he,

Footnote 34:

"Baggin-time," time of the evening meal. (Return)

Footnote 35:

"Dree," long and tedious. Anglo-Saxon, "dreogan," to suffer, to endure. (Return)

"'We should na ha' set out so like gentlefolk a top o' the coach yesterday.'

"'Nay, lad! We should ha' had more to walk, if we had na ridden, and I'm sure both you and I'se [36] weary o' tramping.'

Footnote 36:

"I have not been, nor is, nor never schal."—Wickliffe's "Apology," p.1. (Return)

"So he were quiet a bit.But he were one o' them as were sure to find out somewhat had been done amiss, when there were no going back to undo it.So presently he coughs, as if he were going to speak, and I says to mysel, 'At it again, my lad.'Says he,

"'I ax pardon, neighbour, but it strikes me it would ha' been better for my son if he had never begun to keep company wi' your daughter.'

"Well! that put me up, and my heart got very full, and but that I were carrying her babby, I think I should ha' struck him. At last I could hold in no longer, and says I,

"'Better say at once it would ha' been better for God never to ha' made th' world, for then we'd never ha' been in it, to have had th' heavy hearts we have now.'

"Well!he said that were rank blasphemy; but I thought his way of casting up again th' events God had pleased to send, were worse blasphemy.Howe'er, I said nought more angry, for th' little babby's sake, as were th' child o' his dead son, as well as o' my dead daughter.

"Th' longest lane will have a turning, and that night came to an end at last; and we were foot-sore and tired enough, and to my mind th' babby were getting weaker and weaker, and it wrung my heart to hear its little wail; I'd ha' given my right hand for one of yesterday's hearty cries.We were wanting our breakfasts, and so were it too, motherless babby!We could see no public-house, so about six o'clock (only we thought it were later) we stopped at a cottage where a woman were moving about near th' open door.Says I, 'Good woman, may we rest us a bit?''Come in,' says she, wiping a chair, as looked bright enough afore, wi' her apron.It were a cheery, clean room; and we were glad to sit down again, though I thought my legs would never bend at th' knees.In a minute she fell a noticing th' babby, and took it in her arms, and kissed it again and again.'Missis,' says I, 'we're not without money, and if yo'd give us somewhat for breakfast, we'd pay yo honest, and if yo would wash and dress that poor babby, and get some pobbies down its throat, for it's well-nigh clemmed, I'd pray for yo' till my dying day.'So she said nought, but gived me th' babby back, and afore yo' could say Jack Robinson, she'd a pan on th' fire, and bread and cheese on th' table.When she turned round, her face looked red, and her lips were tight pressed together.Well!we were right down glad on our breakfast, and God bless and reward that woman for her kindness that day; she fed th' poor babby as gently and softly, and spoke to it as tenderly as its own poor mother could ha' done.It seemed as if that stranger and it had known each other afore, maybe in Heaven, where folk's spirits come from they say; th' babby looked up so lovingly in her eyes, and made little noises more like a dove than aught else.Then she undressed it (poor darling!it were time), touching it so softly; and washed it from head to foot, and as many on its things were dirty; and what bits o' things its mother had gotten ready for it had been sent by th' carrier fra London, she put 'em aside; and wrapping little naked babby in her apron, she pulled out a key, as were fastened to a black ribbon, and hung down her breast, and unlocked a drawer in th' dresser.I were sorry to be prying, but I could na' help seeing in that drawer some little child's clothes, all strewed wi' lavendar, and lying by 'em a little whip an' a broken rattle.I began to have an insight into that woman's heart then.She took out a thing or two; and locked the drawer, and went on dressing babby.Just about then come her husband down, a great big fellow as didn't look half awake, though it were getting late; but he'd heard all as had been said down-stairs, as were plain to be seen; but he were a gruff chap.We'd finished our breakfast, and Jennings were looking hard at th' woman as she were getting the babby to sleep wi' a sort of rocking way.At length says he, 'I ha learnt th' way now; it's two jiggits and a shake, two jiggits and a shake.I can get that babby asleep now mysel.'

"The man had nodded cross enough to us, and had gone to th' door, and stood there whistling wi' his hands in his breeches-pockets, looking abroad.But at last he turns and says, quite sharp,

"'I say, missis, I'm to have no breakfast to-day, I s'pose.'

"So wi' that she kissed th' child, a long, soft kiss; and looking in my face to see if I could take her meaning, gave me th' babby without a word.I were loath to stir, but I saw it were better to go.So giving Jennings a sharp nudge (for he'd fallen asleep), I says, 'Missis, what's to pay?'pulling out my money wi' a jingle that she might na guess we were at all bare o' cash.So she looks at her husband, who said ne'er a word, but were listening wi' all his ears nevertheless; and when she saw he would na say, she said, hesitating, as if pulled two ways, by her fear o' him, 'Should you think sixpence over much?'It were so different to public-house reckoning, for we'd eaten a main deal afore the chap came down.So says I, 'And, missis, what should we gie you for the babby's bread and milk?'(I had it once in my mind to say 'and for a' your trouble with it,' but my heart would na let me say it, for I could read in her ways how it had been a work o' love.)So says she, quite quick, and stealing a look at her husband's back, as looked all ear, if ever a back did, 'Oh, we could take nought for the little babby's food, if it had eaten twice as much, bless it.'Wi' that he looked at her; such a scowling look!She knew what he meant, and stepped softly across the floor to him, and put her hand on his arm.He seem'd as though he'd shake it off by a jerk on his elbow, but she said quite low, 'For poor little Johnnie's sake, Richard.'He did not move or speak again, and after looking in his face for a minute, she turned away, swallowing deep in her throat.She kissed th' sleeping babby as she passed, when I paid her.To quieten th' gruff husband, and stop him if he rated her, I could na help slipping another sixpence under th' loaf, and then we set off again.Last look I had o' that woman she were quietly wiping her eyes wi' the corner of her apron, as she went about her husband's breakfast.But I shall know her in heaven."

He stopped to think of that long-ago May morning, when he had carried his grand-daughter under the distant hedge-rows and beneath the flowering sycamores.

"There's nought more to say, wench," said he to Margaret, as she begged him to go on."That night we reached Manchester, and I'd found out that Jennings would be glad enough to give up babby to me, so I took her home at once, and a blessing she's been to me."

They were all silent for a few minutes; each following out the current of their thoughts.Then, almost simultaneously, their attention fell upon Mary.Sitting on her little stool, her head resting on her father's knee, and sleeping as soundly as any infant, her breath (still like an infant's) came and went as softly as a bird steals to her leafy nest.Her half-open mouth was as scarlet as the winter-berries, and contrasted finely with the clear paleness of her complexion, where the eloquent blood flushed carnation at each motion.Her black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, which was still more shaded by the masses of her golden hair, that seemed to form a nest-like pillow for her as she lay.Her father in fond pride straightened one glossy curl, for an instant, as if to display its length and silkiness.The little action awoke her, and, like nine out of ten people in similar circumstances, she exclaimed, opening her eyes to their fullest extent,

"I'm not asleep.I've been awake all the time."

Even her father could not keep from smiling, and Job Legh and Margaret laughed outright.

"Come, wench," said Job, "don't look so gloppened [37] because thou'st fallen asleep while an oud chap like me was talking on oud times. It were like enough to send thee to sleep. Try if thou canst keep thine eyes open while I read thy father a bit on a poem as is written by a weaver like oursel. A rare chap I'll be bound is he who could weave verse like this."

Footnote 37:

"Gloppened," amazed, frightened. (Return)

So adjusting his spectacles on nose, cocking his chin, crossing his legs, and coughing to clear his voice, he read aloud a little poem of Samuel Bamford's [38] he had picked up somewhere.