"PREFACE.\n\n\nThree years ago I became anxious (from circumstances that need not be\nmore fully alluded to) to employ myself in writing a work of fiction.\nLiving in Manchester, but with a deep relish and fond admiration for\nthe country, my first thought was to find a frame-work for my story\nin some rural scene; and I had already made a little progress in a\ntale, the period of which was more than a century ago, and the place\non the borders of Yorkshire, when I bethought me how deep might be\nthe romance in the lives of some of those who elbowed me daily in the\nbusy streets of the town in which I resided. I had always felt a deep\nsympathy with the care-worn men, who looked as if doomed to struggle\nthrough their lives in strange alternations between work and want;\ntossed to and fro by circumstances, apparently in even a greater\ndegree than other men. A little manifestation of this sympathy, and\na little attention to the expression of feelings on the part of some\nof the work-people with whom I was acquainted, had laid open to me\nthe hearts of one or two of the more thoughtful among them; I saw\nthat they were sore and irritable against the rich, the even tenor\nof whose seemingly happy lives appeared to increase the anguish\ncaused by the lottery-like nature of their own. Whether the bitter\ncomplaints made by them, of the neglect which they experienced from\nthe prosperous--especially from the masters whose fortunes they had\nhelped to build up--were well-founded or no, it is not for me to\njudge. It is enough to say, that this belief of the injustice and\nunkindness which they endure from their fellow-creatures, taints what\nmight be resignation to God's will, and turns it to revenge in too\nmany of the poor uneducated factory-workers of Manchester.\n\nThe more I reflected on this unhappy state of things between those\nso bound to each other by common interests, as the employers and\nthe employed must ever be, the more anxious I became to give some\nutterance to the agony which, from time to time, convulses this dumb\npeople; the agony of suffering without the sympathy of the happy, or\nof erroneously believing that such is the case. If it be an error,\nthat the woes, which come with ever-returning tide-like flood to\noverwhelm the workmen in our manufacturing towns, pass unregarded\nby all but the sufferers, it is at any rate an error so bitter in\nits consequences to all parties, that whatever public effort can do\nin the way of legislation, or private effort in the way of merciful\ndeeds, or helpless love in the way of \"widow's mites,\" should be\ndone, and that speedily, to disabuse the work-people of so miserable\na misapprehension. At present they seem to me to be left in a state,\nwherein lamentations and tears are thrown aside as useless, but in\nwhich the lips are compressed for curses, and the hands clenched and\nready to smite.\n\nI know nothing of Political Economy, or the theories of trade. I have\ntried to write truthfully; and if my accounts agree or clash with any\nsystem, the agreement or disagreement is unintentional.\n\nTo myself the idea which I have formed of the state of feeling among\ntoo many of the factory-people in Manchester, and which I endeavoured\nto represent in this tale (completed above a year ago), has received\nsome confirmation from the events which have so recently occurred\namong a similar class on the Continent.\n\nOCTOBER, 1848.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nA MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.\n\n\n   Oh! 'tis hard, 'tis hard to be working\n     The whole of the live-long day,\n   When all the neighbours about one\n     Are off to their jaunts and play.\n\n   There's Richard he carries his baby,\n     And Mary takes little Jane,\n   And lovingly they'll be wandering\n     Through field and briery lane.\n\n   MANCHESTER SONG.\n\n\nThere are some fields near Manchester, well known to the inhabitants\nas \"Green Heys Fields,\" through which runs a public footpath to a\nlittle village about two miles distant. In spite of these fields\nbeing flat and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great and\nusual recommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm about\nthem which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district,\nwho sees and feels the effect of contrast in these common-place but\nthoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling manufacturing town\nhe left but half-an-hour ago. Here and there an old black and white\nfarm-house, with its rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times and\nother occupations than those which now absorb the population of the\nneighbourhood. Here in their seasons may be seen the country business\nof hay-making, ploughing, &c., which are such pleasant mysteries\nfor townspeople to watch; and here the artisan, deafened with noise\nof tongues and engines, may come to listen awhile to the delicious\nsounds of rural life: the lowing of cattle, the milk-maids' call,\nthe clatter and cackle of poultry in the old farm-yards. You cannot\nwonder, then, that these fields are popular places of resort at\nevery holiday time; and you would not wonder, if you could see, or I\nproperly describe, the charm of one particular stile, that it should\nbe, on such occasions, a crowded halting-place. Close by it is a\ndeep, clear pond, reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy\ntrees that bend over it to exclude the sun. The only place where\nits banks are shelving is on the side next to a rambling farm-yard,\nbelonging to one of those old-world, gabled, black and white houses\nI named above, overlooking the field through which the public\nfootpath leads. The porch of this farm-house is covered by a\nrose-tree; and the little garden surrounding it is crowded with a\nmedley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, planted long ago, when the\ngarden was the only druggist's shop within reach, and allowed to grow\nin scrambling and wild luxuriance--roses, lavender, sage, balm (for\ntea), rosemary, pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most\nrepublican and indiscriminate order. This farm-house and garden are\nwithin a hundred yards of the stile of which I spoke, leading from\nthe large pasture field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge of\nhawthorn and black-thorn; and near this stile, on the further side,\nthere runs a tale that primroses may often be found, and occasionally\nthe blue sweet violet on the grassy hedge bank.\n\nI do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, or\na holiday seized in right of Nature and her beautiful spring time by\nthe workmen, but one afternoon (now ten or a dozen years ago) these\nfields were much thronged. It was an early May evening--the April\nof the poets; for heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and\nthe round, soft, white clouds which were blown by a west wind over\nthe dark blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and more\nthreatening. The softness of the day tempted forth the young green\nleaves, which almost visibly fluttered into life; and the willows,\nwhich that morning had had only a brown reflection in the water\nbelow, were now of that tender gray-green which blends so delicately\nwith the spring harmony of colours.\n\nGroups of merry and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages might\nrange from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. They were\nmost of them factory girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress of\nthat particular class of maidens; namely, a shawl, which at mid-day\nor in fine weather was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towards\nevening, or if the day were chilly, became a sort of Spanish mantilla\nor Scotch plaid, and was brought over the head and hung loosely down,\nor was pinned under the chin in no unpicturesque fashion.\n\nTheir faces were not remarkable for beauty; indeed, they were below\nthe average, with one or two exceptions; they had dark hair, neatly\nand classically arranged, dark eyes, but sallow complexions and\nirregular features. The only thing to strike a passer-by was an\nacuteness and intelligence of countenance, which has often been\nnoticed in a manufacturing population.\n\nThere were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, rambling among\nthese fields, ready to bandy jokes with any one, and particularly\nready to enter into conversation with the girls, who, however, held\nthemselves aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent way,\nassuming an indifferent manner to the noisy wit or obstreperous\ncompliments of the lads. Here and there came a sober quiet couple,\neither whispering lovers, or husband and wife, as the case might\nbe; and if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by an infant,\ncarried for the most part by the father, while occasionally even\nthree or four little toddlers had been carried or dragged thus\nfar, in order that the whole family might enjoy the delicious May\nafternoon together.\n\nSometime in the course of that afternoon, two working men met with\nfriendly greeting at the stile so often named. One was a thorough\nspecimen of a Manchester man; born of factory workers, and himself\nbred up in youth, and living in manhood, among the mills. He was\nbelow the middle size and slightly made; there was almost a stunted\nlook about him; and his wan, colourless face gave you the idea, that\nin his childhood he had suffered from the scanty living consequent\nupon bad times and improvident habits. His features were strongly\nmarked, though not irregular, and their expression was extreme\nearnestness; resolute either for good or evil; a sort of latent,\nstern enthusiasm. At the time of which I write, the good predominated\nover the bad in the countenance, and he was one from whom a stranger\nwould have asked a favour with tolerable faith that it would\nbe granted. He was accompanied by his wife, who might, without\nexaggeration, have been called a lovely woman, although now her face\nwas swollen with crying, and often hidden behind her apron. She\nhad the fresh beauty of the agricultural districts; and somewhat\nof the deficiency of sense in her countenance, which is likewise\ncharacteristic of the rural inhabitants in comparison with the\nnatives of the manufacturing towns. She was far advanced in\npregnancy, which perhaps occasioned the overpowering and hysterical\nnature of her grief. The friend whom they met was more handsome and\nless sensible-looking than the man I have just described; he seemed\nhearty and hopeful, and although his age was greater, yet there was\nfar more of youth's buoyancy in his appearance. He was tenderly\ncarrying a baby in arms, while his wife, a delicate, fragile-looking\nwoman, limping in her gait, bore another of the same age; little,\nfeeble twins, inheriting the frail appearance of their mother.\n\nThe last-mentioned man was the first to speak, while a sudden look\nof sympathy dimmed his gladsome face. \"Well, John, how goes it with\nyou?\" and, in a lower voice, he added, \"Any news of Esther, yet?\"\nMeanwhile the wives greeted each other like old friends, the soft and\nplaintive voice of the mother of the twins seeming to call forth only\nfresh sobs from Mrs. Barton.\n\n\"Come, women,\" said John Barton, \"you've both walked far enough. My\nMary expects to have her bed in three weeks; and as for you, Mrs.\nWilson, you know you're but a cranky sort of a body at the best of\ntimes.\" This was said so kindly, that no offence could be taken. \"Sit\nyou down here; the grass is well nigh dry by this time; and you're\nneither of you nesh [1] folk about taking cold. Stay,\" he added, with\nsome tenderness, \"here's my pocket-handkerchief to spread under\nyou, to save the gowns women always think so much of; and now, Mrs.\nWilson, give me the baby, I may as well carry him, while you talk and\ncomfort my wife; poor thing, she takes on sadly about Esther.\"\n\n   [Footnote 1: \"Nesh;\" Anglo-Saxon, nesc, tender.]\n\nThese arrangements were soon completed: the two women sat down on the\nblue cotton handkerchiefs of their husbands, and the latter, each\ncarrying a baby, set off for a further walk; but as soon as Barton\nhad turned his back upon his wife, his countenance fell back into an\nexpression of gloom.\n\n\"Then you've heard nothing of Esther, poor lass?\" asked Wilson.\n\n\"No, nor shan't, as I take it. My mind is, she's gone off with\nsomebody. My wife frets, and thinks she's drowned herself, but\nI tell her, folks don't care to put on their best clothes to drown\nthemselves; and Mrs. Bradshaw (where she lodged, you know) says the\nlast time she set eyes on her was last Tuesday, when she came down\nstairs, dressed in her Sunday gown, and with a new ribbon in her\nbonnet, and gloves on her hands, like the lady she was so fond of\nthinking herself.\"\n\n\"She was as pretty a creature as ever the sun shone on.\"\n\n\"Ay, she was a farrantly [2] lass; more's the pity now,\" added Barton,\nwith a sigh. \"You see them Buckinghamshire people as comes to work\nin Manchester, has quite a different look with them to us Manchester\nfolk. You'll not see among the Manchester wenches such fresh rosy\ncheeks, or such black lashes to gray eyes (making them look like\nblack), as my wife and Esther had. I never seed two such pretty women\nfor sisters; never. Not but what beauty is a sad snare. Here was\nEsther so puffed up, that there was no holding her in. Her spirit was\nalways up, if I spoke ever so little in the way of advice to her; my\nwife spoiled her, it is true, for you see she was so much older than\nEsther she was more like a mother to her, doing every thing for her.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 2: \"Farrantly,\" comely, pleasant-looking.]\n\n\n\"I wonder she ever left you,\" observed his friend.\n\n\"That's the worst of factory work, for girls. They can earn so much\nwhen work is plenty, that they can maintain themselves any how. My\nMary shall never work in a factory, that I'm determined on. You see\nEsther spent her money in dress, thinking to set off her pretty face;\nand got to come home so late at night, that at last I told her my\nmind: my missis thinks I spoke crossly, but I meant right, for I\nloved Esther, if it was only for Mary's sake. Says I, 'Esther, I see\nwhat you'll end at with your artificials, and your fly-away veils,\nand stopping out when honest women are in their beds; you'll be a\nstreet-walker, Esther, and then, don't you go to think I'll have you\ndarken my door, though my wife is your sister.' So says she, 'Don't\ntrouble yourself, John. I'll pack up and be off now, for I'll never\nstay to hear myself called as you call me.' She flushed up like a\nturkey-cock, and I thought fire would come out of her eyes; but when\nshe saw Mary cry (for Mary can't abide words in a house), she went\nand kissed her, and said she was not so bad as I thought her. So we\ntalked more friendly, for, as I said, I liked the lass well enough,\nand her pretty looks, and her cheery ways. But she said (and at the\ntime I thought there was sense in what she said) we should be much\nbetter friends if she went into lodgings, and only came to see us now\nand then.\"\n\n\"Then you still were friendly. Folks said you'd cast her off, and\nsaid you'd never speak to her again.\"\n\n\"Folks always make one a deal worse than one is,\" said John Barton,\ntestily. \"She came many a time to our house after she left off living\nwith us. Last Sunday se'nnight--no! it was this very last Sunday, she\ncame to drink a cup of tea with Mary; and that was the last time we\nset eyes on her.\"\n\n\"Was she any ways different in her manner?\" asked Wilson.\n\n\"Well, I don't know. I have thought several times since, that she was\na bit quieter, and more womanly-like; more gentle, and more blushing,\nand not so riotous and noisy. She comes in, toward four o'clock,\nwhen afternoon church was loosing, and she goes and hangs her bonnet\nup on the old nail we used to call hers, while she lived with us. I\nremember thinking what a pretty lass she was, as she sat on a low\nstool by Mary, who was rocking herself, and in rather a poor way.\nShe laughed and cried by turns, but all so softly and gently, like\na child, that I couldn't find in my heart to scold her, especially\nas Mary was fretting already. One thing I do remember I did say, and\npretty sharply too. She took our little Mary by the waist, and--\"\n\n\"Thou must leave off calling her 'little' Mary, she's growing up into\nas fine a lass as one can see on a summer's day; more of her mother's\nstock than thine,\" interrupted Wilson.\n\n\"Well, well, I call her 'little,' because her mother's name is Mary.\nBut, as I was saying, she takes Mary in a coaxing sort of way, and,\n'Mary,' says she, 'what should you think if I sent for you some day\nand made a lady of you?' So I could not stand such talk as that to my\ngirl, and I said, 'Thou'd best not put that nonsense i' the girl's\nhead I can tell thee; I'd rather see her earning her bread by the\nsweat of her brow, as the Bible tells her she should do, ay, though\nshe never got butter to her bread, than be like a do-nothing lady,\nworrying shopmen all morning, and screeching at her pianny all\nafternoon, and going to bed without having done a good turn to any\none of God's creatures but herself.'\"\n\n\"Thou never could abide the gentlefolk,\" said Wilson, half amused at\nhis friend's vehemence.\n\n\"And what good have they ever done me that I should like them?\" asked\nBarton, the latent fire lighting up his eye: and bursting forth, he\ncontinued, \"If I am sick, do they come and nurse me? If my child lies\ndying (as poor Tom lay, with his white wan lips quivering, for want\nof better food than I could give him), does the rich man bring the\nwine or broth that might save his life? If I am out of work for weeks\nin the bad times, and winter comes, with black frost, and keen east\nwind, and there is no coal for the grate, and no clothes for the bed,\nand the thin bones are seen through the ragged clothes, does the rich\nman share his plenty with me, as he ought to do, if his religion\nwasn't a humbug? When I lie on my death-bed, and Mary (bless her)\nstands fretting, as I know she will fret,\" and here his voice\nfaltered a little, \"will a rich lady come and take her to her own\nhome if need be, till she can look round, and see what best to do?\nNo, I tell you, it's the poor, and the poor only, as does such things\nfor the poor. Don't think to come over me with th' old tale, that the\nrich know nothing of the trials of the poor. I say, if they don't\nknow, they ought to know. We're their slaves as long as we can work;\nwe pile up their fortunes with the sweat of our brows; and yet we are\nto live as separate as if we were in two worlds; ay, as separate as\nDives and Lazarus, with a great gulf betwixt us: but I know who was\nbest off then,\" and he wound up his speech with a low chuckle that\nhad no mirth in it.\n\n\"Well, neighbour,\" said Wilson, \"all that may be very true, but what\nI want to know now is about Esther--when did you last hear of her?\"\n\n\"Why, she took leave of us that Sunday night in a very loving way,\nkissing both wife Mary, and daughter Mary (if I must not call her\nlittle), and shaking hands with me; but all in a cheerful sort of\nmanner, so we thought nothing about her kisses and shakes. But on\nWednesday night comes Mrs. Bradshaw's son with Esther's box, and\npresently Mrs. Bradshaw follows with the key; and when we began to\ntalk, we found Esther told her she was coming back to live with us,\nand would pay her week's money for not giving notice; and on Tuesday\nnight she carried off a little bundle (her best clothes were on her\nback, as I said before), and told Mrs. Bradshaw not to hurry herself\nabout the big box, but bring it when she had time. So of course she\nthought she should find Esther with us; and when she told her story,\nmy missis set up such a screech, and fell down in a dead swoon. Mary\nran up with water for her mother, and I thought so much about my\nwife, I did not seem to care at all for Esther. But the next day I\nasked all the neighbours (both our own and Bradshaw's), and they'd\nnone of 'em heard or seen nothing of her. I even went to a policeman,\na good enough sort of man, but a fellow I'd never spoke to before\nbecause of his livery, and I asks him if his 'cuteness could find any\nthing out for us. So I believe he asks other policemen; and one on\n'em had seen a wench, like our Esther, walking very quickly, with a\nbundle under her arm, on Tuesday night, toward eight o'clock, and\nget into a hackney coach, near Hulme Church, and we don't know th'\nnumber, and can't trace it no further. I'm sorry enough for the girl,\nfor bad's come over her, one way or another, but I'm sorrier for my\nwife. She loved her next to me and Mary, and she's never been the\nsame body since poor Tom's death. However, let's go back to them;\nyour old woman may have done her good.\"\n\nAs they walked homewards with a brisker pace, Wilson expressed a wish\nthat they still were the near neighbours they once had been.\n\n\"Still our Alice lives in the cellar under No. 14, in Barber Street,\nand if you'd only speak the word she'd be with you in five minutes,\nto keep your wife company when she's lonesome. Though I'm Alice's\nbrother, and perhaps ought not to say it, I will say there's none\nmore ready to help with heart or hand than she is. Though she may\nhave done a hard day's wash, there's not a child ill within the\nstreet but Alice goes to offer to sit up, and does sit up too, though\nmay be she's to be at her work by six next morning.\"\n\n\"She's a poor woman, and can feel for the poor, Wilson,\" was Barton's\nreply; and then he added, \"Thank you kindly for your offer, and\nmayhap I may trouble her to be a bit with my wife, for while I'm\nat work, and Mary's at school, I know she frets above a bit. See,\nthere's Mary!\" and the father's eye brightened, as in the distance,\namong a group of girls, he spied his only daughter, a bonny lassie\nof thirteen or so, who came bounding along to meet and to greet her\nfather, in a manner which showed that the stern-looking man had a\ntender nature within. The two men had crossed the last stile while\nMary loitered behind to gather some buds of the coming hawthorn, when\nan over-grown lad came past her, and snatched a kiss, exclaiming,\n\"For old acquaintance sake, Mary.\"\n\n\"Take that for old acquaintance sake, then,\" said the girl, blushing\nrosy red, more with anger than shame, as she slapped his face. The\ntones of her voice called back her father and his friend, and the\naggressor proved to be the eldest son of the latter, the senior by\neighteen years of his little brothers.\n\n\"Here, children, instead o' kissing and quarrelling, do ye each take\na baby, for if Wilson's arms be like mine they are heartily tired.\"\n\nMary sprang forward to take her father's charge, with a girl's\nfondness for infants, and with some little foresight of the event\nsoon to happen at home; while young Wilson seemed to lose his rough,\ncubbish nature as he crowed and cooed to his little brother.\n\n\"Twins is a great trial to a poor man, bless 'em,\" said the\nhalf-proud, half-weary father, as he bestowed a smacking kiss on the\nbabe ere he parted with it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nA MANCHESTER TEA-PARTY.\n\n\n   Polly, put the kettle on,\n     And let's have tea!\n   Polly, put the kettle on,\n     And we'll all have tea.\n\n\n\"Here we are, wife; didst thou think thou'd lost us?\" quoth\nhearty-voiced Wilson, as the two women rose and shook themselves\nin preparation for their homeward walk. Mrs. Barton was evidently\nsoothed, if not cheered, by the unburdening of her fears and thoughts\nto her friend; and her approving look went far to second her\nhusband's invitation that the whole party should adjourn from Green\nHeys Fields to tea, at the Bartons' house. The only faint opposition\nwas raised by Mrs. Wilson, on account of the lateness of the hour at\nwhich they would probably return, which she feared on her babies'\naccount.\n\n\"Now, hold your tongue, missis, will you,\" said her husband,\ngood-temperedly. \"Don't you know them brats never goes to sleep till\nlong past ten? and haven't you a shawl, under which you can tuck one\nlad's head, as safe as a bird's under its wing? And as for t'other\none, I'll put it in my pocket rather than not stay, now we are this\nfar away from Ancoats.\"\n\n\"Or I can lend you another shawl,\" suggested Mrs. Barton.\n\n\"Ay, any thing rather than not stay.\"\n\nThe matter being decided, the party proceeded home, through many\nhalf-finished streets, all so like one another that you might have\neasily been bewildered and lost your way. Not a step, however, did\nour friends lose; down this entry, cutting off that corner, until\nthey turned out of one of these innumerable streets into a little\npaved court, having the backs of houses at the end opposite to\nthe opening, and a gutter running through the middle to carry off\nhousehold slops, washing suds, &c. The women who lived in the court\nwere busy taking in strings of caps, frocks, and various articles of\nlinen, which hung from side to side, dangling so low, that if our\nfriends had been a few minutes sooner, they would have had to stoop\nvery much, or else the half-wet clothes would have flapped in their\nfaces; but although the evening seemed yet early when they were in\nthe open fields--among the pent-up houses, night, with its mists, and\nits darkness, had already begun to fall.\n\nMany greetings were given and exchanged between the Wilsons and these\nwomen, for not long ago they had also dwelt in this court.\n\nTwo rude lads, standing at a disorderly looking house-door,\nexclaimed, as Mary Barton (the daughter) passed, \"Eh, look! Polly\nBarton's gotten a sweetheart.\"\n\nOf course this referred to young Wilson, who stole a look to see how\nMary took the idea. He saw her assume the air of a young fury, and to\nhis next speech she answered not a word.\n\nMrs. Barton produced the key of the door from her pocket; and on\nentering the house-place it seemed as if they were in total darkness,\nexcept one bright spot, which might be a cat's eye, or might be, what\nit was, a red-hot fire, smouldering under a large piece of coal,\nwhich John Barton immediately applied himself to break up, and the\neffect instantly produced was warm and glowing light in every corner\nof the room. To add to this (although the coarse yellow glare seemed\nlost in the ruddy glow from the fire), Mrs. Barton lighted a dip by\nsticking it in the fire, and having placed it satisfactorily in a\ntin candlestick, began to look further about her, on hospitable\nthoughts intent. The room was tolerably large, and possessed many\nconveniences. On the right of the door, as you entered, was a longish\nwindow, with a broad ledge. On each side of this, hung blue-and-white\ncheck curtains, which were now drawn, to shut in the friends met to\nenjoy themselves. Two geraniums, unpruned and leafy, which stood\non the sill, formed a further defence from out-door pryers. In\nthe corner between the window and the fire-side was a cupboard,\napparently full of plates and dishes, cups and saucers, and some\nmore nondescript articles, for which one would have fancied their\npossessors could find no use--such as triangular pieces of glass to\nsave carving knives and forks from dirtying table-cloths. However,\nit was evident Mrs. Barton was proud of her crockery and glass, for\nshe left her cupboard door open, with a glance round of satisfaction\nand pleasure. On the opposite side to the door and window was the\nstaircase, and two doors; one of which (the nearest to the fire)\nled into a sort of little back kitchen, where dirty work, such\nas washing up dishes, might be done, and whose shelves served as\nlarder, and pantry, and storeroom, and all. The other door, which\nwas considerably lower, opened into the coal-hole--the slanting\ncloset under the stairs; from which, to the fire-place, there was a\ngay-coloured piece of oil-cloth laid. The place seemed almost crammed\nwith furniture (sure sign of good times among the mills). Beneath the\nwindow was a dresser with three deep drawers. Opposite the fire-place\nwas a table, which I should call a Pembroke, only that it was made\nof deal, and I cannot tell how far such a name may be applied to\nsuch humble material. On it, resting against the wall, was a bright\ngreen japanned tea-tray, having a couple of scarlet lovers embracing\nin the middle. The fire-light danced merrily on this, and really\n(setting all taste but that of a child's aside) it gave a richness\nof colouring to that side of the room. It was in some measure propped\nup by a crimson tea-caddy, also of japan ware. A round table on one\nbranching leg really for use, stood in the corresponding corner to\nthe cupboard; and, if you can picture all this with a washy, but\nclean stencilled pattern on the walls, you can form some idea of John\nBarton's home.\n\nThe tray was soon hoisted down, and before the merry chatter of\ncups and saucers began, the women disburdened themselves of their\nout-of-door things, and sent Mary up stairs with them. Then came a\nlong whispering, and chinking of money, to which Mr. and Mrs. Wilson\nwere too polite to attend; knowing, as they did full well, that it\nall related to the preparations for hospitality; hospitality that,\nin their turn, they should have such pleasure in offering. So they\ntried to be busily occupied with the children, and not to hear Mrs.\nBarton's directions to Mary.\n\n\"Run, Mary dear, just round the corner, and get some fresh eggs at\nTipping's (you may get one a-piece, that will be five-pence), and see\nif he has any nice ham cut, that he would let us have a pound of.\"\n\n\"Say two pounds, missis, and don't be stingy,\" chimed in the husband.\n\n\"Well, a pound and a half, Mary. And get it Cumberland ham, for\nWilson comes from there-away, and it will have a sort of relish of\nhome with it he'll like,--and Mary\" (seeing the lassie fain to be\noff), \"you must get a pennyworth of milk and a loaf of bread--mind\nyou get it fresh and new--and, and--that's all, Mary.\"\n\n\"No, it's not all,\" said her husband. \"Thou must get sixpennyworth of\nrum, to warm the tea; thou'll get it at the 'Grapes.' And thou just\ngo to Alice Wilson; he says she lives just right round the corner,\nunder 14, Barber Street\" (this was addressed to his wife), \"and tell\nher to come and take her tea with us; she'll like to see her brother,\nI'll be bound, let alone Jane and the twins.\"\n\n\"If she comes she must bring a tea-cup and saucer, for we have but\nhalf-a-dozen, and here's six of us,\" said Mrs. Barton.\n\n\"Pooh! pooh! Jem and Mary can drink out of one, surely.\"\n\nBut Mary secretly determined to take care that Alice brought her\ntea-cup and saucer, if the alternative was to be her sharing any\nthing with Jem.\n\nAlice Wilson had but just come in. She had been out all day in\nthe fields, gathering wild herbs for drinks and medicine, for in\naddition to her invaluable qualities as a sick nurse and her worldly\noccupation as a washerwoman, she added a considerable knowledge of\nhedge and field simples; and on fine days, when no more profitable\noccupation offered itself, she used to ramble off into the lanes and\nmeadows as far as her legs could carry her. This evening she had\nreturned loaded with nettles, and her first object was to light a\ncandle and see to hang them up in bunches in every available place in\nher cellar room. It was the perfection of cleanliness: in one corner\nstood the modest-looking bed, with a check curtain at the head, the\nwhitewashed wall filling up the place where the corresponding one\nshould have been. The floor was bricked, and scrupulously clean,\nalthough so damp that it seemed as if the last washing would never\ndry up. As the cellar window looked into an area in the street,\ndown which boys might throw stones, it was protected by an outside\nshelter, and was oddly festooned with all manner of hedge-row, ditch,\nand field plants, which we are accustomed to call valueless, but\nwhich have a powerful effect either for good or for evil, and are\nconsequently much used among the poor. The room was strewed, hung,\nand darkened with these bunches, which emitted no very fragrant odour\nin their process of drying. In one corner was a sort of broad hanging\nshelf, made of old planks, where some old hoards of Alice's were\nkept. Her little bit of crockery ware was ranged on the mantelpiece,\nwhere also stood her candlestick and box of matches. A small cupboard\ncontained at the bottom coals, and at the top her bread and basin of\noatmeal, her frying pan, tea-pot, and a small tin saucepan, which\nserved as a kettle, as well as for cooking the delicate little messes\nof broth which Alice sometimes was able to manufacture for a sick\nneighbour.\n\nAfter her walk she felt chilly and weary, and was busy trying to\nlight her fire with the damp coals, and half green sticks, when Mary\nknocked.\n\n\"Come in,\" said Alice, remembering, however, that she had barred the\ndoor for the night, and hastening to make it possible for any one to\ncome in.\n\n\"Is that you, Mary Barton?\" exclaimed she, as the light from her\ncandle streamed on the girl's face. \"How you are grown since I used\nto see you at my brother's! Come in, lass, come in.\"\n\n\"Please,\" said Mary, almost breathless, \"mother says you're to come\nto tea, and bring your cup and saucer, for George and Jane Wilson is\nwith us, and the twins, and Jem. And you're to make haste, please.\"\n\n\"I'm sure it's very neighbourly and kind in your mother, and I'll\ncome, with many thanks. Stay, Mary, has your mother got any nettles\nfor spring drink? If she hasn't I'll take her some.\"\n\n\"No, I don't think she has.\"\n\nMary ran off like a hare to fulfil what, to a girl of thirteen,\nfond of power, was the more interesting part of her errand--the\nmoney-spending part. And well and ably did she perform her business,\nreturning home with a little bottle of rum, and the eggs in one\nhand, while her other was filled with some excellent red-and-white\nsmoke-flavoured Cumberland ham, wrapped up in paper.\n\nShe was at home, and frying ham, before Alice had chosen her nettles,\nput out her candle, locked her door, and walked in a very foot-sore\nmanner as far as John Barton's. What an aspect of comfort did his\nhouseplace present, after her humble cellar. She did not think of\ncomparing; but for all that she felt the delicious glow of the fire,\nthe bright light that revelled in every corner of the room, the\nsavoury smells, the comfortable sounds of a boiling kettle, and the\nhissing, frizzling ham. With a little old-fashioned curtsey she shut\nthe door, and replied with a loving heart to the boisterous and\nsurprised greeting of her brother.\n\nAnd now all preparations being made, the party sat down; Mrs. Wilson\nin the post of honour, the rocking chair on the right hand side\nof the fire, nursing her baby, while its father, in an opposite\narm-chair, tried vainly to quieten the other with bread soaked in\nmilk.\n\nMrs. Barton knew manners too well to do any thing but sit at the\ntea-table and make tea, though in her heart she longed to be able\nto superintend the frying of the ham, and cast many an anxious\nlook at Mary as she broke the eggs and turned the ham, with a very\ncomfortable portion of confidence in her own culinary powers. Jem\nstood awkwardly leaning against the dresser, replying rather gruffly\nto his aunt's speeches, which gave him, he thought, the air of being\na little boy; whereas he considered himself as a young man, and not\nso very young neither, as in two months he would be eighteen. Barton\nvibrated between the fire and the tea-table, his only drawback\nbeing a fancy that every now and then his wife's face flushed and\ncontracted as if in pain.\n\nAt length the business actually began. Knives and forks, cups and\nsaucers made a noise, but human voices were still, for human beings\nwere hungry, and had no time to speak. Alice first broke silence;\nholding her tea-cup with the manner of one proposing a toast, she\nsaid, \"Here's to absent friends. Friends may meet, but mountains\nnever.\"\n\nIt was an unlucky toast or sentiment, as she instantly felt. Every\none thought of Esther, the absent Esther; and Mrs. Barton put down\nher food, and could not hide the fast dropping tears. Alice could\nhave bitten her tongue out.\n\nIt was a wet blanket to the evening; for though all had been said\nand suggested in the fields that could be said or suggested, every\none had a wish to say something in the way of comfort to poor Mrs.\nBarton, and a dislike to talk about any thing else while her tears\nfell fast and scalding. So George Wilson, his wife and children, set\noff early home, not before (in spite of _mal-à-propos_ speeches) they\nhad expressed a wish that such meetings might often take place, and\nnot before John Barton had given his hearty consent; and declared\nthat as soon as ever his wife was well again they would have just\nsuch another evening.\n\n\"I will take care not to come and spoil it,\" thought poor Alice; and\ngoing up to Mrs. Barton she took her hand almost humbly, and said,\n\"You don't know how sorry I am I said it.\"\n\nTo her surprise, a surprise that brought tears of joy into her\neyes, Mary Barton put her arms round her neck, and kissed the\nself-reproaching Alice. \"You didn't mean any harm, and it was me as\nwas so foolish; only this work about Esther, and not knowing where\nshe is, lies so heavy on my heart. Good night, and never think no\nmore about it. God bless you, Alice.\"\n\nMany and many a time, as Alice reviewed that evening in her after\nlife, did she bless Mary Barton for these kind and thoughtful words.\nBut just then all she could say was, \"Good night, Mary, and may God\nbless _you_.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nJOHN BARTON'S GREAT TROUBLE.\n\n\n   But when the morn came dim and sad,\n     And chill with early showers,\n   Her quiet eyelids closed--she had\n     Another morn than ours!\n\n   HOOD.\n\n\nIn the middle of that same night a neighbour of the Bartons was\nroused from her sound, well-earned sleep, by a knocking, which had at\nfirst made part of her dream; but starting up, as soon as she became\nconvinced of its reality, she opened the window, and asked who was\nthere?\n\n\"Me, John Barton,\" answered he, in a voice tremulous with agitation.\n\"My missis is in labour, and, for the love of God, step in while I\nrun for th' doctor, for she's fearful bad.\"\n\nWhile the woman hastily dressed herself, leaving the window still\nopen, she heard cries of agony, which resounded in the little court\nin the stillness of the night. In less than five minutes she was\nstanding by Mrs. Barton's bed-side, relieving the terrified Mary, who\nwent about, where she was told, like an automaton; her eyes tearless,\nher face calm, though deadly pale, and uttering no sound, except when\nher teeth chattered for very nervousness.\n\nThe cries grew worse.\n\nThe doctor was very long in hearing the repeated rings at his\nnight-bell, and still longer in understanding who it was that made\nthis sudden call upon his services; and then he begged Barton just\nto wait while he dressed himself, in order that no time might be\nlost in finding the court and house. Barton absolutely stamped with\nimpatience, outside the doctor's door, before he came down; and\nwalked so fast homewards, that the medical man several times asked\nhim to go slower.\n\n\"Is she so very bad?\" asked he.\n\n\"Worse, much worser than ever I saw her before,\" replied John.\n\nNo! she was not--she was at peace. The cries were still for ever.\nJohn had no time for listening. He opened the latched door, stayed\nnot to light a candle for the mere ceremony of showing his companion\nup the stairs, so well known to himself; but, in two minutes was\nin the room, where lay the dead wife, whom he had loved with all\nthe power of his strong heart. The doctor stumbled up stairs by the\nfire-light, and met the awe-struck look of the neighbour, which at\nonce told him the state of things. The room was still, as he, with\nhabitual tip-toe step, approached the poor frail body, whom nothing\nnow could more disturb. Her daughter knelt by the bed-side, her face\nburied in the clothes, which were almost crammed into her mouth, to\nkeep down the choking sobs. The husband stood like one stupified. The\ndoctor questioned the neighbour in whispers, and then approaching\nBarton, said, \"You must go down stairs. This is a great shock, but\nbear it like a man. Go down.\"\n\nHe went mechanically and sat down on the first chair. He had no hope.\nThe look of death was too clear upon her face. Still, when he heard\none or two unusual noises, the thought burst on him that it might\nonly be a trance, a fit, a--he did not well know what,--but not\ndeath! Oh, not death! And he was starting up to go up stairs again,\nwhen the doctor's heavy cautious creaking footstep was heard on the\nstairs. Then he knew what it really was in the chamber above.\n\n\"Nothing could have saved her--there has been some shock to the\nsystem--\" and so he went on; but, to unheeding ears, which yet\nretained his words to ponder on; words not for immediate use in\nconveying sense, but to be laid by, in the store-house of memory, for\na more convenient season. The doctor seeing the state of the case,\ngrieved for the man; and, very sleepy, thought it best to go, and\naccordingly wished him good-night--but there was no answer, so he let\nhimself out; and Barton sat on, like a stock or a stone, so rigid,\nso still. He heard the sounds above too, and knew what they meant.\nHe heard the stiff, unseasoned drawer, in which his wife kept her\nclothes, pulled open. He saw the neighbour come down, and blunder\nabout in search of soap and water. He knew well what she wanted, and\n_why_ she wanted them, but he did not speak, nor offer to help. At\nlast she went, with some kindly-meant words (a text of comfort, which\nfell upon a deafened ear), and something about \"Mary,\" but which\nMary, in his bewildered state, he could not tell.\n\nHe tried to realise it, to think it possible. And then his mind\nwandered off to other days, to far different times. He thought of\ntheir courtship; of his first seeing her, an awkward, beautiful\nrustic, far too shiftless for the delicate factory work to which she\nwas apprenticed; of his first gift to her, a bead necklace, which had\nlong ago been put by, in one of the deep drawers of the dresser, to\nbe kept for Mary. He wondered if it was there yet, and with a strange\ncuriosity he got up to feel for it; for the fire by this time was\nwell-nigh out, and candle he had none. His groping hand fell on\nthe piled-up tea things, which at his desire she had left unwashed\ntill morning--they were all so tired. He was reminded of one of the\ndaily little actions, which acquire such power when they have been\nperformed for the last time, by one we love. He began to think over\nhis wife's daily round of duties; and something in the remembrance\nthat these would never more be done by her, touched the source of\ntears, and he cried aloud. Poor Mary, meanwhile, had mechanically\nhelped the neighbour in all the last attentions to the dead; and when\nshe was kissed, and spoken to soothingly, tears stole quietly down\nher cheeks: but she reserved the luxury of a full burst of grief till\nshe should be alone. She shut the chamber-door softly, after the\nneighbour had gone, and then shook the bed by which she knelt, with\nher agony of sorrow. She repeated, over and over again, the same\nwords; the same vain, unanswered address to her who was no more. \"Oh,\nmother! mother, are you really dead! Oh, mother, mother!\"\n\nAt last she stopped, because it flashed across her mind that her\nviolence of grief might disturb her father. All was still below. She\nlooked on the face so changed, and yet so strangely like. She bent\ndown to kiss it. The cold, unyielding flesh struck a shudder to her\nheart, and, hastily obeying her impulse, she grasped the candle, and\nopened the door. Then she heard the sobs of her father's grief; and\nquickly, quietly, stealing down the steps, she knelt by him, and\nkissed his hand. He took no notice at first, for his burst of grief\nwould not be controlled. But when her shriller sobs, her terrified\ncries (which she could not repress), rose upon his ear, he checked\nhimself.\n\n\"Child, we must be all to one another, now _she_ is gone,\" whispered\nhe.\n\n\"Oh, father, what can I do for you? Do tell me! I'll do any thing.\"\n\n\"I know thou wilt. Thou must not fret thyself ill, that's the first\nthing I ask. Thou must leave me, and go to bed now, like a good girl\nas thou art.\"\n\n\"Leave you, father! oh, don't say so.\"\n\n\"Ay, but thou must! thou must go to bed, and try and sleep; thou'lt\nhave enough to do and to bear, poor wench, to-morrow.\"\n\nMary got up, kissed her father, and sadly went up stairs to the\nlittle closet, where she slept. She thought it was of no use\nundressing, for that she could never, never sleep, so threw herself\non her bed in her clothes, and before ten minutes had passed away,\nthe passionate grief of youth had subsided into sleep.\n\nBarton had been roused by his daughter's entrance, both from his\nstupor and from his uncontrollable sorrow. He could think on what was\nto be done, could plan for the funeral, could calculate the necessity\nof soon returning to his work, as the extravagance of the past night\nwould leave them short of money, if he long remained away from the\nmill. He was in a club, so that money was provided for the burial.\nThese things settled in his own mind, he recalled the doctor's words,\nand bitterly thought of the shock his poor wife had so recently had,\nin the mysterious disappearance of her cherished sister. His feelings\ntowards Esther almost amounted to curses. It was she who had brought\non all this sorrow. Her giddiness, her lightness of conduct, had\nwrought this woe. His previous thoughts about her had been tinged\nwith wonder and pity, but now he hardened his heart against her for\never.\n\nOne of the good influences over John Barton's life had departed that\nnight. One of the ties which bound him down to the gentle humanities\nof earth was loosened, and henceforward the neighbours all remarked\nhe was a changed man. His gloom and his sternness became habitual\ninstead of occasional. He was more obstinate. But never to Mary.\nBetween the father and the daughter there existed in full force that\nmysterious bond which unites those who have been loved by one who\nis now dead and gone. While he was harsh and silent to others, he\nhumoured Mary with tender love; she had more of her own way than\nis common in any rank with girls of her age. Part of this was the\nnecessity of the case; for, of course, all the money went through\nher hands, and the household arrangements were guided by her will\nand pleasure. But part was her father's indulgence, for he left her,\nwith full trust in her unusual sense and spirit, to choose her own\nassociates, and her own times for seeing them.\n\nWith all this, Mary had not her father's confidence in the matters\nwhich now began to occupy him, heart and soul; she was aware that\nhe had joined clubs, and become an active member of a trades' union,\nbut it was hardly likely that a girl of Mary's age (even when two or\nthree years had elapsed since her mother's death) should care much\nfor the differences between the employers and the employed,--an\neternal subject for agitation in the manufacturing districts, which,\nhowever it may be lulled for a time, is sure to break forth again\nwith fresh violence at any depression of trade, showing that in its\napparent quiet, the ashes had still smouldered in the breasts of a\nfew.\n\nAmong these few was John Barton. At all times it is a bewildering\nthing to the poor weaver to see his employer removing from house to\nhouse, each one grander than the last, till he ends in building one\nmore magnificent than all, or withdraws his money from the concern,\nor sells his mill to buy an estate in the country, while all the time\nthe weaver, who thinks he and his fellows are the real makers of this\nwealth, is struggling on for bread for their children, through the\nvicissitudes of lowered wages, short hours, fewer hands employed,\n&c. And when he knows trade is bad, and could understand (at least\npartially) that there are not buyers enough in the market to purchase\nthe goods already made, and consequently that there is no demand for\nmore; when he would bear and endure much without complaining, could\nhe also see that his employers were bearing their share; he is, I\nsay, bewildered and (to use his own word) \"aggravated\" to see that\nall goes on just as usual with the mill-owners. Large houses are\nstill occupied, while spinners' and weavers' cottages stand empty,\nbecause the families that once occupied them are obliged to live in\nrooms or cellars. Carriages still roll along the streets, concerts\nare still crowded by subscribers, the shops for expensive luxuries\nstill find daily customers, while the workman loiters away his\nunemployed time in watching these things, and thinking of the pale,\nuncomplaining wife at home, and the wailing children asking in vain\nfor enough of food, of the sinking health, of the dying life of those\nnear and dear to him. The contrast is too great. Why should he alone\nsuffer from bad times?\n\nI know that this is not really the case; and I know what is the truth\nin such matters: but what I wish to impress is what the workman feels\nand thinks. True, that with child-like improvidence, good times will\noften dissipate his grumbling, and make him forget all prudence and\nforesight.\n\nBut there are earnest men among these people, men who have endured\nwrongs without complaining, but without ever forgetting or forgiving\nthose whom (they believe) have caused all this woe.\n\nAmong these was John Barton. His parents had suffered, his mother\nhad died from absolute want of the necessaries of life. He himself\nwas a good, steady workman, and, as such, pretty certain of steady\nemployment. But he spent all he got with the confidence (you may also\ncall it improvidence) of one who was willing, and believed himself\nable, to supply all his wants by his own exertions. And when his\nmaster suddenly failed, and all hands in that mill were turned back,\none Tuesday morning, with the news that Mr. Hunter had stopped,\nBarton had only a few shillings to rely on; but he had good heart of\nbeing employed at some other mill, and accordingly, before returning\nhome, he spent some hours in going from factory to factory, asking\nfor work. But at every mill was some sign of depression of trade;\nsome were working short hours, some were turning off hands, and for\nweeks Barton was out of work, living on credit. It was during this\ntime his little son, the apple of his eye, the cynosure of all his\nstrong power of love, fell ill of the scarlet fever. They dragged him\nthrough the crisis, but his life hung on a gossamer thread. Every\nthing, the doctor said, depended on good nourishment, on generous\nliving, to keep up the little fellow's strength, in the prostration\nin which the fever had left him. Mocking words! when the commonest\nfood in the house would not furnish one little meal. Barton tried\ncredit; but it was worn out at the little provision shops, which were\nnow suffering in their turn. He thought it would be no sin to steal,\nand would have stolen; but he could not get the opportunity in the\nfew days the child lingered. Hungry himself, almost to an animal\npitch of ravenousness, but with the bodily pain swallowed up in\nanxiety for his little sinking lad, he stood at one of the shop\nwindows where all edible luxuries are displayed; haunches of venison,\nStilton cheeses, moulds of jelly--all appetising sights to the common\npasser by. And out of this shop came Mrs. Hunter! She crossed to her\ncarriage, followed by the shopman loaded with purchases for a party.\nThe door was quickly slammed to, and she drove away; and Barton\nreturned home with a bitter spirit of wrath in his heart, to see his\nonly boy a corpse!\n\nYou can fancy, now, the hoards of vengeance in his heart against the\nemployers. For there are never wanting those who, either in speech\nor in print, find it their interest to cherish such feelings in the\nworking classes; who know how and when to rouse the dangerous power\nat their command; and who use their knowledge with unrelenting\npurpose to either party.\n\nSo while Mary took her own way, growing more spirited every day, and\ngrowing in her beauty too, her father was chairman at many a trades'\nunion meeting; a friend of delegates, and ambitious of being a\ndelegate himself; a Chartist, and ready to do any thing for his\norder.\n\nBut now times were good; and all these feelings were theoretical, not\npractical. His most practical thought was getting Mary apprenticed to\na dressmaker; for he had never left off disliking a factory life for\na girl, on more accounts than one.\n\nMary must do something. The factories being, as I said, out of the\nquestion, there were two things open--going out to service, and\nthe dressmaking business; and against the first of these, Mary set\nherself with all the force of her strong will. What that will might\nhave been able to achieve had her father been against her, I cannot\ntell; but he disliked the idea of parting with her, who was the light\nof his hearth, the voice of his otherwise silent home. Besides, with\nhis ideas and feelings towards the higher classes, he considered\ndomestic servitude as a species of slavery; a pampering of artificial\nwants on the one side, a giving-up of every right of leisure by day\nand quiet rest by night on the other. How far his strong exaggerated\nfeelings had any foundation in truth, it is for you to judge. I am\nafraid that Mary's determination not to go to service arose from far\nless sensible thoughts on the subject than her father's. Three years\nof independence of action (since her mother's death such a time\nhad now elapsed) had little inclined her to submit to rules as to\nhours and associates, to regulate her dress by a mistress's ideas\nof propriety, to lose the dear feminine privileges of gossiping\nwith a merry neighbour, and working night and day to help one who\nwas sorrowful. Besides all this, the sayings of her absent, her\nmysterious aunt, Esther, had an unacknowledged influence over Mary.\nShe knew she was very pretty; the factory people as they poured from\nthe mills, and in their freedom told the truth (whatever it might be)\nto every passer-by, had early let Mary into the secret of her beauty.\nIf their remarks had fallen on an unheeding ear, there were always\nyoung men enough, in a different rank from her own, who were willing\nto compliment the pretty weaver's daughter as they met her in the\nstreets. Besides, trust a girl of sixteen for knowing well if she is\npretty; concerning her plainness she may be ignorant. So with this\nconsciousness she had early determined that her beauty should make\nher a lady; the rank she coveted the more for her father's abuse; the\nrank to which she firmly believed her lost aunt Esther had arrived.\nNow, while a servant must often drudge and be dirty, must be known as\na servant by all who visited at her master's house, a dressmaker's\napprentice must (or so Mary thought) be always dressed with a certain\nregard to appearance; must never soil her hands, and need never\nredden or dirty her face with hard labour. Before my telling you so\ntruly what folly Mary felt or thought, injures her without redemption\nin your opinion, think what are the silly fancies of sixteen years of\nage in every class, and under all circumstances. The end of all the\nthoughts of father and daughter was, as I said before, Mary was to be\na dressmaker; and her ambition prompted her unwilling father to apply\nat all the first establishments, to know on what terms of painstaking\nand zeal his daughter might be admitted into ever so humble a\nworkwoman's situation. But high premiums were asked at all; poor man!\nhe might have known that without giving up a day's work to ascertain\nthe fact. He would have been indignant, indeed, had he known that if\nMary had accompanied him, the case might have been rather different,\nas her beauty would have made her desirable as a show-woman. Then he\ntried second-rate places; at all the payment of a sum of money was\nnecessary, and money he had none. Disheartened and angry he went home\nat night, declaring it was time lost; that dressmaking was at all\nevents a toilsome business, and not worth learning. Mary saw that the\ngrapes were sour, and the next day set out herself, as her father\ncould not afford to lose another day's work; and before night (as\nyesterday's experience had considerably lowered her ideas) she had\nengaged herself as apprentice (so called, though there were no deeds\nor indentures to the bond) to a certain Miss Simmonds, milliner and\ndressmaker, in a respectable little street leading off Ardwick Green,\nwhere her business was duly announced in gold letters on a black\nground, enclosed in a bird's-eye maple frame, and stuck in the front\nparlour window; where the workwomen were called \"her young ladies;\"\nand where Mary was to work for two years without any remuneration,\non consideration of being taught the business; and where afterwards\nshe was to dine and have tea, with a small quarterly salary (paid\nquarterly, because so much more genteel than by the week), a _very_\nsmall one, divisible into a minute weekly pittance. In summer she was\nto be there by six, bringing her day's meals during the first two\nyears; in winter she was not to come till after breakfast. Her time\nfor returning home at night must always depend upon the quantity of\nwork Miss Simmonds had to do.\n\nAnd Mary was satisfied; and seeing this, her father was contented\ntoo, although his words were grumbling and morose; but Mary knew his\nways, and coaxed and planned for the future so cheerily, that both\nwent to bed with easy if not happy hearts.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nOLD ALICE'S HISTORY.\n\n\n   To envy nought beneath the ample sky;\n   To mourn no evil deed, no hour mis-spent;\n   And, like a living violet, silently\n   Return in sweets to Heaven what goodness lent,\n   Then bend beneath the chastening shower content.\n\n   ELLIOTT.\n\n\nAnother year passed on. The waves of time seemed long since to have\nswept away all trace of poor Mary Barton. But her husband still\nthought of her, although with a calm and quiet grief, in the silent\nwatches of the night: and Mary would start from her hard-earned\nsleep, and think in her half-dreamy, half-awakened state, she saw\nher mother stand by her bed-side, as she used to do \"in the days\nof long-ago;\" with a shaded candle and an expression of ineffable\ntenderness, while she looked on her sleeping child. But Mary rubbed\nher eyes and sank back on her pillow, awake, and knowing it was a\ndream; and still, in all her troubles and perplexities, her heart\ncalled on her mother for aid, and she thought, \"If mother had but\nlived, she would have helped me.\" Forgetting that the woman's sorrows\nare far more difficult to mitigate than a child's, even by the mighty\npower of a mother's love; and unconscious of the fact, that she was\nfar superior in sense and spirit to the mother she mourned. Aunt\nEsther was still mysteriously absent, and people had grown weary of\nwondering and began to forget. Barton still attended his club, and\nwas an active member of a trades' union; indeed, more frequently\nthan ever, since the time of Mary's return in the evening was so\nuncertain; and, as she occasionally, in very busy times, remained\nall night. His chiefest friend was still George Wilson, although he\nhad no great sympathy on the questions that agitated Barton's mind.\nStill their hearts were bound by old ties to one another, and the\nremembrance of former times gave an unspoken charm to their meetings.\nOur old friend, the cub-like lad, Jem Wilson, had shot up into the\npowerful, well-made young man, with a sensible face enough; nay, a\nface that might have been handsome, had it not been here and there\nmarked by the small-pox. He worked with one of the great firms of\nengineers, who send from out their towns of workshops engines and\nmachinery to the dominions of the Czar and the Sultan. His father and\nmother were never weary of praising Jem, at all which commendation\npretty Mary Barton would toss her head, seeing clearly enough that\nthey wished her to understand what a good husband he would make, and\nto favour his love, about which he never dared to speak, whatever\neyes and looks revealed.\n\nOne day, in the early winter time, when people were provided with\nwarm substantial gowns, not likely soon to wear out, and when,\naccordingly, business was rather slack at Miss Simmonds', Mary\nmet Alice Wilson, coming home from her half-day's work at some\ntradesman's house. Mary and Alice had always liked each other;\nindeed, Alice looked with particular interest on the motherless girl,\nthe daughter of her whose forgiving kiss had so comforted her in many\nsleepless hours. So there was a warm greeting between the tidy old\nwoman and the blooming young work-girl; and then Alice ventured to\nask if she would come in and take her tea with her that very evening.\n\n\"You'll think it dull enough to come just to sit with an old woman\nlike me, but there's a tidy young lass as lives in the floor above,\nwho does plain work, and now and then a bit in your own line, Mary;\nshe's grand-daughter to old Job Legh, a spinner, and a good girl she\nis. Do come, Mary! I've a terrible wish to make you known to each\nother. She's a genteel-looking lass, too.\"\n\nAt the beginning of this speech Mary had feared the intended\nvisitor was to be no other than Alice's nephew; but Alice was too\ndelicate-minded to plan a meeting, even for her dear Jem, when one\nwould have been an unwilling party; and Mary, relieved from her\napprehension by the conclusion, gladly agreed to come. How busy Alice\nfelt! it was not often she had any one to tea; and now her sense of\nthe duties of a hostess were almost too much for her. She made haste\nhome, and lighted the unwilling fire, borrowing a pair of bellows to\nmake it burn the faster. For herself she was always patient; she let\nthe coals take their time. Then she put on her pattens, and went to\nfill her kettle at the pump in the next court, and on the way she\nborrowed a cup; of odd saucers she had plenty, serving as plates\nwhen occasion required. Half an ounce of tea and a quarter of a\npound of butter went far to absorb her morning's wages; but this\nwas an unusual occasion. In general, she used herb-tea for herself,\nwhen at home, unless some thoughtful mistress made her a present of\ntea-leaves from her more abundant household. The two chairs drawn out\nfor visitors, and duly swept and dusted; an old board arranged with\nsome skill upon two old candle-boxes set on end (rather ricketty\nto be sure, but she knew the seat of old, and when to sit lightly;\nindeed the whole affair was more for apparent dignity of position\nthan for any real ease); a little, very little round table put\njust before the fire, which by this time was blazing merrily; her\nunlackered, ancient, third-hand tea-tray arranged with a black\ntea-pot, two cups with a red and white pattern, and one with the\nold friendly willow pattern, and saucers, not to match (on one\nof the extra supply, the lump of butter flourished away); all\nthese preparations complete, Alice began to look about her with\nsatisfaction, and a sort of wonder what more could be done to add to\nthe comfort of the evening. She took one of the chairs away from its\nappropriate place by the table, and putting it close to the broad\nlarge hanging shelf I told you about when I first described her\ncellar-dwelling, and mounting on it, she pulled towards her an old\ndeal box, and took thence a quantity of the oat bread of the north,\nthe clap-bread of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and descending\ncarefully with the thin cakes threatening to break to pieces in her\nhand, she placed them on the bare table, with the belief that her\nvisitors would have an unusual treat in eating the bread of her\nchildhood. She brought out a good piece of a four-pound loaf of\ncommon household bread as well, and then sat down to rest, really\nto rest, and not to pretend, on one of the rush-bottomed chairs.\nThe candle was ready to be lighted, the kettle boiled, the tea was\nawaiting its doom in its paper parcel; all was ready.\n\nA knock at the door! It was Margaret, the young workwoman who lived\nin the rooms above, who having heard the bustle, and the subsequent\nquiet, began to think it was time to pay her visit below. She was a\nsallow, unhealthy, sweet-looking young woman, with a careworn look;\nher dress was humble and very simple, consisting of some kind of\ndark stuff gown, her neck being covered by a drab shawl or large\nhandkerchief, pinned down behind and at the sides in front. The old\nwoman gave her a hearty greeting, and made her sit down on the chair\nshe had just left, while she balanced herself on the board seat, in\norder that Margaret might think it was quite her free and independent\nchoice to sit there.\n\n\"I cannot think what keeps Mary Barton. She's quite grand with her\nlate hours,\" said Alice, as Mary still delayed.\n\nThe truth was, Mary was dressing herself; yes, to come to poor old\nAlice's--she thought it worth while to consider what gown she should\nput on. It was not for Alice, however, you may be pretty sure; no,\nthey knew each other too well. But Mary liked making an impression,\nand in this it must be owned she was pretty often gratified--and\nthere was this strange girl to consider just now. So she put on her\npretty new blue merino, made tight to her throat, her little linen\ncollar and linen cuffs, and sallied forth to impress poor gentle\nMargaret. She certainly succeeded. Alice, who never thought much\nabout beauty, had never told Margaret how pretty Mary was; and, as\nshe came in half-blushing at her own self-consciousness, Margaret\ncould hardly take her eyes off her, and Mary put down her long black\nlashes with a sort of dislike of the very observation she had taken\nsuch pains to secure. Can you fancy the bustle of Alice to make the\ntea, to pour it out, and sweeten it to their liking, to help and help\nagain to clap-bread and bread-and-butter? Can you fancy the delight\nwith which she watched her piled-up clap-bread disappear before the\nhungry girls, and listened to the praises of her home-remembered\ndainty?\n\n\"My mother used to send me some clap-bread by any north-country\nperson--bless her! She knew how good such things taste when far away\nfrom home. Not but what every one likes it. When I was in service my\nfellow-servants were always glad to share with me. Eh, it's a long\ntime ago, yon.\"\n\n\"Do tell us about it, Alice,\" said Margaret.\n\n\"Why, lass, there's nothing to tell. There was more mouths at home\nthan could be fed. Tom, that's Will's father (you don't know Will,\nbut he's a sailor to foreign parts), had come to Manchester, and sent\nword what terrible lots of work was to be had, both for lads and\nlasses. So father sent George first (you know George, well enough,\nMary), and then work was scarce out toward Burton, where we lived,\nand father said I maun try and get a place. And George wrote as how\nwages were far higher in Manchester than Milnthorpe or Lancaster;\nand, lasses, I was young and thoughtless, and thought it was a fine\nthing to go so far from home. So, one day, th' butcher he brings us a\nletter fra George, to say he'd heard on a place--and I was all agog\nto go, and father was pleased, like; but mother said little, and that\nlittle was very quiet. I've often thought she was a bit hurt to see\nme so ready to go--God forgive me! But she packed up my clothes, and\nsome o' the better end of her own as would fit me, in yon little\npaper box up there--it's good for nought now, but I would liefer live\nwithout fire than break it up to be burnt; and yet it's going on for\neighty years old, for she had it when she was a girl, and brought all\nher clothes in it to father's, when they were married. But, as I was\nsaying, she did not cry, though the tears was often in her eyes; and\nI seen her looking after me down the lane as long as I were in sight,\nwith her hand shading her eyes--and that were the last look I ever\nhad on her.\"\n\nAlice knew that before long she should go to that mother; and,\nbesides, the griefs and bitter woes of youth have worn themselves out\nbefore we grow old; but she looked so sorrowful that the girls caught\nher sadness, and mourned for the poor woman who had been dead and\ngone so many years ago.\n\n\"Did you never see her again, Alice? Did you never go home while she\nwas alive?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"No, nor since. Many a time and oft have I planned to go. I plan\nit yet, and hope to go home again before it please God to take me.\nI used to try and save money enough to go for a week when I was in\nservice; but first one thing came, and then another. First, missis's\nchildren fell ill of the measles, just when th' week I'd ask'd for\ncame, and I couldn't leave them, for one and all cried for me to\nnurse them. Then missis herself fell sick, and I could go less than\never. For, you see, they kept a little shop, and he drank, and missis\nand me was all there was to mind children, and shop, and all, and\ncook and wash besides.\"\n\nMary was glad she had not gone into service, and said so.\n\n\"Eh, lass! thou little knows the pleasure o' helping others; I was as\nhappy there as could be; almost as happy as I was at home. Well, but\nnext year I thought I could go at a leisure time, and missis telled\nme I should have a fortnight then, and I used to sit up all that\nwinter working hard at patchwork, to have a quilt of my own making\nto take to my mother. But master died, and missis went away fra\nManchester, and I'd to look out for a place again.\"\n\n\"Well, but,\" interrupted Mary, \"I should have thought that was the\nbest time to go home.\"\n\n\"No, I thought not. You see it was a different thing going home for\na week on a visit, may be with money in my pocket to give father a\nlift, to going home to be a burden to him. Besides, how could I hear\no' a place there? Anyways I thought it best to stay, though perhaps\nit might have been better to ha' gone, for then I should ha' seen\nmother again;\" and the poor old woman looked puzzled.\n\n\"I'm sure you did what you thought right,\" said Margaret, gently.\n\n\"Ay, lass, that's it,\" said Alice, raising her head and speaking more\ncheerfully. \"That's the thing, and then let the Lord send what He\nsees fit; not but that I grieved sore, oh, sore and sad, when toward\nspring next year, when my quilt were all done to th' lining, George\ncame in one evening to tell me mother was dead. I cried many a\nnight at after; [3] I'd no time for crying by day, for that missis\nwas terrible strict; she would not hearken to my going to th'\nfuneral; and indeed I would have been too late, for George set off\nthat very night by th' coach, and th' letter had been kept or summut\n(posts were not like th' posts now-a-days), and he found the burial\nall over, and father talking o' flitting; for he couldn't abide the\ncottage after mother was gone.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 3: A common Lancashire phrase. \"Come to me, Tyrrel,\n                soon, _at after_ supper.\" SHAKSPEARE, Richard III.]\n\n\n\"Was it a pretty place?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"Pretty, lass! I never seed such a bonny bit anywhere. You see there\nare hills there as seem to go up into th' skies, not near may be, but\nthat makes them all the bonnier. I used to think they were the golden\nhills of heaven, about which my mother sang when I was a child,\n\n   'Yon are the golden hills o' heaven,\n      Where ye sall never win.'\n\nSomething about a ship and a lover that should hae been na lover,\nthe ballad was. Well, and near our cottage were rocks. Eh, lasses!\nye don't know what rocks are in Manchester! Gray pieces o' stone as\nlarge as a house, all covered over wi' moss of different colours,\nsome yellow, some brown; and the ground beneath them knee-deep in\npurple heather, smelling sae sweet and fragrant, and the low music of\nthe humming-bee for ever sounding among it. Mother used to send Sally\nand me out to gather ling and heather for besoms, and it was such\npleasant work! We used to come home of an evening loaded so as you\ncould not see us, for all that it was so light to carry. And then\nmother would make us sit down under the old hawthorn tree (where\nwe used to make our house among the great roots as stood above th'\nground), to pick and tie up the heather. It seems all like yesterday,\nand yet it's a long long time agone. Poor sister Sally has been\nin her grave this forty year and more. But I often wonder if the\nhawthorn is standing yet, and if the lasses still go to gather\nheather, as we did many and many a year past and gone. I sicken at\nheart to see the old spot once again. May be next summer I may set\noff, if God spares me to see next summer.\"\n\n\"Why have you never been in all these many years?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"Why, lass! first one wanted me and then another; and I couldn't\ngo without money either, and I got very poor at times. Tom was a\nscapegrace, poor fellow, and always wanted help of one kind or\nanother; and his wife (for I think scapegraces are always married\nlong before steady folk) was but a helpless kind of body. She were\nalways ailing, and he were always in trouble; so I had enough to do\nwith my hands and my money too, for that matter. They died within\ntwelvemonth of each other, leaving one lad (they had had seven, but\nthe Lord had taken six to Himself), Will, as I was telling you on;\nand I took him myself, and left service to make a bit on a home-place\nfor him, and a fine lad he was, the very spit of his father as to\nlooks, only steadier. For he was steady, although nought would serve\nhim but going to sea. I tried all I could to set him again a sailor's\nlife. Says I, 'Folks is as sick as dogs all the time they're at sea.\nYour own mother telled me (for she came from foreign parts, being a\nManx woman) that she'd ha thanked any one for throwing her into the\nwater.' Nay, I sent him a' the way to Runcorn by th' Duke's canal,\nthat he might know what th' sea were; and I looked to see him come\nback as white as a sheet wi' vomiting. But the lad went on to\nLiverpool and saw real ships, and came back more set than ever on\nbeing a sailor, and he said as how he had never been sick at all, and\nthought he could stand the sea pretty well. So I telled him he mun\ndo as he liked; and he thanked me and kissed me, for all I was very\nfrabbit [4] with him; and now he's gone to South America, at t'other\nside of the sun, they tell me.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 4: \"Frabbit,\" peevish.]\n\n\nMary stole a glance at Margaret to see what she thought of Alice's\ngeography; but Margaret looked so quiet and demure, that Mary was in\ndoubt if she were not really ignorant. Not that Mary's knowledge was\nvery profound, but she had seen a terrestrial globe, and knew where\nto find France and the continents on a map.\n\nAfter this long talking Alice seemed lost for a time in reverie; and\nthe girls, respecting her thoughts, which they suspected had wandered\nto the home and scenes of her childhood, were silent. All at once she\nrecalled her duties as hostess, and by an effort brought back her\nmind to the present time.\n\n\"Margaret, thou must let Mary hear thee sing. I don't know about fine\nmusic myself, but folks say Margaret is a rare singer, and I know she\ncan make me cry at any time by singing 'Th' Owdham Weaver.' Do sing\nthat, Margaret, there's a good lass.\"\n\nWith a faint smile, as if amused at Alice's choice of a song,\nMargaret began.\n\nDo you know \"The Oldham Weaver?\" Not unless you are Lancashire born\nand bred, for it is a complete Lancashire ditty. I will copy it for\nyou.\n\n\n   THE OLDHAM WEAVER.\n\n   I.\n\n   Oi'm a poor cotton-weyver, as mony a one knoowas,\n   Oi've nowt for t' yeat, an' oi've woorn eawt my clooas,\n   Yo'ad hardly gi' tuppence for aw as oi've on,\n   My clogs are boath brosten, an' stuckins oi've none,\n      Yo'd think it wur hard,\n      To be browt into th' warld,\n   To be--clemmed, [5] an' do th' best as yo con.\n\n   II.\n\n   Owd Dicky o' Billy's kept telling me lung,\n   Wee s'd ha' better toimes if I'd but howd my tung,\n   Oi've howden my tung, till oi've near stopped my breath,\n   Oi think i' my heeart oi'se soon clem to deeath,\n      Owd Dicky's weel crammed,\n      He never wur clemmed,\n   An' he ne'er picked ower i' his loife. [6]\n\n   III.\n\n   We tow'rt on six week--thinking aitch day wur th' last,\n   We shifted, an' shifted, till neaw we're quoite fast;\n   We lived upo' nettles, whoile nettles wur good,\n   An' Waterloo porridge the best o' eawr food,\n      Oi'm tellin' yo' true,\n      Oi can find folk enow,\n   As wur livin' na better nor me.\n\n   IV.\n\n   Owd Billy o' Dans sent th' baileys one day,\n   Fur a shop deebt oi eawd him, as oi could na pay,\n   But he wur too lat, fur owd Billy o' th' Bent,\n   Had sowd th' tit an' cart, an' ta'en goods fur th' rent,\n      We'd neawt left bo' th' owd stoo',\n      That wur seeats fur two,\n   An' on it ceawred Marget an' me.\n\n   V.\n\n   Then t' baileys leuked reawnd as sloy as a meawse,\n   When they seed as aw t' goods were ta'en eawt o' t' heawse,\n   Says one chap to th' tother, \"Aws gone, theaw may see;\"\n   Says oi, \"Ne'er freet, mon, yeaur welcome ta' me.\"\n      They made no moor ado\n      But whopped up th' eawd stoo',\n   An' we booath leet, whack--upo' t' flags!\n\n   VI.\n\n   Then oi said to eawr Marget, as we lay upo' t' floor,\n   \"We's never be lower i' this warld, oi'm sure,\n   If ever things awtern, oi'm sure they mun mend,\n   For oi think i' my heart we're booath at t' far eend;\n      For meeat we ha' none;\n      Nor looms t' weyve on,--\n   Edad! they're as good lost as fund.\"\n\n   VII.\n\n   Eawr Marget declares had hoo cloo'as to put on,\n   Hoo'd goo up to Lunnon an' talk to th' greet mon;\n   An' if things were na awtered when there hoo had been,\n   Hoo's fully resolved t' sew up meawth an' eend;\n      Hoo's neawt to say again t' king,\n      But hoo loikes a fair thing,\n   An' hoo says hoo can tell when hoo's hurt.\n\n\n   [Footnote 5: \"Clem,\" to starve with hunger. \"Hard is the\n                choice, when the valiant must eat their arms\n                or _clem_.\"--_Ben Jonson._]\n\n   [Footnote 6: To \"pick ower,\" means to throw the shuttle in\n                hand-loom weaving.]\n\n\nThe air to which this is sung is a kind of droning recitative,\ndepending much on expression and feeling. To read it, it may,\nperhaps, seem humorous; but it is that humour which is near akin\nto pathos, and to those who have seen the distress it describes,\nit is a powerfully pathetic song. Margaret had both witnessed the\ndestitution, and had the heart to feel it; and withal, her voice was\nof that rich and rare order, which does not require any great compass\nof notes to make itself appreciated. Alice had her quiet enjoyment of\ntears. But Margaret, with fixed eye, and earnest, dreamy look, seemed\nto become more and more absorbed in realising to herself the woe she\nhad been describing, and which she felt might at that very moment be\nsuffering and hopeless within a short distance of their comparative\ncomfort.\n\nSuddenly she burst forth with all the power of her magnificent voice,\nas if a prayer from her very heart for all who were in distress, in\nthe grand supplication, \"Lord, remember David.\" Mary held her breath,\nunwilling to lose a note, it was so clear, so perfect, so imploring.\nA far more correct musician than Mary might have paused with equal\nadmiration of the really scientific knowledge, with which the poor\ndepressed-looking young needle-woman used her superb and flexile\nvoice. Deborah Travers herself (once an Oldham factory girl, and\nafterwards the darling of fashionable crowds as Mrs. Knyvett) might\nhave owned a sister in her art.\n\nShe stopped; and with tears of holy sympathy in her eyes, Alice\nthanked the songstress, who resumed her calm, demure manner, much to\nMary's wonder, for she looked at her unweariedly, as if surprised\nthat the hidden power should not be perceived in the outward\nappearance.\n\nWhen Alice's little speech of thanks was over, there was quiet enough\nto hear a fine, though rather quavering, male voice, going over again\none or two strains of Margaret's song.\n\n\"That's grandfather!\" exclaimed she. \"I must be going, for he said he\nshould not be at home till past nine.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll not say nay, for I've to be up by four for a very heavy\nwash at Mrs. Simpson's; but I shall be terrible glad to see you again\nat any time, lasses; and I hope you'll take to one another.\"\n\nAs the girls ran up the cellar steps together, Margaret said: \"Just\nstep in and see grandfather. I should like him to see you.\"\n\nAnd Mary consented.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nTHE MILL ON FIRE--JEM WILSON TO THE RESCUE.\n\n\n   Learned he was; nor bird, nor insect flew,\n   But he its leafy home and history knew;\n   Nor wild-flower decked the rock, nor moss the well,\n   But he its name and qualities could tell.\n\n   ELLIOTT.\n\n\nThere is a class of men in Manchester, unknown even to many of the\ninhabitants, and whose existence will probably be doubted by many,\nwho yet may claim kindred with all the noble names that science\nrecognises. I said \"in Manchester,\" but they are scattered all over\nthe manufacturing districts of Lancashire. In the neighbourhood of\nOldham there are weavers, common hand-loom weavers, who throw the\nshuttle with unceasing sound, though Newton's \"Principia\" lie open on\nthe loom, to be snatched at in work hours, but revelled over in meal\ntimes, or at night. Mathematical problems are received with interest,\nand studied with absorbing attention by many a broad-spoken,\ncommon-looking, factory-hand. It is perhaps less astonishing that the\nmore popularly interesting branches of natural history have their\nwarm and devoted followers among this class. There are botanists\namong them, equally familiar with either the Linnæan or the Natural\nsystem, who know the name and habitat of every plant within a day's\nwalk from their dwellings; who steal the holiday of a day or two when\nany particular plant should be in flower, and tying up their simple\nfood in their pocket-handkerchiefs, set off with single purpose to\nfetch home the humble-looking weed. There are entomologists, who may\nbe seen with a rude-looking net, ready to catch any winged insect,\nor a kind of dredge, with which they rake the green and slimy pools;\npractical, shrewd, hard-working men, who pore over every new specimen\nwith real scientific delight. Nor is it the common and more obvious\ndivisions of Entomology and Botany that alone attract these earnest\nseekers after knowledge. Perhaps it may be owing to the great annual\ntown-holiday of Whitsun-week so often falling in May or June that the\ntwo great, beautiful families of Ephemeridæ and Phryganidæ have been\nso much and so closely studied by Manchester workmen, while they have\nin a great measure escaped general observation. If you will refer\nto the preface to Sir J. E. Smith's Life (I have it not by me, or\nI would copy you the exact passage), you will find that he names\na little circumstance corroborative of what I have said. Sir J. E.\nSmith, being on a visit to Roscoe, of Liverpool, made some inquiries\nfrom him as to the habitat of a very rare plant, said to be found in\ncertain places in Lancashire. Mr. Roscoe knew nothing of the plant;\nbut stated, that if any one could give him the desired information,\nit would be a hand-loom weaver in Manchester, whom he named. Sir J.\nE. Smith proceeded by coach to Manchester, and on arriving at that\ntown, he inquired of the porter who was carrying his luggage if he\ncould direct him to So and So.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" replied the man. \"He does a bit in my way;\" and, on\nfurther investigation, it turned out, that both the porter, and his\nfriend the weaver, were skilful botanists, and able to give Sir J. E.\nSmith the very information which he wanted.\n\nSuch are the tastes and pursuits of some of the thoughtful, little\nunderstood, working men of Manchester.\n\nAnd Margaret's grandfather was one of these. He was a little\nwiry-looking old man, who moved with a jerking motion, as if his\nlimbs were worked by a string like a child's toy, with dun coloured\nhair lying thin and soft at the back and sides of his head; his\nforehead was so large it seemed to overbalance the rest of his face,\nwhich had indeed lost its natural contour by the absence of all the\nteeth. The eyes absolutely gleamed with intelligence; so keen, so\nobservant, you felt as if they were almost wizard-like. Indeed, the\nwhole room looked not unlike a wizard's dwelling. Instead of pictures\nwere hung rude wooden frames of impaled insects; the little table was\ncovered with cabalistic books; and a case of mysterious instruments\nlay beside, one of which Job Legh was using when his grand-daughter\nentered.\n\nOn her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as to rest midway\non his forehead, and gave Mary a short, kind welcome. But Margaret\nhe caressed as a mother caresses her first-born; stroking her with\ntenderness, and almost altering his voice as he spoke to her.\n\nMary looked round on the odd, strange things she had never seen at\nhome, and which seemed to her to have a very uncanny look.\n\n\"Is your grandfather a fortune-teller?\" whispered she to her new\nfriend.\n\n\"No,\" replied Margaret, in the same voice; \"but you're not the first\nas has taken him for such. He is only fond of such things as most\nfolks know nothing about.\"\n\n\"And do you know aught about them, too?\"\n\n\"I know a bit about some of the things grandfather is fond on; just\nbecause he's fond on 'em I tried to learn about them.\"\n\n\"What things are these?\" said Mary, struck with the weird looking\ncreatures that sprawled around the room in their roughly-made glass\ncases.\n\nBut she was not prepared for the technical names which Job Legh\npattered down on her ear, on which they fell like hail on a skylight;\nand the strange language only bewildered her more than ever. Margaret\nsaw the state of the case, and came to the rescue.\n\n\"Look, Mary, at this horrid scorpion. He gave me such a fright:\nI'm all of a twitter yet when I think of it. Grandfather went to\nLiverpool one Whitsun-week to go strolling about the docks and pick\nup what he could from the sailors, who often bring some queer thing\nor another from the hot countries they go to; and so he sees a chap\nwith a bottle in his hand, like a druggist's physic-bottle; and says\ngrandfather, 'What have ye gotten there?' So the sailor holds it up,\nand grandfather knew it was a rare kind o' scorpion, not common even\nin the East Indies where the man came from; and says he, 'How did\nye catch this fine fellow, for he wouldn't be taken for nothing I'm\nthinking?' And the man said as how when they were unloading the ship\nhe'd found him lying behind a bag of rice, and he thought the cold\nhad killed him, for he was not squashed nor injured a bit. He did\nnot like to part with any of the spirit out of his grog to put the\nscorpion in, but slipped him into the bottle, knowing there were\nfolks enow who would give him something for him. So grandfather gives\nhim a shilling.\"\n\n\"Two shilling,\" interrupted Job Legh, \"and a good bargain it was.\"\n\n\"Well! grandfather came home as proud as Punch, and pulled the bottle\nout of his pocket. But you see th' scorpion were doubled up, and\ngrandfather thought I couldn't fairly see how big he was. So he\nshakes him out right before the fire; and a good warm one it was, for\nI was ironing, I remember. I left off ironing, and stooped down over\nhim, to look at him better, and grandfather got a book, and began to\nread how this very kind were the most poisonous and vicious species,\nhow their bite were often fatal, and then went on to read how people\nwho were bitten got swelled, and screamed with pain. I was listening\nhard, but as it fell out, I never took my eyes off the creature,\nthough I could not ha' told I was watching it. Suddenly it seemed\nto give a jerk, and before I could speak, it gave another, and in\na minute it was as wild as could be, running at me just like a mad\ndog.\"\n\n\"What did you do?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"Me! why, I jumped first on a chair, and then on all the things I'd\nbeen ironing on the dresser, and I screamed for grandfather to come\nup by me, but he did not hearken to me.\"\n\n\"Why, if I'd come up by thee, who'd ha' caught the creature, I should\nlike to know?\"\n\n\"Well, I begged grandfather to crush it, and I had the iron right\nover it once, ready to drop, but grandfather begged me not to hurt it\nin that way. So I couldn't think what he'd have, for he hopped round\nthe room as if he were sore afraid, for all he begged me not to\ninjure it. At last he goes to th' kettle, and lifts up the lid, and\npeeps in. What on earth is he doing that for, thinks I; he'll never\ndrink his tea with a scorpion running free and easy about the room.\nThen he takes the tongs, and he settles his spectacles on his nose,\nand in a minute he had lifted the creature up by th' leg, and dropped\nhim into the boiling water.\"\n\n\"And did that kill him?\" said Mary.\n\n\"Ay, sure enough; he boiled for longer time than grandfather liked\nthough. But I was so afeard of his coming round again. I ran to the\npublic-house for some gin, and grandfather filled the bottle, and\nthen we poured off the water, and picked him out of the kettle, and\ndropped him into the bottle, and he were there above a twelvemonth.\"\n\n\"What brought him to life at first?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"Why, you see, he were never really dead, only torpid--that is, dead\nasleep with the cold, and our good fire brought him round.\"\n\n\"I'm glad father does not care for such things,\" said Mary.\n\n\"Are you! Well, I'm often downright glad grandfather is so fond of\nhis books, and his creatures, and his plants. It does my heart good\nto see him so happy, sorting them all at home, and so ready to go in\nsearch of more, whenever he's a spare day. Look at him now! he's gone\nback to his books, and he'll be as happy as a king, working away till\nI make him go to bed. It keeps him silent, to be sure; but so long\nas I see him earnest, and pleased, and eager, what does that matter?\nThen, when he has his talking bouts, you can't think how much he has\nto say. Dear grandfather! you don't know how happy we are!\"\n\nMary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this, for Margaret\ndid not speak in an under tone; but no! he was far too deep and eager\nin solving a problem. He did not even notice Mary's leave-taking,\nand she went home with the feeling that she had that night made the\nacquaintance of two of the strangest people she ever saw in her life.\nMargaret, so quiet, so common place, until her singing powers were\ncalled forth; so silent from home, so cheerful and agreeable at home;\nand her grandfather so very different to any one Mary had ever seen.\nMargaret had said he was not a fortune-teller, but she did not know\nwhether to believe her.\n\nTo resolve her doubts, she told the history of the evening to her\nfather, who was interested by her account, and curious to see\nand judge for himself. Opportunities are not often wanting where\ninclination goes before, and ere the end of that winter Mary looked\nupon Margaret almost as an old friend. The latter would bring her\nwork when Mary was likely to be at home in the evenings and sit with\nher; and Job Legh would put a book and his pipe in his pocket and\njust step round the corner to fetch his grand-child, ready for a talk\nif he found Barton in; ready to pull out pipe and book if the girls\nwanted him to wait, and John was still at his club. In short, ready\nto do whatever would give pleasure to his darling Margaret.\n\nI do not know what points of resemblance (or dissimilitude, for the\none joins people as often as the other) attracted the two girls to\neach other. Margaret had the great charm of possessing good strong\ncommon sense, and do you not perceive how involuntarily this is\nvalued? It is so pleasant to have a friend who possesses the power\nof setting a difficult question in a clear light; whose judgment can\ntell what is best to be done; and who is so convinced of what is\n\"wisest, best,\" that in consideration of the end, all difficulties\nin the way diminish. People admire talent, and talk about their\nadmiration. But they value common sense without talking about it, and\noften without knowing it.\n\nSo Mary and Margaret grew in love one toward the other; and Mary told\nmany of her feelings in a way she had never done before to any one.\nMost of her foibles also were made known to Margaret, but not all.\nThere was one cherished weakness still concealed from every one. It\nconcerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. A gallant,\nhandsome young man; but--not beloved. Yet Mary hoped to meet him\nevery day in her walks, blushed when she heard his name, and tried\nto think of him as her future husband, and above all, tried to think\nof herself as his future wife. Alas! poor Mary! Bitter woe did thy\nweakness work thee.\n\nShe had other lovers. One or two would gladly have kept her company,\nbut she held herself too high, they said. Jem Wilson said nothing,\nbut loved on and on, ever more fondly; he hoped against hope; he\nwould not give up, for it seemed like giving up life to give up\nthought of Mary. He did not dare to look to any end of all this; the\npresent, so that he saw her, touched the hem of her garment, was\nenough. Surely, in time, such deep love would beget love.\n\nHe would not relinquish hope, and yet her coldness of manner was\nenough to daunt any man; and it made Jem more despairing than he\nwould acknowledge for a long time even to himself.\n\nBut one evening he came round by Barton's house, a willing messenger\nfor his father, and opening the door saw Margaret sitting asleep\nbefore the fire. She had come in to speak to Mary; and worn out by a\nlong working, watching night, she fell asleep in the genial warmth.\n\nAn old-fashioned saying about a pair of gloves came into Jem's mind,\nand stepping gently up he kissed Margaret with a friendly kiss.\n\nShe awoke, and perfectly understanding the thing, she said, \"For\nshame of yourself, Jem! What would Mary say?\"\n\nLightly said, lightly answered.\n\n\"She'd nobbut say, practice makes perfect.\" And they both laughed.\nBut the words Margaret had said rankled in Jem's mind. Would Mary\ncare? Would she care in the very least? They seemed to call for an\nanswer by night, and by day; and Jem felt that his heart told him\nMary was quite indifferent to any action of his. Still he loved on,\nand on, ever more fondly.\n\nMary's father was well aware of the nature of Jem Wilson's feelings\nfor his daughter, but he took no notice of them to any one, thinking\nMary full young yet for the cares of married life, and unwilling,\ntoo, to entertain the idea of parting with her at any time, however\ndistant. But he welcomed Jem at his house, as he would have done his\nfather's son, whatever were his motives for coming; and now and then\nadmitted the thought, that Mary might do worse when her time came,\nthan marry Jem Wilson, a steady workman at a good trade, a good son\nto his parents, and a fine manly spirited chap--at least when Mary\nwas not by: for when she was present he watched her too closely, and\ntoo anxiously, to have much of what John Barton called \"spunk\" in\nhim.\n\nIt was towards the end of February, in that year, and a bitter black\nfrost had lasted for many weeks. The keen east wind had long since\nswept the streets clean, though on a gusty day the dust would rise\nlike pounded ice, and make people's faces quite smart with the cold\nforce with which it blew against them. Houses, sky, people, and every\nthing looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over with\na dark shade of Indian ink. There was some reason for this grimy\nappearance on human beings, whatever there might be for the dun looks\nof the landscape; for soft water had become an article not even to\nbe purchased; and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainly trying\nto procure a little by breaking the thick gray ice that coated the\nditches and ponds in the neighbourhood. People prophesied a long\ncontinuance to this already lengthened frost; said the spring would\nbe very late; no spring fashions required; no summer clothing\npurchased for a short uncertain summer. Indeed there was no end to\nthe evil prophesied during the continuance of that bleak east wind.\n\nMary hurried home one evening, just as daylight was fading, from Miss\nSimmonds', with her shawl held up to her mouth, and her head bent\nas if in deprecation of the meeting wind. So she did not perceive\nMargaret till, she was close upon her at the very turning into the\ncourt.\n\n\"Bless me, Margaret! is that you? Where are you bound to?\"\n\n\"To nowhere but your own house (that is, if you'll take me in). I've\na job of work to finish to-night; mourning, as must be in time for\nthe funeral to-morrow; and grandfather has been out moss-hunting, and\nwill not be home till late.\"\n\n\"Oh, how charming it will be. I'll help you if you're backward. Have\nyou much to do?\"\n\n\"Yes, I only got the order yesterday at noon; and there's three girls\nbeside the mother; and what with trying on and matching the stuff\n(for there was not enough in the piece they chose first), I'm above\na bit behindhand. I've the skirts all to make. I kept that work till\ncandlelight; and the sleeves, to say nothing of little bits to the\nbodies; for the missis is very particular, and I could scarce keep\nfrom smiling while they were crying so, really taking on sadly I'm\nsure, to hear first one and then t'other clear up to notice the sit\nof her gown. They weren't to be misfits I promise you, though they\nwere in such trouble.\"\n\n\"Well, Margaret, you're right welcome as you know, and I'll sit down\nand help you with pleasure, though I was tired enough of sewing\nto-night at Miss Simmonds'.\"\n\nBy this time Mary had broken up the raking coal, and lighted her\ncandle; and Margaret settled herself to her work on one side of the\ntable, while her friend hurried over her tea at the other. The things\nwere then lifted _en masse_ to the dresser; and dusting her side of\nthe table with the apron she always wore at home, Mary took up some\nbreadths and began to run them together.\n\n\"Who's it all for, for if you told me I've forgotten?\"\n\n\"Why for Mrs. Ogden as keeps the greengrocer's shop in Oxford Road.\nHer husband drank himself to death, and though she cried over him and\nhis ways all the time he was alive, she's fretted sadly for him now\nhe's dead.\"\n\n\"Has he left her much to go upon?\" asked Mary, examining the texture\nof the dress. \"This is beautifully fine soft bombazine.\"\n\n\"No, I'm much afeared there's but little, and there's several young\nchildren, besides the three Miss Ogdens.\"\n\n\"I should have thought girls like them would ha' made their own\ngowns,\" observed Mary.\n\n\"So I dare say they do, many a one, but now they seem all so busy\ngetting ready for the funeral; for it's to be quite a grand affair,\nwell-nigh twenty people to breakfast, as one of the little ones told\nme; the little thing seemed to like the fuss, and I do believe it\ncomforted poor Mrs. Ogden to make all the piece o' work. Such a smell\nof ham boiling and fowls roasting while I waited in the kitchen; it\nseemed more like a wedding nor [7] a funeral. They said she'd spend a\nmatter o' sixty pound on th' burial.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 7: \"Nor,\" generally used in Lancashire for \"than.\"\n                \"They had lever sleep _nor_ be in\n                laundery.\"--_Dunbar_.]\n\n\n\"I thought you said she was but badly off,\" said Mary.\n\n\"Ay, I know she's asked for credit at several places, saying her\nhusband laid hands on every farthing he could get for drink. But th'\nundertakers urge her on you see, and tell her this thing's usual,\nand that thing's only a common mark of respect, and that every body\nhas t'other thing, till the poor woman has no will o' her own. I\ndare say, too, her heart strikes her (it always does when a person's\ngone) for many a word and many a slighting deed to him, who's stiff\nand cold; and she thinks to make up matters, as it were, by a grand\nfuneral, though she and all her children, too, may have to pinch many\na year to pay the expenses, if ever they pay them at all.\"\n\n\"This mourning, too, will cost a pretty penny,\" said Mary. \"I often\nwonder why folks wear mourning; it's not pretty or becoming; and it\ncosts a deal of money just when people can spare it least; and if\nwhat the Bible tells us be true, we ought not to be sorry when a\nfriend, who's been good, goes to his rest; and as for a bad man,\none's glad enough to get shut [8] on him. I cannot see what good\ncomes out o' wearing mourning.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 8: \"Shut,\" quit.]\n\n\n\"I'll tell you what I think th' fancy was sent for (Old Alice calls\nevery thing 'sent for,' and I believe she's right). It does do good,\nthough not as much as it costs, that I do believe, in setting people\n(as is cast down by sorrow and feels themselves unable to settle to\nany thing but crying) something to do. Why now I told you how they\nwere grieving; for, perhaps, he was a kind husband and father, in\nhis thoughtless way, when he wasn't in liquor. But they cheered up\nwonderful while I was there, and I asked 'em for more directions than\nusual, that they might have something to talk over and fix about; and\nI left 'em my fashion-book (though it were two months old) just a\npurpose.\"\n\n\"I don't think every one would grieve a that way. Old Alice\nwouldn't.\"\n\n\"Old Alice is one in a thousand. I doubt, too, if she would fret\nmuch, however sorry she might be. She would say it were sent, and\nfall to trying to find out what good it were to do. Every sorrow in\nher mind is sent for good. Did I ever tell you, Mary, what she said\none day when she found me taking on about something?\"\n\n\"No; do tell me. What were you fretting about, first place?\"\n\n\"I can't tell you just now; perhaps I may sometime.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"Perhaps this very evening, if it rises in my heart; perhaps never.\nIt's a fear that sometimes I can't abide to think about, and\nsometimes I don't like to think on any thing else. Well, I was\nfretting about this fear, and Alice comes in for something, and finds\nme crying. I would not tell her no more than I would you, Mary; so\nshe says, 'Well, dear, you must mind this, when you're going to fret\nand be low about any thing, \"An anxious mind is never a holy mind.\"'\nOh, Mary, I have so often checked my grumbling sin' [9] she said\nthat.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 9: \"Sin',\" since. \"_Sin_ that his lord was twenty\n                yere of age.\" _Prologue to Canterbury Tales._]\n\n\nThe weary sound of stitching was the only sound heard for a little\nwhile, till Mary inquired,\n\n\"Do you expect to get paid for this mourning?\"\n\n\"Why I do not much think I shall. I've thought it over once or twice,\nand I mean to bring myself to think I shan't, and to like to do it as\nmy bit towards comforting them. I don't think they can pay, and yet\nthey're just the sort of folk to have their minds easier for wearing\nmourning. There's only one thing I dislike making black for, it does\nso hurt the eyes.\"\n\nMargaret put down her work with a sigh, and shaded her eyes. Then she\nassumed a cheerful tone, and said,\n\n\"You'll not have to wait long, Mary, for my secret's on the tip of\nmy tongue. Mary! do you know I sometimes think I'm growing a little\nblind, and then what would become of grandfather and me? Oh, God help\nme, Lord help me!\"\n\nShe fell into an agony of tears, while Mary knelt by her, striving\nto soothe and to comfort her; but, like an inexperienced person,\nstriving rather to deny the correctness of Margaret's fear, than\nhelping her to meet and overcome the evil.\n\n\"No,\" said Margaret, quietly fixing her tearful eyes on Mary; \"I know\nI'm not mistaken. I have felt one going some time, long before I ever\nthought what it would lead to; and last autumn I went to a doctor;\nand he did not mince the matter, but said unless I sat in a darkened\nroom, with my hands before me, my sight would not last me many years\nlonger. But how could I do that, Mary? For one thing, grandfather\nwould have known there was somewhat the matter; and, oh! it will\ngrieve him sore whenever he's told, so the later the better; and\nbesides, Mary, we've sometimes little enough to go upon, and what\nI earn is a great help. For grandfather takes a day here, and a day\nthere, for botanising or going after insects, and he'll think little\nenough of four or five shillings for a specimen; dear grandfather!\nand I'm so loath to think he should be stinted of what gives him\nsuch pleasure. So I went to another doctor to try and get him to say\nsomething different, and he said, 'Oh, it was only weakness,' and\ngived me a bottle of lotion; but I've used three bottles (and each of\n'em cost two shillings), and my eye is so much worse, not hurting so\nmuch, but I can't see a bit with it. There now, Mary,\" continued she,\nshutting one eye, \"now you only look like a great black shadow, with\nthe edges dancing and sparkling.\"\n\n\"And can you see pretty well with th' other?\"\n\n\"Yes, pretty near as well as ever. Th' only difference is, that if\nI sew a long time together, a bright spot like th' sun comes right\nwhere I'm looking; all the rest is quite clear but just where I want\nto see. I've been to both doctors again, and now they're both o' the\nsame story; and I suppose I'm going dark as fast as may be. Plain\nwork pays so bad, and mourning has been so plentiful this winter, I\nwere tempted to take in any black work I could; and now I'm suffering\nfrom it.\"\n\n\"And yet, Margaret, you're going on taking it in; that's what you'd\ncall foolish in another.\"\n\n\"It is, Mary! and yet what can I do? Folk mun live; and I think I\nshould go blind any way, and I darn't tell grandfather, else I would\nleave it off, but he will so fret.\"\n\nMargaret rocked herself backward and forward to still her emotion.\n\n\"Oh Mary!\" she said, \"I try to get his face off by heart, and I stare\nat him so when he's not looking, and then shut my eyes to see if I\ncan remember his dear face. There's one thing, Mary, that serves a\nbit to comfort me. You'll have heard of old Jacob Butterworth, the\nsinging weaver? Well, I know'd him a bit, so I went to him, and said\nhow I wished he'd teach me the right way o' singing; and he says\nI've a rare fine voice, and I go once a week, and take a lesson fra'\nhim. He's been a grand singer in his day. He's led th' chorusses at\nthe Festivals, and got thanked many a time by London folk; and one\nforeign singer, Madame Catalani, turned round and shook him by th'\nhand before the Oud Church [10] full o' people. He says I may gain\never so much money by singing; but I don't know. Any rate it's sad\nwork, being blind.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 10: \"Old Church;\" now the Cathedral of Manchester.]\n\n\nShe took up her sewing, saying her eyes were rested now, and for some\ntime they sewed on in silence.\n\nSuddenly there were steps heard in the little paved court; person\nafter person ran past the curtained window.\n\n\"Something's up,\" said Mary. She went to the door and stopping the\nfirst person she saw, inquired the cause of the commotion.\n\n\"Eh, wench! donna ye see the fire-light? Carsons' mill is blazing\naway like fun;\" and away her informant ran.\n\n\"Come, Margaret, on wi' your bonnet, and let's go to see Carsons'\nmill; it's afire, and they say a burning mill is such a grand sight.\nI never saw one.\"\n\n\"Well, I think it's a fearful sight. Besides I've all this work to\ndo.\"\n\nBut Mary coaxed in her sweet manner, and with her gentle caresses,\npromising to help with the gowns all night long if necessary, nay,\nsaying she should quite enjoy it.\n\nThe truth was, Margaret's secret weighed heavily and painfully on her\nmind, and she felt her inability to comfort; besides, she wanted to\nchange the current of Margaret's thoughts; and in addition to these\nunselfish feelings, came the desire she had honestly expressed, of\nseeing a factory on fire.\n\nSo in two minutes they were ready. At the threshold of the house they\nmet John Barton, to whom they told their errand.\n\n\"Carsons' mill! Ay, there is a mill on fire somewhere, sure enough,\nby the light, and it will be a rare blaze, for there's not a drop\no' water to be got. And much Carsons will care, for they're well\ninsured, and the machines are a' th' oud-fashioned kind. See if they\ndon't think it a fine thing for themselves. They'll not thank them as\ntries to put it out.\"\n\nHe gave way for the impatient girls to pass. Guided by the ruddy\nlight more than by any exact knowledge of the streets that led to the\nmill, they scampered along with bent heads, facing the terrible east\nwind as best they might.\n\nCarsons' mill ran lengthways from east to west. Along it went one\nof the oldest thoroughfares in Manchester. Indeed all that part of\nthe town was comparatively old; it was there that the first cotton\nmills were built, and the crowded alleys and back streets of the\nneighbourhood made a fire there particularly to be dreaded. The\nstaircase of the mill ascended from the entrance at the western end,\nwhich faced into a wide dingy-looking street, consisting principally\nof public-houses, pawn-brokers' shops, rag and bone warehouses,\nand dirty provision shops. The other, the east end of the factory,\nfronted into a very narrow back street, not twenty feet wide, and\nmiserably lighted and paved. Right against this end of the factory\nwere the gable ends of the last house in the principal street--a\nhouse which from its size, its handsome stone facings, and the\nattempt at ornament in the front, had probably been once a\ngentleman's house; but now the light which streamed from its enlarged\nfront windows made clear the interior of the splendidly fitted up\nroom, with its painted walls, its pillared recesses, its gilded and\ngorgeous fittings up, its miserable, squalid inmates. It was a gin\npalace.\n\nMary almost wished herself away, so fearful (as Margaret had said)\nwas the sight when they joined the crowd assembled to witness the\nfire. There was a murmur of many voices whenever the roaring of the\nflames ceased for an instant. It was easy to perceive the mass were\ndeeply interested.\n\n\"What do they say?\" asked Margaret, of a neighbour in the crowd, as\nshe caught a few words, clear and distinct, from the general murmur.\n\n\"There never is anyone in the mill, surely!\" exclaimed Mary, as the\nsea of upward-turned faces moved with one accord to the eastern end,\nlooking into Dunham Street, the narrow back lane already mentioned.\n\nThe western end of the mill, whither the raging flames were driven\nby the wind, was crowned and turreted with triumphant fire. It sent\nforth its infernal tongues from every window hole, licking the black\nwalls with amorous fierceness; it was swayed or fell before the\nmighty gale, only to rise higher and yet higher, to ravage and roar\nyet more wildly. This part of the roof fell in with an astounding\ncrash, while the crowd struggled more and more to press into Dunham\nStreet, for what were magnificent terrible flames, what were falling\ntimbers or tottering walls, in comparison with human life?\n\nThere, where the devouring flames had been repelled by the yet more\npowerful wind, but where yet black smoke gushed out from every\naperture, there, at one of the windows on the fourth story, or\nrather a doorway where a crane was fixed to hoist up goods, might\noccasionally be seen, when the thick gusts of smoke cleared partially\naway for an instant, the imploring figures of two men. They had\nremained after the rest of the workmen for some reason or other, and,\nowing to the wind having driven the fire in the opposite direction,\nhad perceived no sight or sound of alarm, till long after (if any\nthing could be called long in that throng of terrors which passed by\nin less time than half an hour) the fire had consumed the old wooden\nstaircase at the other end of the building. I am not sure whether it\nwas not the first sound of the rushing crowd below that made them\nfully aware of their awful position.\n\n\"Where are the engines?\" asked Margaret of her neighbour.\n\n\"They're coming, no doubt; but, bless you, I think it's bare ten\nminutes since we first found out th' fire; it rages so wi' this wind,\nand all so dry-like.\"\n\n\"Is no one gone for a ladder?\" gasped Mary, as the men were\nperceptibly, though not audibly, praying the great multitude below\nfor help.\n\n\"Ay, Wilson's son and another man were off like a shot, well nigh\nfive minute agone. But th' masons, and slaters, and such like, have\nleft their work, and locked up the yards.\"\n\nWilson! then, was that man whose figure loomed out against the ever\nincreasing dull hot light behind, whenever the smoke was clear,--was\nthat George Wilson? Mary sickened with terror. She knew he worked for\nCarsons; but at first she had had no idea any lives were in danger;\nand since she had become aware of this, the heated air, the roaring\nflames, the dizzy light, and the agitated and murmuring crowd, had\nbewildered her thoughts.\n\n\"Oh! let us go home, Margaret; I cannot stay.\"\n\n\"We cannot go! See how we are wedged in by folks. Poor Mary! ye won't\nhanker after a fire again. Hark! listen!\"\n\nFor through the hushed crowd, pressing round the angle of the mill,\nand filling up Dunham Street, might be heard the rattle of the\nengine, the heavy, quick tread of loaded horses.\n\n\"Thank God!\" said Margaret's neighbour, \"the engine's come.\"\n\nAnother pause; the plugs were stiff, and water could not be got.\n\nThen there was a pressure through the crowd, the front rows bearing\nback on those behind, till the girls were sick with the close ramming\nconfinement. Then a relaxation, and a breathing freely once more.\n\n\"'Twas young Wilson and a fireman wi' a ladder,\" said Margaret's\nneighbour, a tall man who could overlook the crowd.\n\n\"Oh, tell us what you see?\" begged Mary.\n\n\"They've gotten it fixed again the gin-shop wall. One o' the men i'\nth' factory has fell back; dazed wi' the smoke, I'll warrant. The\nfloor's not given way there. God!\" said he, bringing his eye lower\ndown, \"th' ladder's too short! It's a' over wi' them, poor chaps. Th'\nfire's coming slow and sure to that end, and afore they've either\ngotten water, or another ladder, they'll be dead out and out. Lord\nhave mercy on them!\"\n\nA sob, as if of excited women, was heard in the hush of the crowd.\nAnother pressure like the former! Mary clung to Margaret's arm with\na pinching grasp, and longed to faint, and be insensible, to escape\nfrom the oppressing misery of her sensations. A minute or two.\n\n\"They've taken th' ladder into th' Temple of Apollor. Can't press\nback with it to the yard it came from.\"\n\nA mighty shout arose; a sound to wake the dead. Up on high, quivering\nin the air, was seen the end of the ladder, protruding out of a\ngarret window, in the gable end of the gin palace, nearly opposite to\nthe doorway where the men had been seen. Those in the crowd nearest\nthe factory, and consequently best able to see up to the garret\nwindow, said that several men were holding one end, and guiding by\ntheir weight its passage to the door-way. The garret window-frame had\nbeen taken out before the crowd below were aware of the attempt.\n\nAt length--for it seemed long, measured by beating hearts, though\nscarce two minutes had elapsed--the ladder was fixed, an aerial\nbridge at a dizzy height, across the narrow street.\n\nEvery eye was fixed in unwinking anxiety, and people's very breathing\nseemed stilled in suspense. The men were nowhere to be seen, but the\nwind appeared, for the moment, higher than ever, and drove back the\ninvading flames to the other end.\n\nMary and Margaret could see now; right above them danced the ladder\nin the wind. The crowd pressed back from under; firemen's helmets\nappeared at the window, holding the ladder firm, when a man, with\nquick, steady tread, and unmoving head, passed from one side to\nthe other. The multitude did not even whisper while he crossed the\nperilous bridge, which quivered under him; but when he was across,\nsafe comparatively in the factory, a cheer arose for an instant,\nchecked, however, almost immediately, by the uncertainty of the\nresult, and the desire not in any way to shake the nerves of the\nbrave fellow who had cast his life on such a die.\n\n\"There he is again!\" sprung to the lips of many, as they saw him at\nthe doorway, standing as if for an instant to breathe a mouthful of\nthe fresher air, before he trusted himself to cross. On his shoulders\nhe bore an insensible body.\n\n\"It's Jem Wilson and his father,\" whispered Margaret; but Mary knew\nit before.\n\nThe people were sick with anxious terror. He could no longer balance\nhimself with his arms; every thing must depend on nerve and eye. They\nsaw the latter was fixed, by the position of the head, which never\nwavered; the ladder shook under the double weight; but still he never\nmoved his head--he dared not look below. It seemed an age before the\ncrossing was accomplished. At last the window was gained; the bearer\nrelieved from his burden; both had disappeared.\n\nThen the multitude might shout; and above the roaring flames, louder\nthan the blowing of the mighty wind, arose that tremendous burst of\napplause at the success of the daring enterprise. Then a shrill cry\nwas heard, asking\n\n\"Is the oud man alive, and likely to do?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" answered one of the firemen to the hushed crowd below. \"He's\ncoming round finely, now he's had a dash of cowd water.\"\n\nHe drew back his head; and the eager inquiries, the shouts, the\nsea-like murmurs of the moving rolling mass began again to be\nheard--but for an instant though. In far less time than even that in\nwhich I have endeavoured briefly to describe the pause of events, the\nsame bold hero stepped again upon the ladder, with evident purpose to\nrescue the man yet remaining in the burning mill.\n\nHe went across in the same quick steady manner as before, and the\npeople below, made less acutely anxious by his previous success, were\ntalking to each other, shouting out intelligence of the progress of\nthe fire at the other end of the factory, telling of the endeavours\nof the firemen at that part to obtain water, while the closely packed\nbody of men heaved and rolled from side to side. It was different\nfrom the former silent breathless hush. I do not know if it were from\nthis cause, or from the recollection of peril past, or that he looked\nbelow, in the breathing moment before returning with the remaining\nperson (a slight little man) slung across his shoulders, but Jem\nWilson's step was less steady, his tread more uncertain; he seemed to\nfeel with his foot for the next round of the ladder, to waver, and\nfinally to stop half-way. By this time the crowd was still enough;\nin the awful instant that intervened no one durst speak, even to\nencourage. Many turned sick with terror, and shut their eyes to avoid\nseeing the catastrophe they dreaded. It came. The brave man swayed\nfrom side to side, at first as slightly as if only balancing himself;\nbut he was evidently losing nerve, and even sense: it was only\nwonderful how the animal instinct of self-preservation did not\novercome every generous feeling, and impel him at once to drop the\nhelpless, inanimate body he carried; perhaps the same instinct told\nhim, that the sudden loss of so heavy a weight would of itself be a\ngreat and imminent danger.\n\n\"Help me! she's fainted,\" cried Margaret. But no one heeded. All eyes\nwere directed upwards. At this point of time a rope, with a running\nnoose, was dexterously thrown by one of the firemen, after the manner\nof a lasso, over the head and round the bodies of the two men. True,\nit was with rude and slight adjustment: but, slight as it was, it\nserved as a steadying guide; it encouraged the sinking heart, the\ndizzy head. Once more Jem stepped onwards. He was not hurried by any\njerk or pull. Slowly and gradually the rope was hauled in, slowly and\ngradually did he make the four or five paces between him and safety.\nThe window was gained, and all were saved. The multitude in the\nstreet absolutely danced with triumph, and huzzaed and yelled till\nyou would have fancied their very throats would crack; and then with\nall the fickleness of interest characteristic of a large body of\npeople, pressed and stumbled, and cursed and swore in the hurry to\nget out of Dunham Street, and back to the immediate scene of the\nfire, the mighty diapason of whose roaring flames formed an awful\naccompaniment to the screams, and yells, and imprecations, of the\nstruggling crowd.\n\nAs they pressed away, Margaret was left, pale and almost sinking\nunder the weight of Mary's body, which she had preserved in an\nupright position by keeping her arms tight round Mary's waist,\ndreading, with reason, the trampling of unheeding feet.\n\nNow, however, she gently let her down on the cold clean pavement; and\nthe change of posture, and the difference in temperature, now that\nthe people had withdrawn from their close neighbourhood, speedily\nrestored her to consciousness.\n\nHer first glance was bewildered and uncertain. She had forgotten\nwhere she was. Her cold, hard bed felt strange; the murky glare in\nthe sky affrighted her. She shut her eyes to think, to recollect.\n\nHer next look was upwards. The fearful bridge had been withdrawn; the\nwindow was unoccupied.\n\n\"They are safe,\" said Margaret.\n\n\"All? Are all safe, Margaret?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"Ask yon fireman, and he'll tell you more about it than I can. But I\nknow they're all safe.\"\n\nThe fireman hastily corroborated Margaret's words.\n\n\"Why did you let Jem Wilson go twice?\" asked Margaret.\n\n\"Let!--why we could not hinder him. As soon as ever he'd heard his\nfather speak (which he was na long a doing), Jem were off like a\nshot; only saying he knowed better nor us where to find t'other man.\nWe'd all ha' gone, if he had na been in such a hurry, for no one can\nsay as Manchester firemen is ever backward when there's danger.\"\n\nSo saying, he ran off; and the two girls, without remark or\ndiscussion, turned homewards. They were overtaken by the elder\nWilson, pale, grimy, and blear-eyed, but apparently as strong and\nwell as ever. He loitered a minute or two alongside of them, giving\nan account of his detention in the mill; he then hastily wished\ngood-night, saying he must go home and tell his missis he was all\nsafe and well: but after he had gone a few steps, he turned back,\ncame on Mary's side of the pavement, and in an earnest whisper, which\nMargaret could not avoid hearing, he said,\n\n\"Mary, if my boy comes across you to-night, give him a kind word or\ntwo for my sake. Do! bless you, there's a good wench.\"\n\nMary hung her head and answered not a word, and in an instant he was\ngone.\n\nWhen they arrived at home, they found John Barton smoking his pipe,\nunwilling to question, yet very willing to hear all the details\nthey could give him. Margaret went over the whole story, and it was\namusing to watch his gradually increasing interest and excitement.\nFirst, the regular puffing abated, then ceased. Then the pipe was\nfairly taken out of his mouth, and held suspended. Then he rose, and\nat every further point he came a step nearer to the narrator.\n\nWhen it was ended, he swore (an unusual thing for him) that if Jem\nWilson wanted Mary he should have her to-morrow, if he had not a\npenny to keep her.\n\nMargaret laughed, but Mary, who was now recovered from her agitation,\npouted, and looked angry.\n\nThe work which they had left was resumed: but with full hearts,\nfingers never go very quickly; and I am sorry to say, that owing to\nthe fire, the two younger Miss Ogdens were in such grief for the loss\nof their excellent father, that they were unable to appear before the\nlittle circle of sympathising friends gathered together to comfort\nthe widow, and see the funeral set off.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nPOVERTY AND DEATH.\n\n\n   \"How little can the rich man know\n     Of what the poor man feels,\n   When Want, like some dark dæmon foe,\n     Nearer and nearer steals!\n\n   _He_ never tramp'd the weary round,\n     A stroke of work to gain,\n   And sicken'd at the dreaded sound\n     Telling him 'twas in vain.\n\n   Foot-sore, heart-sore, _he_ never came\n     Back through the winter's wind,\n   To a dark cellar, there no flame,\n     No light, no food, to find.\n\n   _He_ never saw his darlings lie\n     Shivering, the flags their bed;\n   _He_ never heard that maddening cry,\n     'Daddy, a bit of bread!'\"\n\n   MANCHESTER SONG.\n\n\nJohn Barton was not far wrong in his idea that the Messrs. Carson\nwould not be over much grieved for the consequences of the fire\nin their mill. They were well insured; the machinery lacked the\nimprovements of late years, and worked but poorly in comparison with\nthat which might now be procured. Above all, trade was very slack;\ncottons could find no market, and goods lay packed and piled in many\na warehouse. The mills were merely worked to keep the machinery,\nhuman and metal, in some kind of order and readiness for better\ntimes. So this was an excellent opportunity, Messrs. Carson thought,\nfor refitting their factory with first-rate improvements, for which\nthe insurance money would amply pay. They were in no hurry about\nthe business, however. The weekly drain of wages given for labour,\nuseless in the present state of the market, was stopped. The partners\nhad more leisure than they had known for years; and promised wives\nand daughters all manner of pleasant excursions, as soon as the\nweather should become more genial. It was a pleasant thing to be\nable to lounge over breakfast with a review or newspaper in hand; to\nhave time for becoming acquainted with agreeable and accomplished\ndaughters, on whose education no money had been spared, but whose\nfathers, shut up during a long day with calicoes and accounts, had\nso seldom had leisure to enjoy their daughters' talents. There were\nhappy family evenings, now that the men of business had time for\ndomestic enjoyments. There is another side to the picture. There were\nhomes over which Carsons' fire threw a deep, terrible gloom; the\nhomes of those who would fain work, and no man gave unto them--the\nhomes of those to whom leisure was a curse. There, the family music\nwas hungry wails, when week after week passed by, and there was no\nwork to be had, and consequently no wages to pay for the bread the\nchildren cried aloud for in their young impatience of suffering.\nThere was no breakfast to lounge over; their lounge was taken in bed,\nto try and keep warmth in them that bitter March weather, and, by\nbeing quiet, to deaden the gnawing wolf within. Many a penny that\nwould have gone little way enough in oatmeal or potatoes, bought\nopium to still the hungry little ones, and make them forget their\nuneasiness in heavy troubled sleep. It was mother's mercy. The\nevil and the good of our nature came out strongly then. There were\ndesperate fathers; there were bitter-tongued mothers (O God! what\nwonder!); there were reckless children; the very closest bonds of\nnature were snapt in that time of trial and distress. There was Faith\nsuch as the rich can never imagine on earth; there was \"Love strong\nas death;\" and self-denial, among rude, coarse men, akin to that\nof Sir Philip Sidney's most glorious deed. The vices of the poor\nsometimes astound us _here_; but when the secrets of all hearts shall\nbe made known, their virtues will astound us in far greater degree.\nOf this I am certain.\n\nAs the cold bleak spring came on (spring, in name alone), and\nconsequently as trade continued dead, other mills shortened hours,\nturned off hands, and finally stopped work altogether.\n\nBarton worked short hours; Wilson, of course, being a hand in\nCarsons' factory, had no work at all. But his son, working at an\nengineer's, and a steady man, obtained wages enough to maintain all\nthe family in a careful way. Still it preyed on Wilson's mind to be\nso long indebted to his son. He was out of spirits and depressed.\nBarton was morose, and soured towards mankind as a body, and the\nrich in particular. One evening, when the clear light at six o'clock\ncontrasted strangely with the Christmas cold, and when the bitter\nwind piped down every entry, and through every cranny, Barton sat\nbrooding over his stinted fire, and listening for Mary's step, in\nunacknowledged trust that her presence would cheer him. The door was\nopened, and Wilson came breathless in.\n\n\"You've not got a bit o' money by you, Barton?\" asked he.\n\n\"Not I; who has now, I'd like to know. Whatten you want it for?\"\n\n\"I donnot [11] want it for mysel, tho' we've none to spare. But don\nye know Ben Davenport as worked at Carsons'? He's down wi' the fever,\nand ne'er a stick o' fire, nor a cowd [12] potato in the house.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 11: \"Don\" is constantly used in Lancashire for \"do;\"\n                 as it was by our older writers. \"And that may\n                 non Hors _don_.\"--_Sir J. Mondeville._ \"But for\n                 th' entent to _don_ this sinne.\"--_Chaucer._]\n\n   [Footnote 12: \"Cowd,\" cold. Teut., _kaud_. Dutch, _koud_.]\n\n\n\"I han got no money, I tell ye,\" said Barton. Wilson looked\ndisappointed. Barton tried not to be interested, but he could not\nhelp it in spite of his gruffness. He rose, and went to the cupboard\n(his wife's pride long ago). There lay the remains of his dinner,\nhastily put by ready for supper. Bread, and a slice of cold fat\nboiled bacon. He wrapped them in his handkerchief, put them in the\ncrown of his hat, and said--\"Come, let's be going.\"\n\n\"Going--art thou going to work this time o' day?\"\n\n\"No, stupid, to be sure not. Going to see the fellow thou spoke\non.\" So they put on their hats and set out. On the way Wilson said\nDavenport was a good fellow, though too much of the Methodee; that\nhis children were too young to work, but not too young to be cold and\nhungry; that they had sunk lower and lower, and pawned thing after\nthing, and that now they lived in a cellar in Berry Street, off Store\nStreet. Barton growled inarticulate words of no benevolent import to\na large class of mankind, and so they went along till they arrived\nin Berry Street. It was unpaved; and down the middle a gutter forced\nits way, every now and then forming pools in the holes with which the\nstreet abounded. Never was the Old Edinburgh cry of \"Gardez l'eau\"\nmore necessary than in this street. As they passed, women from their\ndoors tossed household slops of _every_ description into the gutter;\nthey ran into the next pool, which overflowed and stagnated. Heaps of\nashes were the stepping-stones, on which the passer-by, who cared in\nthe least for cleanliness, took care not to put his foot. Our friends\nwere not dainty, but even they picked their way till they got to some\nsteps leading down into a small area, where a person standing would\nhave his head about one foot below the level of the street, and\nmight at the same time, without the least motion of his body, touch\nthe window of the cellar and the damp muddy wall right opposite.\nYou went down one step even from the foul area into the cellar in\nwhich a family of human beings lived. It was very dark inside. The\nwindow-panes were, many of them, broken and stuffed with rags, which\nwas reason enough for the dusky light that pervaded the place even at\nmid-day. After the account I have given of the state of the street,\nno one can be surprised that on going into the cellar inhabited by\nDavenport, the smell was so foetid as almost to knock the two men\ndown. Quickly recovering themselves, as those inured to such things\ndo, they began to penetrate the thick darkness of the place, and to\nsee three or four little children rolling on the damp, nay wet, brick\nfloor, through which the stagnant, filthy moisture of the street\noozed up; the fire-place was empty and black; the wife sat on her\nhusband's lair, and cried in the dank loneliness.\n\n\"See, missis, I'm back again.--Hold your noise, children, and don't\nmither [13] your mammy for bread; here's a chap as has got some for\nyou.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 13: \"Mither,\" to trouble and perplex. \"I'm welly\n                 mithered\"--I'm well nigh crazed.]\n\n\nIn that dim light, which was darkness to strangers, they clustered\nround Barton, and tore from him the food he had brought with him. It\nwas a large hunch of bread, but it vanished in an instant.\n\n\"We mun do summut for 'em,\" said he to Wilson. \"Yo stop here, and\nI'll be back in half-an-hour.\"\n\nSo he strode, and ran, and hurried home. He emptied into the\never-useful pocket-handkerchief the little meal remaining in the mug.\nMary would have her tea at Miss Simmonds'; her food for the day was\nsafe. Then he went up-stairs for his better coat, and his one, gay,\nred-and-yellow silk pocket-handkerchief--his jewels, his plate, his\nvaluables, these were. He went to the pawn-shop; he pawned them for\nfive shillings; he stopped not, nor stayed, till he was once more\nin London Road, within five minutes' walk of Berry Street--then he\nloitered in his gait, in order to discover the shops he wanted. He\nbought meat, and a loaf of bread, candles, chips, and from a little\nretail yard he purchased a couple of hundredweights of coals. Some\nmoney yet remained--all destined for them, but he did not yet know\nhow best to spend it. Food, light, and warmth, he had instantly seen\nwere necessary; for luxuries he would wait. Wilson's eyes filled with\ntears when he saw Barton enter with his purchases. He understood\nit all, and longed to be once more in work, that he might help in\nsome of these material ways, without feeling that he was using his\nson's money. But though \"silver and gold he had none,\" he gave\nheart-service and love works of far more value. Nor was John Barton\nbehind in these. \"The fever\" was (as it usually is in Manchester) of\na low, putrid, typhoid kind; brought on by miserable living, filthy\nneighbourhood, and great depression of mind and body. It is virulent,\nmalignant, and highly infectious. But the poor are fatalists with\nregard to infection; and well for them it is so, for in their crowded\ndwellings no invalid can be isolated. Wilson asked Barton if he\nthought he should catch it, and was laughed at for his idea.\n\nThe two men, rough, tender nurses as they were, lighted the fire,\nwhich smoked and puffed into the room as if it did not know the way\nup the damp, unused chimney. The very smoke seemed purifying and\nhealthy in the thick clammy air. The children clamoured again for\nbread; but this time Barton took a piece first to the poor, helpless,\nhopeless woman, who still sat by the side of her husband, listening\nto his anxious miserable mutterings. She took the bread, when it was\nput into her hand, and broke a bit, but could not eat. She was past\nhunger. She fell down on the floor with a heavy unresisting bang. The\nmen looked puzzled. \"She's well-nigh clemmed,\" said Barton. \"Folk\ndo say one mustn't give clemmed people much to eat; but, bless us,\nshe'll eat nought.\"\n\n\"I'll tell yo what I'll do,\" said Wilson. \"I'll take these two big\nlads, as does nought but fight, home to my missis's for to-night,\nand I'll get a jug o' tea. Them women always does best with tea and\nsuch-like slop.\"\n\nSo Barton was now left alone with a little child, crying (when it had\ndone eating) for mammy; with a fainting, dead-like woman; and with\nthe sick man, whose mutterings were rising up to screams and shrieks\nof agonised anxiety. He carried the woman to the fire, and chafed her\nhands. He looked around for something to raise her head. There was\nliterally nothing but some loose bricks. However, those he got; and\ntaking off his coat he covered them with it as well as he could. He\npulled her feet to the fire, which now began to emit some faint heat.\nHe looked round for water, but the poor woman had been too weak to\ndrag herself out to the distant pump, and water there was none. He\nsnatched the child, and ran up the area-steps to the room above, and\nborrowed their only saucepan with some water in it. Then he began,\nwith the useful skill of a working-man, to make some gruel; and when\nit was hastily made he seized a battered iron table-spoon (kept when\nmany other little things had been sold in a lot), in order to feed\nbaby, and with it he forced one or two drops between her clenched\nteeth. The mouth opened mechanically to receive more, and gradually\nshe revived. She sat up and looked round; and recollecting all, fell\ndown again in weak and passive despair. Her little child crawled to\nher, and wiped with its fingers the thick-coming tears which she\nnow had strength to weep. It was now high time to attend to the man.\nHe lay on straw, so damp and mouldy no dog would have chosen it in\npreference to flags; over it was a piece of sacking, coming next to\nhis worn skeleton of a body; above him was mustered every article\nof clothing that could be spared by mother or children this bitter\nweather; and in addition to his own, these might have given as much\nwarmth as one blanket, could they have been kept on him; but as he\nrestlessly tossed to and fro, they fell off and left him shivering in\nspite of the burning heat of his skin. Every now and then he started\nup in his naked madness, looking like the prophet of woe in the\nfearful plague-picture; but he soon fell again in exhaustion, and\nBarton found he must be closely watched, lest in these falls he\nshould injure himself against the hard brick floor. He was thankful\nwhen Wilson re-appeared, carrying in both hands a jug of steaming\ntea, intended for the poor wife; but when the delirious husband saw\ndrink, he snatched at it with animal instinct, with a selfishness he\nhad never shown in health.\n\nThen the two men consulted together. It seemed decided, without a\nword being spoken on the subject, that both should spend the night\nwith the forlorn couple; that was settled. But could no doctor be\nhad? In all probability, no; the next day an infirmary order might be\nbegged, but meanwhile the only medical advice they could have must be\nfrom a druggist's. So Barton (being the moneyed man) set out to find\na shop in London Road.\n\nIt is a pretty sight to walk through a street with lighted shops; the\ngas is so brilliant, the display of goods so much more vividly shown\nthan by day, and of all shops a druggist's looks the most like the\ntales of our childhood, from Aladdin's garden of enchanted fruits\nto the charming Rosamond with her purple jar. No such associations\nhad Barton; yet he felt the contrast between the well-filled,\nwell-lighted shops and the dim gloomy cellar, and it made him moody\nthat such contrasts should exist. They are the mysterious problem of\nlife to more than him. He wondered if any in all the hurrying crowd\nhad come from such a house of mourning. He thought they all looked\njoyous, and he was angry with them. But he could not, you cannot,\nread the lot of those who daily pass you by in the street. How do you\nknow the wild romances of their lives; the trials, the temptations\nthey are even now enduring, resisting, sinking under? You may be\nelbowed one instant by the girl desperate in her abandonment,\nlaughing in mad merriment with her outward gesture, while her soul\nis longing for the rest of the dead, and bringing itself to think\nof the cold-flowing river as the only mercy of God remaining to her\nhere. You may pass the criminal, meditating crimes at which you will\nto-morrow shudder with horror as you read them. You may push against\none, humble and unnoticed, the last upon earth, who in Heaven will\nfor ever be in the immediate light of God's countenance. Errands of\nmercy--errands of sin--did you ever think where all the thousands of\npeople you daily meet are bound? Barton's was an errand of mercy; but\nthe thoughts of his heart were touched by sin, by bitter hatred of\nthe happy, whom he, for the time, confounded with the selfish.\n\nHe reached a druggist's shop, and entered. The druggist (whose smooth\nmanners seemed to have been salved over with his own spermaceti)\nlistened attentively to Barton's description of Davenport's illness;\nconcluded it was typhus fever, very prevalent in that neighbourhood;\nand proceeded to make up a bottle of medicine, sweet spirits of\nnitre, or some such innocent potion, very good for slight colds, but\nutterly powerless to stop, for an instant, the raging fever of the\npoor man it was intended to relieve. He recommended the same course\nthey had previously determined to adopt, applying the next morning\nfor an infirmary order; and Barton left the shop with comfortable\nfaith in the physic given him; for men of his class, if they\nbelieve in physic at all, believe that every description is equally\nefficacious.\n\nMeanwhile, Wilson had done what he could at Davenport's home. He\nhad soothed, and covered the man many a time; he had fed and hushed\nthe little child, and spoken tenderly to the woman, who lay still\nin her weakness and her weariness. He had opened a door, but only\nfor an instant; it led into a back cellar, with a grating instead\nof a window, down which dropped the moisture from pigsties, and\nworse abominations. It was not paved; the floor was one mass of bad\nsmelling mud. It had never been used, for there was not an article of\nfurniture in it; nor could a human being, much less a pig, have lived\nthere many days. Yet the \"back apartment\" made a difference in the\nrent. The Davenports paid threepence more for having two rooms. When\nhe turned round again, he saw the woman suckling the child from her\ndry, withered breast.\n\n\"Surely the lad is weaned!\" exclaimed he, in surprise. \"Why, how old\nis he?\"\n\n\"Going on two year,\" she faintly answered. \"But, oh! it keeps him\nquiet when I've nought else to gi' him, and he'll get a bit of sleep\nlying there, if he's getten [14] nought beside. We han done our best\nto gi' the childer [15] food, howe'er we pinched ourselves.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 14: \"For he had _geten_ him yet no benefice.\"--_Prologue\n                 to Canterbury Tales._]\n\n   [Footnote 15: Wicklife uses \"_childre_\" in his Apology, page 26.]\n\n\n\"Han [16] ye had no money fra th' town?\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 16: \"What concord _han_ light and dark.\"--_Spenser._]\n\n\n\"No; my master is Buckinghamshire born; and he's feared the town\nwould send him back to his parish, if he went to th' board; so we've\njust borne on in hope o' better times. But I think they'll never come\nin my day;\" and the poor woman began her weak high-pitched cry again.\n\n\"Here, sup [17] this drop o' gruel, and then try and get a bit o'\nsleep. John and I'll watch by your master to-night.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 17: \"And thay _soupe_ the brothe thereof.\"--_Sir J.\n                 Mandeville._]\n\n\n\"God's blessing be on you!\"\n\nShe finished the gruel, and fell into a deep sleep. Wilson covered\nher with his coat as well as he could, and tried to move lightly\nfor fear of disturbing her; but there need have been no such dread,\nfor her sleep was profound and heavy with exhaustion. Once only she\nroused to pull the coat round her little child.\n\nAnd now all Wilson's care, and Barton's to boot, was wanted to\nrestrain the wild mad agony of the fevered man. He started up, he\nyelled, he seemed infuriated by overwhelming anxiety. He cursed and\nswore, which surprised Wilson, who knew his piety in health, and who\ndid not know the unbridled tongue of delirium. At length he seemed\nexhausted, and fell asleep; and Barton and Wilson drew near the fire,\nand talked together in whispers. They sat on the floor, for chairs\nthere were none; the sole table was an old tub turned upside-down.\nThey put out the candle and conversed by the flickering fire-light.\n\n\"Han yo known this chap long?\" asked Barton.\n\n\"Better nor three year. He's worked wi' Carsons that long, and\nwere alway a steady, civil-spoken fellow, though, as I said afore,\nsomewhat of a Methodee. I wish I'd gotten a letter he sent his\nmissis, a week or two agone, when he were on tramp for work. It did\nmy heart good to read it; for, yo see, I were a bit grumbling mysel;\nit seemed hard to be spunging on Jem, and taking a' his flesh-meat\nmoney to buy bread for me and them as I ought to be keeping. But, yo\nknow, though I can earn nought, I mun eat summut. Well, as I telled\nye, I were grumbling, when she (indicating the sleeping woman by a\nnod) brought me Ben's letter, for she could na read hersel. It were\nas good as Bible-words; ne'er a word o' repining; a' about God being\nour Father, and that we mun bear patiently whate'er He sends.\"\n\n\"Don ye think He's th' masters' Father, too? I'd be loath to have 'em\nfor brothers.\"\n\n\"Eh, John! donna talk so; sure there's many and many a master as good\nor better nor us.\"\n\n\"If you think so, tell me this. How comes it they're rich, and we're\npoor? I'd like to know that. Han they done as they'd be done by for\nus?\"\n\nBut Wilson was no arguer; no speechifier as he would have called it.\nSo Barton, seeing he was likely to have it his own way, went on.\n\n\"You'll say (at least many a one does), they'n [18] getten capital\nan' we'n getten none. I say, our labour's our capital and we ought\nto draw interest on that. They get interest on their capital somehow\na' this time, while ourn is lying idle, else how could they all live\nas they do? Besides, there's many on 'em as had nought to begin wi';\nthere's Carsons, and Duncombes, and Mengies, and many another, as\ncomed into Manchester with clothes to their back, and that were all,\nand now they're worth their tens of thousands, a' getten out of\nour labour; why the very land as fetched but sixty pound twenty\nyear agone is now worth six hundred, and that, too, is owing to\nour labour: but look at yo, and see me, and poor Davenport yonder;\nwhatten better are we? They'n screwed us down to th' lowest peg, in\norder to make their great big fortunes, and build their great big\nhouses, and we, why we're just clemming, many and many of us. Can you\nsay there's nought wrong in this?\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 18: \"They'n,\" contraction of \"they han,\" they have.]\n\n\n\"Well, Barton, I'll not gainsay ye. But Mr. Carson spoke to me after\nth' fire, and says he, 'I shall ha' to retrench, and be very careful\nin my expenditure during these bad times, I assure ye;' so yo see th'\nmasters suffer too.\"\n\n\"Han they ever seen a child o' their'n die for want o' food?\" asked\nBarton, in a low, deep voice.\n\n\"I donnot mean,\" continued he, \"to say as I'm so badly off. I'd\nscorn to speak for mysel; but when I see such men as Davenport there\ndying away, for very clemming, I cannot stand it. I've but gotten\nMary, and she keeps hersel pretty much. I think we'll ha' to give up\nhouse-keeping; but that I donnot mind.\"\n\nAnd in this kind of talk the night, the long heavy night of watching,\nwore away. As far as they could judge, Davenport continued in the\nsame state, although the symptoms varied occasionally. The wife slept\non, only roused by a cry of her child now and then, which seemed to\nhave power over her, when far louder noises failed to disturb her.\nThe watchers agreed, that as soon as it was likely Mr. Carson would\nbe up and visible, Wilson should go to his house, and beg for an\nInfirmary order. At length the gray dawn penetrated even into the\ndark cellar. Davenport slept, and Barton was to remain there until\nWilson's return; so stepping out into the fresh air, brisk and\nreviving, even in that street of abominations, Wilson took his way to\nMr. Carson's.\n\nWilson had about two miles to walk before he reached Mr. Carson's\nhouse, which was almost in the country. The streets were not yet\nbustling and busy. The shopmen were lazily taking down the shutters,\nalthough it was near eight o'clock; for the day was long enough for\nthe purchases people made in that quarter of the town, while trade\nwas so flat. One or two miserable-looking women were setting off on\ntheir day's begging expedition. But there were few people abroad. Mr.\nCarson's was a good house, and furnished with disregard to expense.\nBut in addition to lavish expenditure, there was much taste shown,\nand many articles chosen for their beauty and elegance adorned\nhis rooms. As Wilson passed a window which a housemaid had thrown\nopen, he saw pictures and gilding, at which he was tempted to stop\nand look; but then he thought it would not be respectful. So he\nhastened on to the kitchen door. The servants seemed very busy with\npreparations for breakfast; but good-naturedly, though hastily,\ntold him to step in, and they could soon let Mr. Carson know he was\nthere. So he was ushered into a kitchen hung round with glittering\ntins, where a roaring fire burnt merrily, and where numbers of\nutensils hung round, at whose nature and use Wilson amused himself\nby guessing. Meanwhile, the servants bustled to and fro; an out-door\nman-servant came in for orders, and sat down near Wilson; the cook\nbroiled steaks, and the kitchen-maid toasted bread, and boiled eggs.\n\nThe coffee steamed upon the fire, and altogether the odours were so\nmixed and appetising, that Wilson began to yearn for food to break\nhis fast, which had lasted since dinner the day before. If the\nservants had known this, they would have willingly given him meat\nand bread in abundance; but they were like the rest of us, and not\nfeeling hunger themselves, forgot it was possible another might. So\nWilson's craving turned to sickness, while they chattered on, making\nthe kitchen's free and keen remarks upon the parlour.\n\n\"How late you were last night, Thomas!\"\n\n\"Yes, I was right weary of waiting; they told me to be at the rooms\nby twelve; and there I was. But it was two o'clock before they called\nme.\"\n\n\"And did you wait all that time in the street?\" asked the housemaid,\nwho had done her work for the present, and come into the kitchen for\na bit of gossip.\n\n\"My eye as like! you don't think I'm such a fool as to catch my death\nof cold, and let the horses catch their death too, as we should ha'\ndone if we'd stopped there. No! I put th' horses up in th' stables at\nth' Spread Eagle, and went mysel, and got a glass or two by th' fire.\nThey're driving a good custom, them, wi' coachmen. There were five on\nus, and we'd many a quart o' ale, and gin wi' it, to keep out cold.\"\n\n\"Mercy on us, Thomas; you'll get a drunkard at last!\"\n\n\"If I do, I know whose blame it will be. It will be missis's, and\nnot mine. Flesh and blood can't sit to be starved to death on a\ncoach-box, waiting for folks as don't know their own mind.\"\n\nA servant, semi-upper-housemaid, semi-lady's-maid, now came down with\norders from her mistress.\n\n\"Thomas, you must ride to the fishmonger's, and say missis can't give\nabove half-a-crown a pound for salmon for Tuesday; she's grumbling\nbecause trade's so bad. And she'll want the carriage at three to go\nto the lecture, Thomas; at the Royal Execution, you know.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, I know.\"\n\n\"And you'd better all of you mind your P's and Q's, for she's very\nblack this morning. She's got a bad headache.\"\n\n\"It's a pity Miss Jenkins is not here to match her. Lord! how she and\nmissis did quarrel which had got the worst headaches; it was that\nMiss Jenkins left for; she would not give up having bad headaches,\nand missis could not abide any one to have 'em but herself.\"\n\n\"Missis will have her breakfast up-stairs, cook, and the cold\npartridge as was left yesterday, and put plenty of cream in her\ncoffee, and she thinks there's a roll left, and she would like it\nwell buttered.\"\n\nSo saying, the maid left the kitchen to be ready to attend to the\nyoung ladies' bell when they chose to ring, after their late assembly\nthe night before.\n\nIn the luxurious library, at the well-spread breakfast-table, sat\nthe two Mr. Carsons, father and son. Both were reading; the father\na newspaper, the son a review, while they lazily enjoyed their\nnicely prepared food. The father was a prepossessing-looking old\nman; perhaps self-indulgent you might guess. The son was strikingly\nhandsome, and knew it. His dress was neat and well appointed, and his\nmanners far more gentlemanly than his father's. He was the only son,\nand his sisters were proud of him; his father and mother were proud\nof him: he could not set up his judgment against theirs; he was proud\nof himself.\n\nThe door opened and in bounded Amy, the sweet youngest daughter of\nthe house, a lovely girl of sixteen, fresh and glowing, and bright\nas a rosebud. She was too young to go to assemblies, at which her\nfather rejoiced, for he had little Amy with her pretty jokes, and her\nbird-like songs, and her playful caresses all the evening to amuse\nhim in his loneliness; and she was not too much tired, like Sophy and\nHelen, to give him her sweet company at breakfast the next morning.\n\nHe submitted willingly while she blinded him with her hands, and\nkissed his rough red face all over. She took his newspaper away after\na little pretended resistance, and would not allow her brother Harry\nto go on with his review.\n\n\"I'm the only lady this morning, papa, so you know you must make a\ngreat deal of me.\"\n\n\"My darling, I think you have your own way always, whether you're the\nonly lady or not.\"\n\n\"Yes, papa, you're pretty good and obedient, I must say that; but I'm\nsorry to say Harry is very naughty, and does not do what I tell him;\ndo you, Harry?\"\n\n\"I'm sure I don't know what you mean to accuse me of, Amy; I expected\npraise and not blame; for did not I get you that eau de Portugal from\ntown, that you could not meet with at Hughes', you little ungrateful\npuss?\"\n\n\"Did you! Oh, sweet Harry; you're as sweet as eau de Portugal\nyourself; you're almost as good as papa; but still you know you did\ngo and forget to ask Bigland for that rose, that new rose they say he\nhas got.\"\n\n\"No, Amy, I did not forget. I asked him, and he has got the Rose,\n_sans reproche_; but do you know, little Miss Extravagance, a very\nsmall one is half-a-guinea?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't mind. Papa will give it me, won't you, dear father? He\nknows his little daughter can't live without flowers and scents.\"\n\nMr. Carson tried to refuse his darling, but she coaxed him into\nacquiescence, saying she must have it, it was one of her necessaries.\nLife was not worth having without flowers.\n\n\"Then, Amy,\" said her brother, \"try and be content with peonies and\ndandelions.\"\n\n\"Oh, you wretch! I don't call them flowers. Besides, you're every bit\nas extravagant. Who gave half-a-crown for a bunch of lilies of the\nvalley at Yates', a month ago, and then would not let his poor little\nsister have them, though she went on her knees to beg them? Answer me\nthat, Master Hal.\"\n\n\"Not on compulsion,\" replied her brother, smiling with his mouth,\nwhile his eyes had an irritated expression, and he went first red,\nthen pale, with vexed embarrassment.\n\n\"If you please, sir,\" said a servant, entering the room, \"here's one\nof the mill people wanting to see you; his name is Wilson, he says.\"\n\n\"I'll come to him directly; stay, tell him to come in here.\"\n\nAmy danced off into the conservatory which opened out of the room,\nbefore the gaunt, pale, unwashed, unshaven weaver was ushered in.\nThere he stood at the door, sleeking his hair with old country habit,\nand every now and then stealing a glance round at the splendour of\nthe apartment.\n\n\"Well, Wilson, and what do you want to-day, man?\"\n\n\"Please, sir, Davenport's ill of the fever, and I'm come to know if\nyou've got an Infirmary order for him?\"\n\n\"Davenport--Davenport; who is the fellow? I don't know the name.\"\n\n\"He's worked in your factory better nor three year, sir.\"\n\n\"Very likely; I don't pretend to know the names of the men I employ;\nthat I leave to the overlooker. So he's ill, eh?\"\n\n\"Ay, sir, he's very bad; we want to get him in at the fever wards.\n\n\"I doubt if I have an in-patient's order to spare; they're always\nwanted for accidents, you know. But I'll give you an out-patient's,\nand welcome.\"\n\nSo saying, he rose up, unlocked a drawer, pondered a minute, and then\ngave Wilson an out-patient's order to be presented the following\nMonday. Monday! How many days there were before Monday!\n\nMeanwhile, the younger Mr. Carson had ended his review, and began to\nlisten to what was going on. He finished his breakfast, got up, and\npulled five shillings out of his pocket, which he gave to Wilson\nas he passed him, for the \"poor fellow.\" He went past quickly, and\ncalling for his horse, mounted gaily, and rode away. He was anxious\nto be in time to have a look and a smile from lovely Mary Barton, as\nshe went to Miss Simmonds'. But to-day he was to be disappointed.\nWilson left the house, not knowing whether to be pleased or grieved.\nIt was long to Monday, but they had all spoken kindly to him, and who\ncould tell if they might not remember this, and do something before\nMonday. Besides, the cook, who, when she had had time to think, after\nbreakfast was sent in, had noticed his paleness, had had meat and\nbread ready to put in his hand when he came out of the parlour; and a\nfull stomach makes every one of us more hopeful.\n\nWhen he reached Berry Street, he had persuaded himself he bore good\nnews, and felt almost elated in his heart. But it fell when he opened\nthe cellar-door, and saw Barton and the wife both bending over the\nsick man's couch with awe-struck, saddened look.\n\n\"Come here,\" said Barton. \"There's a change comed over him sin' yo\nleft, is there not?\"\n\nWilson looked. The flesh was sunk, the features prominent, bony, and\nrigid. The fearful clay-colour of death was over all. But the eyes\nwere open and sensible, though the films of the grave were settling\nupon them.\n\n\"He wakened fra his sleep, as yo left him in, and began to mutter and\nmoan; but he soon went off again, and we never knew he were awake\ntill he called his wife, but now she's here he's gotten nought to say\nto her.\"\n\nMost probably, as they all felt, he could not speak, for his strength\nwas fast ebbing. They stood round him still and silent; even the wife\nchecked her sobs, though her heart was like to break. She held her\nchild to her breast, to try and keep him quiet. Their eyes were all\nfixed on the yet living one, whose moments of life were passing so\nrapidly away. At length he brought (with jerking, convulsive effort)\nhis two hands into the attitude of prayer. They saw his lips move,\nand bent to catch the words, which came in gasps, and not in tones.\n\n\"Oh Lord God! I thank thee, that the hard struggle of living is\nover.\"\n\n\"Oh, Ben! Ben!\" wailed forth his wife, \"have you no thought for me?\nOh, Ben! Ben! do say one word to help me through life.\"\n\nHe could not speak again. The trump of the archangel would set his\ntongue free; but not a word more would it utter till then. Yet he\nheard, he understood, and though sight failed, he moved his hand\ngropingly over the covering. They knew what he meant, and guided it\nto her head, bowed and hidden in her hands, when she had sunk in her\nwoe. It rested there, with a feeble pressure of endearment. The face\ngrew beautiful, as the soul neared God. A peace beyond understanding\ncame over it. The hand was a heavy, stiff weight on the wife's\nhead. No more grief or sorrow for him. They reverently laid out the\ncorpse--Wilson fetching his only spare shirt to array it in. The wife\nstill lay hidden in the clothes, in a stupor of agony.\n\nThere was a knock at the door, and Barton went to open it. It\nwas Mary, who had received a message from her father, through a\nneighbour, telling her where he was; and she had set out early to\ncome and have a word with him before her day's work; but some errands\nshe had to do for Miss Simmonds had detained her until now.\n\n\"Come in, wench!\" said her father. \"Try if thou canst comfort yon\npoor, poor woman, kneeling down there. God help her.\" Mary did not\nknow what to say, or how to comfort; but she knelt down by her, and\nput her arm round her neck, and in a little while fell to crying\nherself so bitterly, that the source of tears was opened by sympathy\nin the widow, and her full heart was, for a time, relieved.\n\nAnd Mary forgot all purposed meeting with her gay lover, Harry\nCarson; forgot Miss Simmonds' errands, and her anger, in the anxious\ndesire to comfort the poor lone woman. Never had her sweet face\nlooked more angelic, never had her gentle voice seemed so musical as\nwhen she murmured her broken sentences of comfort.\n\n\"Oh, don't cry so, dear Mrs. Davenport, pray don't take on so. Sure\nhe's gone where he'll never know care again. Yes, I know how lonesome\nyou must feel; but think of your children. Oh! we'll all help to earn\nfood for 'em. Think how sorry _he'd_ be, if he sees you fretting so.\nDon't cry so, please don't.\"\n\nAnd she ended by crying herself, as passionately as the poor widow.\n\nIt was agreed that the town must bury him; he had paid to a burial\nclub as long as he could; but by a few weeks' omission, he had\nforfeited his claim to a sum of money now. Would Mrs. Davenport and\nthe little child go home with Mary? The latter brightened up as she\nurged this plan; but no! where the poor, fondly loved remains were,\nthere would the mourner be; and all that they could do was to make\nher as comfortable as their funds would allow, and to beg a neighbour\nto look in and say a word at times. So she was left alone with her\ndead, and they went to work that had work, and he who had none, took\nupon him the arrangements for the funeral.\n\nMary had many a scolding from Miss Simmonds that day for her absence\nof mind. To be sure Miss Simmonds was much put out by Mary's\nnon-appearance in the morning with certain bits of muslin, and shades\nof silk which were wanted to complete a dress to be worn that night;\nbut it was true enough that Mary did not mind what she was about;\nshe was too busy planning how her old black gown (her best when\nher mother died) might be spunged, and turned, and lengthened into\nsomething like decent mourning for the widow. And when she went home\nat night (though it was very late, as a sort of retribution for her\nmorning's negligence), she set to work at once, and was so busy, and\nso glad over her task, that she had, every now and then, to check\nherself in singing merry ditties, that she felt little accorded with\nthe sewing on which she was engaged.\n\nSo when the funeral day came, Mrs. Davenport was neatly arrayed in\nblack, a satisfaction to her poor heart in the midst of her sorrow.\nBarton and Wilson both accompanied her, as she led her two elder\nboys, and followed the coffin. It was a simple walking funeral, with\nnothing to grate on the feelings of any; far more in accordance with\nits purpose, to my mind, than the gorgeous hearses, and nodding\nplumes, which form the grotesque funeral pomp of respectable people.\nThere was no \"rattling the bones over the stones,\" of the pauper's\nfuneral. Decently and quietly was he followed to the grave by one\ndetermined to endure her woe meekly for his sake. The only mark of\npauperism attendant on the burial concerned the living and joyous,\nfar more than the dead, or the sorrowful. When they arrived in the\nchurchyard, they halted before a raised and handsome tombstone; in\nreality a wooden mockery of stone respectabilities which adorned the\nburial-ground. It was easily raised in a very few minutes, and below\nwas the grave in which pauper bodies were piled until within a foot\nor two of the surface; when the soil was shovelled over, and stamped\ndown, and the wooden cover went to do temporary duty over another\nhole. [19] But little they recked of this who now gave up their dead.\n\n\n   [Footnote 19: The case, to my certain knowledge, in one\n                 churchyard in Manchester. There may be more.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nJEM WILSON'S REPULSE.\n\n\n   \"How infinite the wealth of love and hope\n   Garnered in these same tiny treasure-houses!\n   And oh! what bankrupts in the world we feel,\n   When Death, like some remorseless creditor,\n   Seizes on all we fondly thought our own!\"\n\n   \"THE TWINS.\"\n\n\nThe ghoul-like fever was not to be braved with impunity, and baulked\nof its prey. The widow had reclaimed her children; her neighbours,\nin the good Samaritan sense of the word, had paid her little arrears\nof rent, and made her a few shillings beforehand with the world.\nShe determined to flit from that cellar to another less full of\npainful associations, less haunted by mournful memories. The board,\nnot so formidable as she had imagined, had inquired into her case;\nand, instead of sending her to Stoke Claypole, her husband's\nBuckinghamshire parish, as she had dreaded, had agreed to pay her\nrent. So food for four mouths was all she was now required to find;\nonly for three she would have said; for herself and the unweaned\nchild were but reckoned as one in her calculation.\n\nShe had a strong heart, now her bodily strength had been recruited by\na week or two of food, and she would not despair. So she took in some\nlittle children to nurse, who brought their daily food with them,\nwhich she cooked for them, without wronging their helplessness of a\ncrumb; and when she had restored them to their mothers at night, she\nset to work at plain sewing, \"seam, and gusset, and band,\" and sat\nthinking how she might best cheat the factory inspector, and persuade\nhim that her strong, big, hungry Ben was above thirteen. Her plan of\nliving was so far arranged, when she heard, with keen sorrow, that\nWilson's twin lads were ill of the fever.\n\nThey had never been strong. They were like many a pair of twins,\nand seemed to have but one life divided between them. One life, one\nstrength, and in this instance, I might almost say, one brain; for\nthey were helpless, gentle, silly children, but not the less dear\nto their parents and to their strong, active, manly, elder brother.\nThey were late on their feet, late in talking, late every way; had to\nbe nursed and cared for when other lads of their age were tumbling\nabout in the street, and losing themselves, and being taken to the\npolice-office miles away from home.\n\nStill want had never yet come in at the door to make love for these\ninnocents fly out at the window. Nor was this the case even now, when\nJem Wilson's earnings, and his mother's occasional charrings were\nbarely sufficient to give all the family their fill of food.\n\nBut when the twins, after ailing many days, and caring little for\ntheir meat, fell sick on the same afternoon, with the same heavy\nstupor of suffering, the three hearts that loved them so, each felt,\nthough none acknowledged to the other, that they had little chance\nfor life. It was nearly a week before the tale of their illness\nspread as far as the court where the Wilsons had once dwelt, and the\nBartons yet lived.\n\nAlice had heard of the illness of her little nephews several days\nbefore, and had locked her cellar door, and gone off straight to her\nbrother's house, in Ancoats; but she was often absent for days, sent\nfor, as her neighbours knew, to help in some sudden emergency of\nillness or distress, so that occasioned no surprise.\n\nMargaret met Jem Wilson several days after his brothers were\nseriously ill, and heard from him the state of things at his home.\nShe told Mary of it as she entered the court late that evening; and\nMary listened with saddened heart to the strange contrast which such\nwoeful tidings presented to the gay and loving words she had been\nhearing on her walk home. She blamed herself for being so much taken\nup with visions of the golden future, that she had lately gone but\nseldom on Sunday afternoons, or other leisure time, to see Mrs.\nWilson, her mother's friend; and with hasty purpose of amendment she\nonly stayed to leave a message for her father with the next-door\nneighbour, and then went off at a brisk pace on her way to the house\nof mourning.\n\nShe stopped with her hand on the latch of the Wilsons' door, to\nstill her beating heart, and listened to the hushed quiet within.\nShe opened the door softly: there sat Mrs. Wilson in the old\nrocking-chair, with one sick, death-like boy lying on her knee,\ncrying without let or pause, but softly, gently, as fearing to\ndisturb the troubled, gasping child; while behind her, old Alice let\nher fast-dropping tears fall down on the dead body of the other twin,\nwhich she was laying out on a board, placed on a sort of sofa-settee\nin a corner of the room. Over the child, which yet breathed, the\nfather bent, watching anxiously for some ground of hope, where hope\nthere was none. Mary stepped slowly and lightly across to Alice.\n\n\"Ay, poor lad! God has taken him early, Mary.\"\n\nMary could not speak; she did not know what to say; it was so much\nworse than she expected. At last she ventured to whisper,\n\n\"Is there any chance for the other one, think you?\"\n\nAlice shook her head, and told with a look that she believed there\nwas none. She next endeavoured to lift the little body, and carry it\nto its old accustomed bed in its parents' room. But earnest as the\nfather was in watching the yet-living, he had eyes and ears for all\nthat concerned the dead, and sprang gently up, and took his dead son\non his hard couch in his arms with tender strength, and carried him\nupstairs as if afraid of wakening him.\n\nThe other child gasped longer, louder, with more of effort.\n\n\"We mun get him away from his mother. He cannot die while she's\nwishing him.\"\n\n\"Wishing him?\" said Mary, in a tone of inquiry.\n\n\"Ay; donno ye know what wishing means? There's none can die in the\narms of those who are wishing them sore to stay on earth. The soul o'\nthem as holds them won't let the dying soul go free; so it has a hard\nstruggle for the quiet of death. We mun get him away fra' his mother,\nor he'll have a hard death, poor lile [20] fellow.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 20: \"Lile,\" a north-country word for \"little.\"\n                 \"Wit _leil_ labour to live.\"--_Piers Ploughman._]\n\n\nSo without circumlocution she went and offered to take the sinking\nchild. But the mother would not let him go, and looking in Alice's\nface with brimming and imploring eyes, declared in earnest whispers,\nthat she was not wishing him, that she would fain have him released\nfrom his suffering. Alice and Mary stood by with eyes fixed on the\npoor child, whose struggles seemed to increase, till at last his\nmother said with a choking voice,\n\n\"May happen [21] yo'd better take him, Alice; I believe my heart's\nwishing him a' this while, for I cannot, no, I cannot bring mysel to\nlet my two childer go in one day; I cannot help longing to keep him,\nand yet he sha'not suffer longer for me.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 21: \"May happen,\" perhaps.]\n\n\nShe bent down, and fondly, oh! with what passionate fondness, kissed\nher child, and then gave him up to Alice, who took him with tender\ncare. Nature's struggles were soon exhausted, and he breathed his\nlittle life away in peace.\n\nThen the mother lifted up her voice and wept. Her cries brought her\nhusband down to try with his aching heart to comfort hers. Again\nAlice laid out the dead, Mary helping with reverent fear. The father\nand mother carried him up-stairs to the bed, where his little brother\nlay in calm repose.\n\nMary and Alice drew near the fire, and stood in quiet sorrow for some\ntime. Then Alice broke the silence by saying,\n\n\"It will be bad news for Jem, poor fellow, when he comes home.\"\n\n\"Where is he?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"Working over-hours at th' shop. They'n getten a large order fra'\nforrin parts; and yo' know, Jem mun work, though his heart's\nwell-nigh breaking for these poor laddies.\"\n\nAgain they were silent in thought, and again Alice spoke first.\n\n\"I sometimes think the Lord is against planning. Whene'er I plan\nover-much, He is sure to send and mar all my plans, as if He would\nha' me put the future into His hands. Afore Christmas-time I was as\nfull as full could be, of going home for good and all; yo' han heard\nhow I've wished it this terrible long time. And a young lass from\nbehind Burton came into place in Manchester last Martinmas; so after\nawhile, she had a Sunday out, and she comes to me, and tells me some\ncousins o' mine bid her find me out, and say how glad they should be\nto ha' me to bide wi' 'em, and look after th' childer, for they'n\ngetten a big farm, and she's a deal to do among th' cows. So many\na winter's night did I lie awake and think, that please God, come\nsummer, I'd bid George and his wife good bye, and go home at last.\nLittle did I think how God Almighty would baulk me, for not leaving\nmy days in His hands, who had led me through the wilderness hitherto.\nHere's George out o' work, and more cast down than ever I seed him;\nwanting every chip o' comfort he can get, e'en afore this last heavy\nstroke; and now I'm thinking the Lord's finger points very clear to\nmy fit abiding place; and I'm sure if George and Jane can say 'His\nwill be done,' it's no more than what I'm beholden to do.\"\n\nSo saying, she fell to tidying the room, removing as much as she\ncould every vestige of sickness; making up the fire, and setting on\nthe kettle for a cup of tea for her sister-in-law, whose low moans\nand sobs were occasionally heard in the room below.\n\nMary helped her in all these little offices. They were busy in this\nway when the door was softly opened, and Jem came in, all grimed and\ndirty from his night-work, his soiled apron wrapped round his middle,\nin guise and apparel in which he would have been sorry at another\ntime to have been seen by Mary. But just now he hardly saw her; he\nwent straight up to Alice, and asked how the little chaps were. They\nhad been a shade better at dinner-time, and he had been working away\nthrough the long afternoon, and far into the night, in the belief\nthat they had taken the turn. He had stolen out during the half-hour\nallowed at the works for tea, to buy them an orange or two, which now\npuffed out his jacket-pocket.\n\nHe would make his aunt speak; he would not understand her shakes of\nthe head and fast coursing tears.\n\n\"They're both gone,\" said she.\n\n\"Dead!\"\n\n\"Ay! poor fellows. They took worse about two o'clock. Joe went first,\nas easy as a lamb, and Will died harder like.\"\n\n\"Both!\"\n\n\"Ay, lad! both. The Lord has ta'en them from some evil to come, or He\nwould na ha' made choice o' them. Ye may rest sure o' that.\"\n\nJem went to the cupboard, and quietly extricated from his pocket\nthe oranges he had bought. But he stayed long there, and at last\nhis sturdy frame shook with his strong agony. The two women were\nfrightened, as women always are, on witnessing a man's overpowering\ngrief. They cried afresh in company. Mary's heart melted within her\nas she witnessed Jem's sorrow, and she stepped gently up to the\ncorner where he stood, with his back turned to them, and putting her\nhand softly on his arm, said,\n\n\"Oh, Jem, don't give way so; I cannot bear to see you.\"\n\nJem felt a strange leap of joy in his heart, and knew the power she\nhad of comforting him. He did not speak, as though fearing to destroy\nby sound or motion the happiness of that moment, when her soft\nhand's touch thrilled through his frame, and her silvery voice was\nwhispering tenderness in his ear. Yes! it might be very wrong; he\ncould almost hate himself for it; with death and woe so surrounding\nhim, it yet was happiness, was bliss, to be so spoken to by Mary.\n\n\"Don't, Jem, please don't,\" whispered she again, believing that his\nsilence was only another form of grief.\n\nHe could not contain himself. He took her hand in his firm yet\ntrembling grasp, and said, in tones that instantly produced a\nrevulsion in her mood,\n\n\"Mary, I almost loathe myself when I feel I would not give up this\nminute, when my brothers lie dead, and father and mother are in such\ntrouble, for all my life that's past and gone. And, Mary (as she\ntried to release her hand), you know what makes me feel so blessed.\"\n\nShe did know--he was right there. But as he turned to catch a look at\nher sweet face, he saw that it expressed unfeigned distress, almost\namounting to vexation; a dread of him, that he thought was almost\nrepugnance.\n\nHe let her hand go, and she quickly went away to Alice's side.\n\n\"Fool that I was--nay, wretch that I was--to let myself take this\ntime of trouble to tell her how I loved her; no wonder that she turns\naway from such a selfish beast.\"\n\nPartly to relieve her from his presence, and partly from natural\ndesire, and partly, perhaps, from a penitent wish to share to the\nutmost his parents' sorrow, he soon went up-stairs to the chamber of\ndeath.\n\nMary mechanically helped Alice in all the duties she performed\nthrough the remainder of that long night, but she did not see Jem\nagain. He remained up-stairs until after the early dawn showed Mary\nthat she need have no fear of going home through the deserted and\nquiet streets, to try and get a little sleep before work hour. So\nleaving kind messages to George and Jane Wilson, and hesitating\nwhether she might dare to send a few kind words to Jem, and deciding\nthat she had better not, she stepped out into the bright morning\nlight, so fresh a contrast to the darkened room where death had been.\n\n            \"They had\n   Another morn than ours.\"\n\nMary lay down on her bed in her clothes; and whether it was this, or\nthe broad daylight that poured in through the sky-window, or whether\nit was over-excitement, it was long before she could catch a wink of\nsleep. Her thoughts ran on Jem's manner and words; not but what she\nhad known the tale they told for many a day; but still she wished he\nhad not put it so plainly.\n\n\"Oh dear,\" said she to herself, \"I wish he would not mistake me so; I\nnever dare to speak a common word o' kindness, but his eye brightens\nand his cheek flushes. It's very hard on me; for father and George\nWilson are old friends; and Jem and I ha' known each other since we\nwere quite children. I cannot think what possesses me, that I must\nalways be wanting to comfort him when he's downcast, and that I must\ngo meddling wi' him to-night, when sure enough it was his aunt's\nplace to speak to him. I don't care for him, and yet, unless I'm\nalways watching myself, I'm speaking to him in a loving voice. I\nthink I cannot go right, for I either check myself till I'm downright\ncross to him, or else I speak just natural, and that's too kind and\ntender by half. And I'm as good as engaged to be married to another;\nand another far handsomer than Jem; only I think I like Jem's face\nbest for all that; liking's liking, and there's no help for it. Well,\nwhen I'm Mrs. Harry Carson, may happen I can put some good fortune in\nJem's way. But will he thank me for it? He's rather savage at times,\nthat I can see, and perhaps kindness from me, when I'm another's,\nwill only go against the grain. I'll not plague myself wi' thinking\nany more about him, that I won't.\"\n\nSo she turned on her pillow, and fell asleep, and dreamt of what was\noften in her waking thoughts; of the day when she should ride from\nchurch in her carriage, with wedding-bells ringing, and take up\nher astonished father, and drive away from the old dim work-a-day\ncourt for ever, to live in a grand house, where her father should\nhave newspapers, and pamphlets, and pipes, and meat dinners every\nday,--and all day long if he liked.\n\nSuch thoughts mingled in her predilection for the handsome young\nMr. Carson, who, unfettered by work-hours, let scarcely a day pass\nwithout contriving a meeting with the beautiful little milliner he\nhad first seen while lounging in a shop where his sisters were making\nsome purchases, and afterwards never rested till he had freely,\nthough respectfully, made her acquaintance in her daily walks. He\nwas, to use his own expression to himself, quite infatuated by her,\nand was restless each day till the time came when he had a chance,\nand, of late, more than a chance of meeting her. There was something\nof keen practical shrewdness about her, which contrasted very\nbewitchingly with the simple, foolish, unworldly ideas she had picked\nup from the romances which Miss Simmonds' young ladies were in the\nhabit of recommending to each other.\n\nYes! Mary was ambitious, and did not favour Mr. Carson the less\nbecause he was rich and a gentleman. The old leaven, infused years\nago by her aunt Esther, fermented in her little bosom, and perhaps\nall the more, for her father's aversion to the rich and the gentle.\nSuch is the contrariness of the human heart, from Eve downwards, that\nwe all, in our old-Adam state, fancy things forbidden sweetest. So\nMary dwelt upon and enjoyed the idea of some day becoming a lady, and\ndoing all the elegant nothings appertaining to ladyhood. It was a\ncomfort to her, when scolded by Miss Simmonds, to think of the day\nwhen she would drive up to the door in her own carriage, to order her\ngowns from the hasty tempered yet kind dressmaker. It was a pleasure\nto her to hear the general admiration of the two elder Miss Carsons,\nacknowledged beauties in ball-room and street, on horseback and on\nfoot, and to think of the time when she should ride and walk with\nthem in loving sisterhood. But the best of her plans, the holiest,\nthat which in some measure redeemed the vanity of the rest, were\nthose relating to her father; her dear father, now oppressed with\ncare, and always a disheartened, gloomy person. How she would\nsurround him with every comfort she could devise (of course, he was\nto live with them), till he should acknowledge riches to be very\npleasant things, and bless his lady-daughter! Every one who had shown\nher kindness in her low estate should then be repaid a hundred-fold.\n\nSuch were the castles in air, the Alnaschar-visions in which Mary\nindulged, and which she was doomed in after days to expiate with many\ntears.\n\nMeanwhile, her words--or, even more, her tones--would maintain their\nhold on Jem Wilson's memory. A thrill would yet come over him when\nhe remembered how her hand had rested on his arm. The thought of her\nmingled with all his grief, and it was profound, for the loss of his\nbrothers.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nMARGARET'S DEBUT AS A PUBLIC SINGER.\n\n\n   \"Deal gently with them, they have much endured.\n   Scoff not at their fond hopes and earnest plans,\n   Though they may seem to thee wild dreams and fancies.\n   Perchance, in the rough school of stern experience,\n   They've something learned which Theory does not teach;\n   Or if they greatly err, deal gently still,\n   And let their error but the stronger plead\n   'Give us the light and guidance that we need!'\"\n\n   LOVE THOUGHTS.\n\n\nOne Sunday afternoon, about three weeks after that mournful night,\nJem Wilson set out with the ostensible purpose of calling on John\nBarton. He was dressed in his best, his Sunday suit of course; while\nhis face glittered with the scrubbing he had bestowed on it. His dark\nblack hair had been arranged and re-arranged before the household\nlooking-glass, and in his button-hole he stuck a narcissus (a sweet\nNancy is its pretty Lancashire name), hoping it would attract Mary's\nnotice, so that he might have the delight of giving it her.\n\nIt was a bad beginning of his visit of happiness that Mary saw him\nsome minutes before he came into her father's house. She was sitting\nat the end of the dresser, with the little window-blind drawn on one\nside, in order that she might see the passers-by, in the intervals\nof reading her Bible, which lay open before her. So she watched\nall the greeting a friend gave Jem; she saw the face of condolence,\nthe sympathetic shake of the hand, and had time to arrange her own\nface and manner before Jem came in, which he did, as if he had eyes\nfor no one but her father, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire,\nwhile he read an old \"Northern Star,\" borrowed from a neighbouring\npublic-house.\n\nThen he turned to Mary, who, he felt by the sure instinct of love,\nby which almost his body thought, was present. Her hands were busy\nadjusting her dress; a forced and unnecessary movement Jem could not\nhelp thinking. Her accost was quiet and friendly, if grave; she felt\nthat she reddened like a rose, and wished she could prevent it, while\nJem wondered if her blushes arose from fear, or anger, or love.\n\nShe was very cunning, I am afraid. She pretended to read diligently,\nand not to listen to a word that was said, while, in fact, she heard\nall sounds, even to Jem's long, deep sighs, which wrung her heart. At\nlast she took up her Bible, and as if their conversation disturbed\nher, went up-stairs to her little room. And she had scarcely spoken\na word to Jem; scarcely looked at him; never noticed his beautiful\nsweet Nancy, which only awaited her least word of praise to be hers!\nHe did not know--that pang was spared--that in her little dingy\nbed-room, stood a white jug, filled with a luxuriant bunch of early\nspring roses, making the whole room fragrant and bright. They were\nthe gift of her richer lover. So Jem had to go on sitting with John\nBarton, fairly caught in his own trap, and had to listen to his talk,\nand answer him as best he might.\n\n\"There's the right stuff in this here 'Star,' and no mistake. Such a\nright-down piece for short hours.\"\n\n\"At the same rate of wages as now?\" asked Jem.\n\n\"Ay, ay! else where's the use? It's only taking out o' the masters'\npocket what they can well afford. Did I ever tell yo what th'\nInfirmary chap let me into, many a year agone?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Jem, listlessly.\n\n\"Well! yo must know I were in th' Infirmary for a fever, and times\nwere rare and bad; and there be good chaps there to a man, while he's\nwick, [22] whate'er they may be about cutting him up at after. [23]\nSo when I were better o' th' fever, but weak as water, they says to\nme, says they, 'If yo can write, yo may stay in a week longer, and\nhelp our surgeon wi' sorting his papers; and we'll take care yo've\nyour belly full o' meat and drink. Yo'll be twice as strong in a\nweek.' So there wanted but one word to that bargain. So I were set to\nwriting and copying; th' writing I could do well enough, but they'd\nsuch queer ways o' spelling that I'd ne'er been used to, that I'd to\nlook first at th' copy and then at my letters, for all the world like\na cock picking up grains o' corn. But one thing startled me e'en\nthen, and I thought I'd make bold to ask the surgeon the meaning o't.\nI've gotten no head for numbers, but this I know, that by _far th'\ngreater part o' th' accidents as comed in, happened in th' last two\nhours o' work_, when folk getten tired and careless. Th' surgeon\nsaid it were all true, and that he were going to bring that fact to\nlight.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 22: \"Wick,\" alive. Anglo-Saxon, cwic. \"The _quick_\n                 and the dead.\"--_Book of Common Prayer._]\n\n   [Footnote 23: \"At after.\" \"_At after souper goth this noble\n                 king._\" _Chaucer; The Squire's Tale._]\n\n\nJem was pondering Mary's conduct; but the pause made him aware he\nought to utter some civil listening noise; so he said\n\n\"Very true.\"\n\n\"Ay, it's true enough, my lad, that we're sadly over-borne, and worse\nwill come of it afore long. Block-printers is going to strike; they'n\ngetten a bang-up union, as won't let 'em be put upon. But there's\nmany a thing will happen afore long, as folk don't expect. Yo may\ntake my word for that, Jem.\"\n\nJem was very willing to take it, but did not express the curiosity\nhe should have done. So John Barton thought he'd try another hint or\ntwo.\n\n\"Working folk won't be ground to the dust much longer. We'n a' had as\nmuch to bear as human nature can bear. So, if th' masters can't do us\nno good, and they say they can't, we mun try higher folk.\"\n\nStill Jem was not curious. He gave up hope of seeing Mary again by\nher own good free will; and the next best thing would be, to be alone\nto think of her. So, muttering something which he meant to serve\nas an excuse for his sudden departure, he hastily wished John good\nafternoon, and left him to resume his pipe and his politics.\n\nFor three years past, trade had been getting worse and worse, and the\nprice of provisions higher and higher. This disparity between the\namount of the earnings of the working classes and the price of their\nfood, occasioned, in more cases than could well be imagined, disease\nand death. Whole families went through a gradual starvation. They\nonly wanted a Dante to record their sufferings. And yet even his\nwords would fall short of the awful truth; they could only present an\noutline of the tremendous facts of the destitution that surrounded\nthousands upon thousands in the terrible years 1839, 1840, and 1841.\nEven philanthropists who had studied the subject, were forced to own\nthemselves perplexed in their endeavour to ascertain the real causes\nof the misery; the whole matter was of so complicated a nature,\nthat it became next to impossible to understand it thoroughly. It\nneed excite no surprise then to learn that a bad feeling between\nworking-men and the upper classes became very strong in this season\nof privation. The indigence and sufferings of the operatives induced\na suspicion in the minds of many of them, that their legislators,\ntheir magistrates, their employers, and even the ministers of\nreligion, were, in general, their oppressors and enemies; and were in\nleague for their prostration and enthralment. The most deplorable and\nenduring evil that arose out of the period of commercial depression\nto which I refer, was this feeling of alienation between the\ndifferent classes of society. It is so impossible to describe, or\neven faintly to picture, the state of distress which prevailed in the\ntown at that time, that I will not attempt it; and yet I think again\nthat surely, in a Christian land, it was not known even so feebly\nas words could tell it, or the more happy and fortunate would have\nthronged with their sympathy and their aid. In many instances the\nsufferers wept first, and then they cursed. Their vindictive feelings\nexhibited themselves in rabid politics. And when I hear, as I have\nheard, of the sufferings and privations of the poor, of provision\nshops where ha'porths of tea, sugar, butter, and even flour, were\nsold to accommodate the indigent,--of parents sitting in their\nclothes by the fire-side during the whole night for seven weeks\ntogether, in order that their only bed and bedding might be reserved\nfor the use of their large family,--of others sleeping upon the\ncold hearth-stone for weeks in succession, without adequate means\nof providing themselves with food or fuel (and this in the depth\nof winter),--of others being compelled to fast for days together,\nuncheered by any hope of better fortune, living, moreover, or rather\nstarving, in a crowded garret, or damp cellar, and gradually sinking\nunder the pressure of want and despair into a premature grave; and\nwhen this has been confirmed by the evidence of their care-worn\nlooks, their excited feelings, and their desolate homes,--can I\nwonder that many of them, in such times of misery and destitution,\nspoke and acted with ferocious precipitation?\n\nAn idea was now springing up among the operatives, that originated\nwith the Chartists, but which came at last to be cherished as a\ndarling child by many and many a one. They could not believe that\ngovernment knew of their misery; they rather chose to think it\npossible that men could voluntarily assume the office of legislators\nfor a nation, ignorant of its real state; as who should make domestic\nrules for the pretty behaviour of children, without caring to know\nthat those children had been kept for days without food. Besides,\nthe starving multitudes had heard, that the very existence of their\ndistress had been denied in Parliament; and though they felt this\nstrange and inexplicable, yet the idea that their misery had still\nto be revealed in all its depths, and that then some remedy would be\nfound, soothed their aching hearts, and kept down their rising fury.\n\nSo a petition was framed, and signed by thousands in the bright\nspring days of 1839, imploring Parliament to hear witnesses who\ncould testify to the unparalleled destitution of the manufacturing\ndistricts. Nottingham, Sheffield, Glasgow, Manchester, and many other\ntowns, were busy appointing delegates to convey this petition, who\nmight speak, not merely of what they had seen, and had heard, but\nfrom what they had borne and suffered. Life-worn, gaunt, anxious,\nhunger-stamped men, were those delegates.\n\nOne of them was John Barton. He would have been ashamed to own the\nflutter of spirits his appointment gave him. There was the childish\ndelight of seeing London--that went a little way, and but a little\nway. There was the vain idea of speaking out his notions before so\nmany grand folk--that went a little further; and last, there was the\nreally pure gladness of heart, arising from the idea that he was one\nof those chosen to be instruments in making known the distresses of\nthe people, and consequently in procuring them some grand relief,\nby means of which they should never suffer want or care any more.\nHe hoped largely, but vaguely, of the results of his expedition. An\nargosy of the precious hopes of many otherwise despairing creatures,\nwas that petition to be heard concerning their sufferings.\n\nThe night before the morning on which the Manchester delegates were\nto leave for London, Barton might be said to hold a levée, so many\nneighbours came dropping in. Job Legh had early established himself\nand his pipe by John Barton's fire, not saying much, but puffing\naway, and imagining himself of use in adjusting the smoothing-irons\nthat hung before the fire, ready for Mary when she should want them.\nAs for Mary, her employment was the same as that of Beau Tibbs' wife,\n\"just washing her father's two shirts,\" in the pantry back-kitchen;\nfor she was anxious about his appearance in London. (The coat had\nbeen redeemed, though the silk handkerchief was forfeited.) The door\nstood open, as usual, between the houseplace and back-kitchen, so she\ngave her greeting to their friends as they entered.\n\n\"So, John, yo're bound for London, are yo?\" said one.\n\n\"Ay, I suppose I mun go,\" answered John, yielding to necessity as it\nwere.\n\n\"Well, there's many a thing I'd like yo to speak on to the Parliament\npeople. Thou'lt not spare 'em, John, I hope. Tell 'em our minds; how\nwe're thinking we've been clemmed long enough, and we donnot see\nwhatten good they'n been doing, if they can't give us what we're all\ncrying for sin' the day we were born.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay! I'll tell 'em that, and much more to it, when it gets to my\nturn; but thou knows there's many will have their word afore me.\"\n\n\"Well, thou'lt speak at last. Bless thee, lad, do ask 'em to make\nth' masters break th' machines. There's never been good times sin'\nspinning-jennies came up.\"\n\n\"Machines is th' ruin of poor folk,\" chimed in several voices.\n\n\"For my part,\" said a shivering, half-clad man, who crept near the\nfire, as if ague-stricken, \"I would like thee to tell 'em to pass th'\nShort-hours Bill. Flesh and blood gets wearied wi' so much work; why\nshould factory hands work so much longer nor other trades? Just ask\n'em that, Barton, will ye?\"\n\nBarton was saved the necessity of answering, by the entrance of\nMrs. Davenport, the poor widow he had been so kind to; she looked\nhalf-fed, and eager, but was decently clad. In her hand she brought a\nlittle newspaper parcel, which she took to Mary, who opened it, and\nthen called out, dangling a shirt collar from her soapy fingers:\n\n\"See, father, what a dandy you'll be in London! Mrs. Davenport has\nbrought you this; made new cut, all after the fashion.--Thank you for\nthinking on him.\"\n\n\"Eh, Mary!\" said Mrs. Davenport, in a low voice. \"Whatten's all I can\ndo, to what he's done for me and mine? But, Mary, sure I can help ye,\nfor you'll be busy wi' this journey.\"\n\n\"Just help me wring these out, and then I'll take 'em to th' mangle.\"\n\nSo Mrs. Davenport became a listener to the conversation; and after a\nwhile joined in.\n\n\"I'm sure, John Barton, if yo are taking messages to the Parliament\nfolk, yo'll not object to telling 'em what a sore trial it is, this\nlaw o' theirs, keeping childer fra' factory work, whether they be\nweakly or strong. There's our Ben; why, porridge seems to go no way\nwi' him, he eats so much; and I han gotten no money to send him t'\nschool, as I would like; and there he is, rampaging about th' streets\na' day, getting hungrier and hungrier, and picking up a' manner o'\nbad ways; and th' inspector won't let him in to work in th' factory,\nbecause he's not right age; though he's twice as strong as Sankey's\nlittle ritling [24] of a lad, as works till he cries for his legs\naching so, though he is right age, and better.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 24: \"Ritling,\" probably a corruption of \"ricketling,\"\n                 a child that suffers from the rickets--a weakling.]\n\n\n\"I've one plan I wish to tell John Barton,\" said a pompous,\ncareful-speaking man, \"and I should like him for to lay it afore\nthe Honourable House. My mother comed out o' Oxfordshire, and were\nunder-laundry-maid in Sir Francis Dashwood's family; and when we were\nlittle ones, she'd tell us stories of their grandeur; and one thing\nshe named were, that Sir Francis wore two shirts a day. Now he were\nall as one as a Parliament man; and many on 'em, I han no doubt, are\nlike extravagant. Just tell 'em, John, do, that they'd be doing th'\nLancashire weavers a great kindness, if they'd ha' their shirts a'\nmade o' calico; 'twould make trade brisk, that would, wi' the power\no' shirts they wear.\"\n\nJob Legh now put in his word. Taking the pipe out of his mouth, and\naddressing the last speaker, he said:\n\n\"I'll tell ye what, Bill, and no offence, mind ye; there's but\nhundreds of them Parliament folk as wear so many shirts to their\nback; but there's thousands and thousands o' poor weavers as han\nonly gotten one shirt i' th' world; ay, and don't know where t'\nget another when that rag's done, though they're turning out miles\no' calico every day; and many a mile o't is lying in warehouses,\nstopping up trade for want o' purchasers. Yo take my advice, John\nBarton, and ask Parliament to set trade free, so as workmen can earn\na decent wage, and buy their two, ay and three, shirts a-year; that\nwould make weaving brisk.\"\n\nHe put his pipe in his mouth again, and redoubled his puffing to make\nup for lost time.\n\n\"I'm afeard, neighbours,\" said John Barton, \"I've not much chance o'\ntelling 'em all yo say; what I think on, is just speaking out about\nthe distress that they say is nought. When they hear o' children born\non wet flags, without a rag t' cover 'em, or a bit o' food for th'\nmother; when they hear of folk lying down to die i' th' streets, or\nhiding their want i' some hole o' a cellar till death come to set 'em\nfree; and when they hear o' all this plague, pestilence, and famine,\nthey'll surely do somewhat wiser for us than we can guess at now.\nHowe'er, I han no objection, if so be there's an opening, to speak up\nfor what yo say; anyhow, I'll do my best, and yo see now, if better\ntimes don't come after Parliament knows all.\"\n\nSome shook their heads, but more looked cheery; and then one by one\ndropped off, leaving John and his daughter alone.\n\n\"Didst thou mark how poorly Jane Wilson looked?\" asked he, as they\nwound up their hard day's work by a supper eaten over the fire, which\nglowed and glimmered through the room, and formed their only light.\n\n\"No, I can't say as I did. But she's never rightly held up her head\nsince the twins died; and all along she has never been a strong\nwoman.\"\n\n\"Never sin' her accident. Afore that I mind her looking as fresh and\nlikely a girl as e'er a one in Manchester.\"\n\n\"What accident, father?\"\n\n\"She cotched [25] her side again a wheel. It were afore wheels were\nboxed up. It were just when she were to have been married, and many\na one thought George would ha' been off his bargain; but I knew he\nwern't the chap for that trick. Pretty near the first place she went\nto when she were able to go about again, was th' Oud Church; poor\nwench, all pale and limping she went up the aisle, George holding\nher up as tender as a mother, and walking as slow as e'er he could,\nnot to hurry her, though there were plenty enow of rude lads to cast\ntheir jests at him and her. Her face were white like a sheet when\nshe came in church, but afore she got to th' altar she were all one\nflush. But for a' that it's been a happy marriage, and George has\nstuck by me through life like a brother. He'll never hold up his head\nagain if he loses Jane. I didn't like her looks to-night.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 25: \"Cotched,\" caught.]\n\n\nAnd so he went to bed, the fear of forthcoming sorrow to his friend\nmingling with his thoughts of to-morrow, and his hopes for the\nfuture. Mary watched him set off, with her hands over her eyes to\nshade them from the bright slanting rays of the morning sun, and then\nshe turned into the house to arrange its disorder before going to\nher work. She wondered if she should like or dislike the evening and\nmorning solitude; for several hours when the clock struck she thought\nof her father, and wondered where he was; she made good resolutions\naccording to her lights; and by-and-bye came the distractions and\nevents of the broad full day to occupy her with the present, and to\ndeaden the memory of the absent.\n\nOne of Mary's resolutions was, that she would not be persuaded or\ninduced to see Mr. Harry Carson during her father's absence. There\nwas something crooked in her conscience after all; for this very\nresolution seemed an acknowledgment that it was wrong to meet him at\nany time; and yet she had brought herself to think her conduct quite\ninnocent and proper, for although unknown to her father, and certain,\neven did he know it, to fail of obtaining his sanction, she esteemed\nher love-meetings with Mr. Carson as sure to end in her father's good\nand happiness. But now that he was away, she would do nothing that he\nwould disapprove of; no, not even though it was for his own good in\nthe end.\n\nNow, amongst Miss Simmonds' young ladies was one who had been from\nthe beginning a confidant in Mary's love affair, made so by Mr.\nCarson himself. He had felt the necessity of some third person to\ncarry letters and messages, and to plead his cause when he was\nabsent. In a girl named Sally Leadbitter he had found a willing\nadvocate. She would have been willing to have embarked in a\nlove-affair herself (especially a clandestine one), for the mere\nexcitement of the thing; but her willingness was strengthened by\nsundry half-sovereigns, which from time to time Mr. Carson bestowed\nupon her.\n\nSally Leadbitter was vulgar-minded to the last degree; never easy\nunless her talk was of love and lovers; in her eyes it was an honour\nto have had a long list of wooers. So constituted, it was a pity\nthat Sally herself was but a plain, red-haired, freckled girl; never\nlikely, one would have thought, to become a heroine on her own\naccount. But what she lacked in beauty she tried to make up for by a\nkind of witty boldness, which gave her what her betters would have\ncalled piquancy. Considerations of modesty or propriety never checked\nher utterance of a good thing. She had just talent enough to corrupt\nothers. Her very good-nature was an evil influence. They could not\nhate one who was so kind; they could not avoid one who was so willing\nto shield them from scrapes by any exertion of her own; whose ready\nfingers would at any time make up for their deficiencies, and whose\nstill more convenient tongue would at any time invent for them. The\nJews, or Mohammedans (I forget which), believe that there is one\nlittle bone of our body, one of the vertebræ, if I remember rightly,\nwhich will never decay and turn to dust, but will lie incorrupt and\nindestructible in the ground until the Last Day: this is the Seed of\nthe Soul. The most depraved have also their Seed of the Holiness that\nshall one day overcome their evil, their one good quality, lurking\nhidden, but safe, among all the corrupt and bad.\n\nSally's seed of the future soul was her love for her mother, an\naged bedridden woman. For her she had self-denial; for her, her\ngood-nature rose into tenderness; to cheer her lonely bed, her\nspirits, in the evenings when her body was often woefully tired,\nnever flagged, but were ready to recount the events of the day, to\nturn them into ridicule, and to mimic, with admirable fidelity, any\nperson gifted with an absurdity who had fallen under her keen eye.\nBut the mother was lightly principled like Sally herself; nor was\nthere need to conceal from her the reason why Mr. Carson gave her\nso much money. She chuckled with pleasure, and only hoped that the\nwooing would be long a-doing.\n\nStill neither she, nor her daughter, nor Harry Carson liked this\nresolution of Mary, not to see him during her father's absence.\n\nOne evening (and the early summer evenings were long and bright now),\nSally met Mr. Carson by appointment, to be charged with a letter for\nMary, imploring her to see him, which Sally was to back with all\nher powers of persuasion. After parting from him she determined, as\nit was not so very late, to go at once to Mary's, and deliver the\nmessage and letter.\n\nShe found Mary in great sorrow. She had just heard of George Wilson's\nsudden death: her old friend, her father's friend, Jem's father--all\nhis claims came rushing upon her. Though not guarded from unnecessary\nsight or sound of death, as the children of the rich are, yet it had\nso often been brought home to her this last three or four months. It\nwas so terrible thus to see friend after friend depart. Her father,\ntoo, who had dreaded Jane Wilson's death the evening before he set\noff. And she, the weakly, was left behind while the strong man was\ntaken. At any rate the sorrow her father had so feared for him was\nspared. Such were the thoughts which came over her.\n\nShe could not go to comfort the bereaved, even if comfort were in her\npower to give; for she had resolved to avoid Jem; and she felt that\nthis of all others was not the occasion on which she could keep up a\nstudiously cold manner.\n\nAnd in this shock of grief, Sally Leadbitter was the last person\nshe wished to see. However, she rose to welcome her, betraying her\ntear-swollen face.\n\n\"Well, I shall tell Mr. Carson to-morrow how you're fretting for him;\nit's no more nor he's doing for you, I can tell you.\"\n\n\"For him, indeed!\" said Mary, with a toss of her pretty head.\n\n\"Ay, miss, for him! You've been sighing as if your heart would break\nnow for several days, over your work; now arn't you a little goose\nnot to go and see one who I am sure loves you as his life, and whom\nyou love; 'How much, Mary?' 'This much,' as the children say\"\n(opening her arms very wide).\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Mary, pouting; \"I often think I don't love him at\nall.\"\n\n\"And I'm to tell him that, am I, next time I see him?\" asked Sally.\n\n\"If you like,\" replied Mary. \"I'm sure I don't care for that or any\nthing else now;\" weeping afresh.\n\nBut Sally did not like to be the bearer of any such news. She saw she\nhad gone on the wrong tack, and that Mary's heart was too full to\nvalue either message or letter as she ought. So she wisely paused\nin their delivery, and said in a more sympathetic tone than she had\nheretofore used,\n\n\"Do tell me, Mary, what's fretting you so? You know I never could\nabide to see you cry.\"\n\n\"George Wilson's dropped down dead this afternoon,\" said Mary, fixing\nher eyes for one minute on Sally, and the next hiding her face in her\napron as she sobbed anew.\n\n\"Dear, dear! All flesh is grass; here to-day and gone to-morrow,\nas the Bible says. Still he was an old man, and not good for much;\nthere's better folk than him left behind. Is th' canting old maid as\nwas his sister alive yet?\"\n\n\"I don't know who you mean,\" said Mary, sharply; for she did know,\nand did not like to have her dear, simple Alice so spoken of.\n\n\"Come, Mary, don't be so innocent. Is Miss Alice Wilson alive, then;\nwill that please you? I haven't seen her hereabouts lately.\"\n\n\"No, she's left living here. When the twins died she thought she\ncould, may be, be of use to her sister, who was sadly cast down, and\nAlice thought she could cheer her up; at any rate she could listen to\nher when her heart grew overburdened; so she gave up her cellar and\nwent to live with them.\"\n\n\"Well, good go with her. I'd no fancy for her, and I'd no fancy for\nher making my pretty Mary into a Methodee.\"\n\n\"She wasn't a Methodee, she was Church o' England.\"\n\n\"Well, well, Mary, you're very particular. You know what I meant.\nLook, who is this letter from?\" holding up Henry Carson's letter.\n\n\"I don't know, and don't care,\" said Mary, turning very red.\n\n\"My eye! as if I didn't know you did know and did care.\"\n\n\"Well, give it me,\" said Mary, impatiently, and anxious in her\npresent mood for her visitor's departure.\n\nSally relinquished it unwillingly. She had, however, the pleasure of\nseeing Mary dimple and blush as she read the letter, which seemed to\nsay the writer was not indifferent to her.\n\n\"You must tell him I can't come,\" said Mary, raising her eyes at\nlast. \"I have said I won't meet him while father is away, and I\nwon't.\"\n\n\"But, Mary, he does so look for you. You'd be quite sorry for him,\nhe's so put out about not seeing you. Besides you go when your\nfather's at home, without letting on [26] to him, and what harm would\nthere be in going now?\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 26: \"Letting on,\" informing. In Anglo-Saxon, one\n                 meaning of \"lætan\" was \"to admit;\" and we say,\n                 to _let_ out a secret.]\n\n\n\"Well, Sally! you know my answer, I won't; and I won't.\"\n\n\"I'll tell him to come and see you himself some evening, instead o'\nsending me; he'd may be find you not so hard to deal with.\"\n\nMary flashed up.\n\n\"If he dares to come here while father's away, I'll call the\nneighbours in to turn him out, so don't be putting him up to that.\"\n\n\"Mercy on us! one would think you were the first girl that ever had\na lover; have you never heard what other girls do and think no shame\nof?\"\n\n\"Hush, Sally! that's Margaret Jennings at the door.\"\n\nAnd in an instant Margaret was in the room. Mary had begged Job Legh\nto let her come and sleep with her. In the uncertain fire-light you\ncould not help noticing that she had the groping walk of a blind\nperson.\n\n\"Well, I must go, Mary,\" said Sally. \"And that's your last word?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes; good-night.\" She shut the door gladly on her unwelcome\nvisitor--unwelcome at that time at least.\n\n\"Oh Margaret, have ye heard this sad news about George Wilson?\"\n\n\"Yes, that I have. Poor creatures, they've been sore tried lately.\nNot that I think sudden death so bad a thing; it's easy, and there's\nno terrors for him as dies. For them as survives it's very hard. Poor\nGeorge! he were such a hearty looking man.\"\n\n\"Margaret,\" said Mary, who had been closely observing her friend,\n\"thou'rt very blind to-night, arn't thou? Is it wi' crying? Your eyes\nare so swollen and red.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear! but not crying for sorrow. Han ye heard where I was last\nnight?\"\n\n\"No; where?\"\n\n\"Look here.\" She held up a bright golden sovereign. Mary opened her\nlarge gray eyes with astonishment.\n\n\"I'll tell you all how and about it. You see there's a gentleman\nlecturing on music at th' Mechanics', and he wants folk to sing his\nsongs. Well, last night th' counter got a sore throat and couldn't\nmake a note. So they sent for me. Jacob Butterworth had said a good\nword for me, and they asked me would I sing? You may think I was\nfrightened, but I thought now or never, and said I'd do my best. So I\ntried o'er the songs wi' th' lecturer, and then th' managers told me\nI were to make myself decent and be there by seven.\"\n\n\"And what did you put on?\" asked Mary. \"Oh, why didn't you come in\nfor my pretty pink gingham?\"\n\n\"I did think on't; but you had na come home then. No! I put on my\nmerino, as was turned last winter, and my white shawl, and did my\nhair pretty tidy; it did well enough. Well, but as I was saying, I\nwent at seven. I couldn't see to read my music, but I took th' paper\nin wi' me, to ha' somewhat to do wi' my fingers. Th' folks' heads\ndanced, as I stood as right afore 'em all as if I'd been going to\nplay at ball wi' 'em. You may guess I felt squeamish, but mine\nweren't the first song, and th' music sounded like a friend's voice,\ntelling me to take courage. So to make a long story short, when it\nwere all o'er th' lecturer thanked me, and th' managers said as how\nthere never was a new singer so applauded (for they'd clapped and\nstamped after I'd done, till I began to wonder how many pair o' shoes\nthey'd get through a week at that rate, let alone their hands). So\nI'm to sing again o' Thursday; and I got a sovereign last night,\nand am to have half-a-sovereign every night th' lecturer is at th'\nMechanics'.\"\n\n\"Well, Margaret, I'm right glad to hear it.\"\n\n\"And I don't think you've heard the best bit yet. Now that a way\nseemed opened to me, of not being a burden to any one, though it did\nplease God to make me blind, I thought I'd tell grandfather. I only\ntelled him about the singing and the sovereign last night, for I\nthought I'd not send him to bed wi' a heavy heart; but this morning\nI telled him all.\"\n\n\"And how did he take it?\"\n\n\"He's not a man of many words; and it took him by surprise like.\"\n\n\"I wonder at that; I've noticed it in your ways ever since you telled\nme.\"\n\n\"Ay, that's it! If I'd not telled you, and you'd seen me every day,\nyou'd not ha' noticed the little mite o' difference fra' day to day.\"\n\n\"Well, but what did your grandfather say?\"\n\n\"Why, Mary,\" said Margaret, half smiling, \"I'm a bit loath to tell\nyo, for unless yo knew grandfather's ways like me, yo'd think it\nstrange. He were taken by surprise, and he said: 'Damn yo!' Then he\nbegan looking at his book as it were, and were very quiet, while I\ntelled him all about it; how I'd feared, and how downcast I'd been;\nand how I were now reconciled to it, if it were th' Lord's will; and\nhow I hoped to earn money by singing; and while I were talking, I\nsaw great big tears come dropping on th' book; but in course I never\nlet on that I saw 'em. Dear grandfather! and all day long he's been\nquietly moving things out o' my way, as he thought might trip me\nup, and putting things in my way, as he thought I might want; never\nknowing I saw and felt what he were doing; for, yo see, he thinks I'm\nout and out blind, I guess--as I shall be soon.\"\n\nMargaret sighed, in spite of her cheerful and relieved tone.\n\nThough Mary caught the sigh, she felt it was better to let it pass\nwithout notice, and began, with the tact which true sympathy rarely\nfails to supply, to ask a variety of questions respecting her\nfriend's musical debut, which tended to bring out more distinctly how\nsuccessful it had been.\n\n\"Why, Margaret,\" at length she exclaimed, \"thou'lt become as famous,\nmay be, as that grand lady fra' London, as we seed one night driving\nup to th' concert room door in her carriage.\"\n\n\"It looks very like it,\" said Margaret, with a smile. \"And be sure,\nMary, I'll not forget to give thee a lift now an' then when that\ncomes about. Nay, who knows, if thou'rt a good girl, but mayhappen\nI may make thee my lady's maid! Wouldn't that be nice? So I'll e'en\nsing to mysel' th' beginning o' one o' my songs,\n\n   'An' ye shall walk in silk attire,\n   An' siller hae to spare.'\"\n\n\"Nay, don't stop; or else give me something a bit more new, for\nsomehow I never quite liked that part about thinking o' Donald mair.\"\n\n\"Well, though I'm a bit tir'd, I don't care if I do. Before I come,\nI were practising well nigh upon two hours this one which I'm to\nsing o' Thursday. Th' lecturer said he were sure it would just suit\nme, and I should do justice to it; and I should be right sorry to\ndisappoint him, he were so nice and encouraging like to me. Eh! Mary,\nwhat a pity there isn't more o' that way, and less scolding and\nrating i' th' world! It would go a vast deal further. Beside, some o'\nth' singers said they were a'most certain it were a song o' his own,\nbecause he were so fidgetty and particular about it, and so anxious\nI should give it th' proper expression. And that makes me care still\nmore. Th' first verse, he said, were to be sung 'tenderly, but\njoyously!' I'm afraid I don't quite hit that, but I'll try.\n\n   'What a single word can do!\n   Thrilling all the heart-strings through,\n   Calling forth fond memories,\n   Raining round hope's melodies,\n   Steeping all in one bright hue--\n   What a single word can do!'\n\nNow it falls into th' minor key, and must be very sad like. I feel\nas if I could do that better than t'other.\n\n   'What a single word can do!\n   Making life seem all untrue,\n   Driving joy and hope away,\n   Leaving not one cheering ray\n   Blighting every flower that grew--\n   What a single word can do!'\"\n\nMargaret certainly made the most of this little song. As a factory\nworker, listening outside, observed, \"She spun it reet [27] fine!\"\nAnd if she only sang it at the Mechanics' with half the feeling she\nput into it that night, the lecturer must have been hard to please,\nif he did not admit that his expectations were more than fulfilled.\n\n\n   [Footnote 27: \"Reet,\" right; often used for \"very.\"]\n\n\nWhen it was ended, Mary's looks told more than words could have done\nwhat she thought of it; and partly to keep in a tear which would fain\nhave rolled out, she brightened into a laugh, and said, \"For certain,\nth' carriage is coming. So let us go and dream on it.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nBARTON'S LONDON EXPERIENCES.\n\n\n   \"A life of self-indulgence is for us,\n     A life of self-denial is for them;\n   For us the streets, broad-built and populous,\n     For them unhealthy corners, garrets dim,\n     And cellars where the water-rat may swim!\n   For us green paths refreshed by frequent rain,\n     For them dark alleys where the dust lies grim!\n   Not doomed by us to this appointed pain--\n   God made us rich and poor--of what do these complain?\"\n\n   MRS. NORTON'S \"CHILD OF THE ISLANDS.\"\n\n\nThe next evening it was a warm, pattering, incessant rain, just the\nrain to waken up the flowers. But in Manchester, where, alas! there\nare no flowers, the rain had only a disheartening and gloomy effect;\nthe streets were wet and dirty, the drippings from the houses were\nwet and dirty, and the people were wet and dirty. Indeed, most kept\nwithin-doors; and there was an unusual silence of footsteps in the\nlittle paved courts.\n\nMary had to change her clothes after her walk home; and had hardly\nsettled herself before she heard some one fumbling at the door. The\nnoise continued long enough to allow her to get up, and go and open\nit. There stood--could it be? yes it was, her father!\n\nDrenched and way-worn, there he stood! He came in with no word to\nMary in return for her cheery and astonished greeting. He sat down by\nthe fire in his wet things, unheeding. But Mary would not let him so\nrest. She ran up and brought down his working-day clothes, and went\ninto the pantry to rummage up their little bit of provision while\nhe changed by the fire, talking all the while as gaily as she could,\nthough her father's depression hung like lead on her heart.\n\nFor Mary, in her seclusion at Miss Simmonds',--where the chief talk\nwas of fashions, and dress, and parties to be given, for which such\nand such gowns would be wanted, varied with a slight whispered\ninterlude occasionally about love and lovers,--had not heard the\npolitical news of the day: that Parliament had refused to listen to\nthe working-men, when they petitioned with all the force of their\nrough, untutored words to be heard concerning the distress which was\nriding, like the Conqueror on his Pale Horse, among the people; which\nwas crushing their lives out of them, and stamping woe-marks over the\nland.\n\nWhen he had eaten and was refreshed, they sat in silence for some\ntime; for Mary wished him to tell her what oppressed him so, yet\ndurst not ask. In this she was wise; for when we are heavy laden in\nour hearts, it falls in better with our humour to reveal our case in\nour own way, and our own time.\n\nMary sat on a stool at her father's feet in old childish guise, and\nstole her hand into his, while his sadness infected her, and she\n\"caught the trick of grief, and sighed,\" she knew not why.\n\n\"Mary, we mun speak to our God to hear us, for man will not hearken;\nno, not now, when we weep tears o' blood.\"\n\nIn an instant Mary understood the fact, if not the details, that so\nweighed down her father's heart. She pressed his hand with silent\nsympathy. She did not know what to say, and was so afraid of speaking\nwrongly, that she was silent. But when his attitude had remained\nunchanged for more than half-an-hour, his eyes gazing vacantly and\nfixedly at the fire, no sound but now and then a deep drawn sigh to\nbreak the weary ticking of the clock, and the drip-drop from the roof\nwithout, Mary could bear it no longer. Any thing to rouse her father.\nEven bad news.\n\n\"Father, do you know George Wilson's dead?\" (Her hand was suddenly\nand almost violently compressed.) \"He dropped down dead in Oxford\nRoad yester morning. It's very sad, isn't it, father?\"\n\nHer tears were ready to flow as she looked up in her father's face\nfor sympathy. Still the same fixed look of despair, not varied by\ngrief for the dead.\n\n\"Best for him to die,\" he said, in a low voice.\n\nThis was unbearable. Mary got up under pretence of going to tell\nMargaret that she need not come to sleep with her to-night, but\nreally to ask Job Legh to come and cheer her father.\n\nShe stopped outside their door. Margaret was practising her singing,\nand through the still night air her voice rang out like that of an\nangel.\n\n\"Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God.\"\n\nThe old Hebrew prophetic words fell like dew on Mary's heart. She\ncould not interrupt. She stood listening and \"comforted,\" till the\nlittle buzz of conversation again began, and then entered and told\nher errand.\n\nBoth grandfather and grand-daughter rose instantly to fulfil her\nrequest.\n\n\"He's just tired out, Mary,\" said old Job. \"He'll be a different man\nto-morrow.\"\n\nThere is no describing the looks and tones that have power over an\naching, heavy laden heart; but in an hour or so John Barton was\ntalking away as freely as ever, though all his talk ran, as was\nnatural, on the disappointment of his fond hope, of the forlorn hope\nof many.\n\n\"Ay, London's a fine place,\" said he, \"and finer folk live in it than\nI ever thought on, or ever heerd tell on except in th' story-books.\nThey are having their good things now, that afterwards they may be\ntormented.\"\n\nStill at the old parable of Dives and Lazarus! Does it haunt the\nminds of the rich as it does those of the poor?\n\n\"Do tell us all about London, dear father,\" asked Mary, who was\nsitting at her old post by her father's knee.\n\n\"How can I tell yo a' about it, when I never seed one-tenth of it.\nIt's as big as six Manchesters, they telled me. One-sixth may be made\nup o' grand palaces, and three-sixths o' middling kind, and th' rest\no' holes o' iniquity and filth, such as Manchester knows nought on,\nI'm glad to say.\"\n\n\"Well, father, but did you see th' Queen?\"\n\n\"I believe I didn't, though one day I thought I'd seen her many a\ntime. You see,\" said he, turning to Job Legh, \"there were a day\nappointed for us to go to Parliament House. We were most on us biding\nat a public-house in Holborn, where they did very well for us. Th'\nmorning of taking our petition we'd such a spread for breakfast as\nth' Queen hersel might ha' sitten down to. I suppose they thought\nwe wanted putting in heart. There were mutton kidneys, and sausages,\nand broiled ham, and fried beef and onions; more like a dinner nor\na breakfast. Many on our chaps though, I could see, could eat but\nlittle. Th' food stuck in their throats when they thought o' them\nat home, wives and little ones, as had, may be at that very time,\nnought to eat. Well, after breakfast, we were all set to walk in\nprocession, and a time it took to put us in order, two and two, and\nthe petition as was yards long, carried by th' foremost pairs. The\nmen looked grave enough, yo may be sure; and such a set of thin, wan,\nwretched-looking chaps as they were!\"\n\n\"Yourself is none to boast on.\"\n\n\"Ay, but I were fat and rosy to many a one. Well, we walked on and\non through many a street, much the same as Deansgate. We had to walk\nslowly, slowly, for th' carriages an' cabs as thronged th' streets.\nI thought by-and-bye we should may be get clear on 'em, but as th'\nstreets grew wider they grew worse, and at last we were fairly\nblocked up at Oxford Street. We getten across at last though, and my\neyes! the grand streets we were in then! They're sadly puzzled how\nto build houses though in London; there'd be an opening for a good\nsteady master-builder there, as know'd his business. For yo see the\nhouses are many on 'em built without any proper shape for a body\nto live in; some on 'em they've after thought would fall down, so\nthey've stuck great ugly pillars out before 'em. And some on 'em (we\nthought they must be th' tailor's sign) had getten stone men and\nwomen as wanted clothes stuck on 'em. I were like a child, I forgot\na' my errand in looking about me. By this it were dinner-time, or\nbetter, as we could tell by th' sun, right above our heads, and we\nwere dusty and tired, going a step now and a step then. Well, at\nlast we getten into a street grander nor all, leading to th' Queen's\npalace, and there it were I thought I saw th' Queen. Yo've seen th'\nhearses wi' white plumes, Job?\"\n\nJob assented.\n\n\"Well, them undertaker folk are driving a pretty trade in London.\nWellnigh every lady we saw in a carriage had hired one o' them plumes\nfor the day, and had it niddle noddling on her head. It were th'\nQueen's Drawing-room, they said, and th' carriages went bowling along\ntoward her house, some wi' dressed up gentlemen like circus folk in\n'em, and rucks [28] o' ladies in others. Carriages themselves were\ngreat shakes too. Some o' th' gentlemen as couldn't get inside hung\non behind, wi' nosegays to smell at, and sticks to keep off folk as\nmight splash their silk stockings. I wondered why they didn't hire a\ncab rather than hang on like a whip-behind boy; but I suppose they\nwished to keep wi' their wives, Darby and Joan like. Coachmen were\nlittle squat men, wi' wigs like th' oud fashioned parsons. Well, we\ncould na get on for these carriages, though we waited and waited.\nTh' horses were too fat to move quick; they'n never known want o'\nfood, one might tell by their sleek coats; and police pushed us\nback when we tried to cross. One or two on 'em struck wi' their\nsticks, and coachmen laughed, and some officers as stood nigh put\ntheir spy-glasses in their eye, and left 'em sticking there like\nmountebanks. One o' th' police struck me. 'Whatten business have yo\nto do that?' said I.\n\n\n   [Footnote 28: \"Rucks,\" a great quantity.]\n\n\n\"'You're frightening them horses,' says he, in his mincing way (for\nLondoners are mostly all tongue-tied, and can't say their a's and\ni's properly), 'and it's our business to keep you from molesting the\nladies and gentlemen going to her Majesty's Drawing-room.'\n\n\"'And why are we to be molested?' asked I, 'going decently about\nour business, which is life and death to us, and many a little one\nclemming at home in Lancashire? Which business is of most consequence\ni' the sight o' God, think yo, our'n or them gran ladies and\ngentlemen as yo think so much on?'\n\n\"But I might as well ha' held my peace, for he only laughed.\"\n\nJohn ceased. After waiting a little to see if he would go on of\nhimself, Job said,\n\n\"Well, but that's not a' your story, man. Tell us what happened when\nyo got to th' Parliament House.\"\n\nAfter a little pause John answered,\n\n\"If yo please, neighbour, I'd rather say nought about that. It's not\nto be forgotten or forgiven either by me or many another; but I canna\ntell of our down-casting just as a piece of London news. As long as\nI live, our rejection that day will bide in my heart; and as long as\nI live I shall curse them as so cruelly refused to hear us; but I'll\nnot speak of it no [29] more.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 29: A similar use of a double negative is not\n                 unfrequent in Chaucer; as in the \"Miller's Tale\":\n                     \"That of no wife toke he non offering\n                     For curtesie, he sayd, he n'old non.\"]\n\n\nSo, daunted in their inquiries, they sat silent for a few minutes.\n\nOld Job, however, felt that some one must speak, else all the good\nthey had done in dispelling John Barton's gloom was lost. So after\nawhile he thought of a subject, neither sufficiently dissonant from\nthe last to jar on the full heart, nor too much the same to cherish\nthe continuance of the gloomy train of thought.\n\n\"Did you ever hear tell,\" said he to Mary, \"that I were in London\nonce?\"\n\n\"No!\" said she, with surprise, and looking at Job with increased\nrespect.\n\n\"Ay, but I were though, and Peg there too, though she minds nought\nabout it, poor wench! You must know I had but one child, and she were\nMargaret's mother. I loved her above a bit, and one day when she\ncame (standing behind me for that I should not see her blushes, and\nstroking my cheeks in her own coaxing way), and told me she and Frank\nJennings (as was a joiner lodging near us) should be so happy if they\nwere married, I could not find in my heart t' say her nay, though I\nwent sick at the thought of losing her away from my home. Howe'er,\nshe were my only child, and I never said nought of what I felt, for\nfear o' grieving her young heart. But I tried to think o' the time\nwhen I'd been young mysel, and had loved her blessed mother, and how\nwe'd left father and mother and gone out into th' world together,\nand I'm now right thankful I held my peace, and didna fret her wi'\ntelling her how sore I was at parting wi' her that were the light o'\nmy eyes.\"\n\n\"But,\" said Mary, \"you said the young man were a neighbour.\"\n\n\"Ay, so he were; and his father afore him. But work were rather slack\nin Manchester, and Frank's uncle sent him word o' London work and\nLondon wages, so he were to go there; and it were there Margaret was\nto follow him. Well, my heart aches yet at thought of those days.\nShe so happy, and he so happy; only the poor father as fretted sadly\nbehind their backs. They were married, and stayed some days wi' me\nafore setting off; and I've often thought sin' Margaret's heart\nfailed her many a time those few days, and she would fain ha' spoken;\nbut I knew fra' mysel it were better to keep it pent up, and I never\nlet on what I were feeling. I knew what she meant when she came\nkissing, and holding my hand, and all her old childish ways o' loving\nme. Well, they went at last. You know them two letters, Margaret?\"\n\n\"Yes, sure,\" replied his grand-daughter.\n\n\"Well, them two were the only letters I ever had fra' her, poor lass.\nShe said in them she were very happy, and I believe she were. And\nFrank's family heard he were in good work. In one o' her letters,\npoor thing, she ends wi' saying, 'Farewell, Grandad!' wi' a line\ndrawn under grandad, and fra' that an' other hints I knew she were in\nth' family way; and I said nought, but I screwed up a little money,\nthinking come Whitsuntide I'd take a holiday and go and see her an'\nth' little one. But one day towards Whitsuntide comed Jennings wi' a\ngrave face, and says he, 'I hear our Frank and your Margaret's both\ngetten the fever.' You might ha' knocked me down wi' a straw, for\nit seemed as if God told me what th' upshot would be. Old Jennings\nhad gotten a letter, yo see, fra' the landlady they lodged wi'; a\nwell-penned letter, asking if they'd no friends to come and nurse\nthem. She'd caught it first, and Frank, who was as tender o' her as\nher own mother could ha' been, had nursed her till he'd caught it\nhimsel; and she expecting her down-lying [30] every day. Well, t'\nmake a long story short, Old Jennings and I went up by that night's\ncoach. So you see, Mary, that was the way I got to London.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 30: \"Down-lying,\" lying-in.]\n\n\n\"But how was your daughter when you got there?\" asked Mary,\nanxiously.\n\n\"She were at rest, poor wench, and so were Frank. I guessed as much\nwhen I see'd th' landlady's face, all swelled wi' crying, when she\nopened th' door to us. We said, 'Where are they?' and I knew they\nwere dead, fra' her look; but Jennings didn't, as I take it; for\nwhen she showed us into a room wi' a white sheet on th' bed, and\nunderneath it, plain to be seen, two still figures, he screeched out\nas if he'd been a woman.\n\n\"Yet he'd other childer and I'd none. There lay my darling, my only\none. She were dead, and there were no one to love me, no, not one. I\ndisremember [31] rightly what I did; but I know I were very quiet,\nwhile my heart were crushed within me.\n\n\n   [Footnote 31: \"Disremember,\" forget.]\n\n\n\"Jennings could na' stand being in th' room at all, so th' landlady\ntook him down, and I were glad to be alone. It grew dark while I sat\nthere; and at last th' landlady come up again, and said, 'Come here.'\nSo I got up and walked into th' light, but I had to hold by th'\nstair-rails, I were so weak and dizzy. She led me into a room, where\nJennings lay on a sofa fast asleep, wi' his pocket handkercher over\nhis head for a night-cap. She said he'd cried himself fairly off\nto sleep. There were tea on th' table all ready; for she were a\nkind-hearted body. But she still said, 'Come here,' and took hold o'\nmy arm. So I went round the table, and there were a clothes-basket by\nth' fire, wi' a shawl put o'er it. 'Lift that up,' says she, and I\ndid; and there lay a little wee babby fast asleep. My heart gave a\nleap, and th' tears comed rushing into my eyes first time that day.\n'Is it hers?' said I, though I knew it were. 'Yes,' said she. 'She\nwere getting a bit better o' the fever, and th' babby were born; and\nthen the poor young man took worse and died, and she were not many\nhours behind.'\n\n\"Little mite of a thing! and yet it seemed her angel come back to\ncomfort me. I were quite jealous o' Jennings whenever he went near\nthe babby. I thought it were more my flesh and blood than his'n, and\nyet I were afeared he would claim it. However, that were far enough\nfra' his thoughts; he'd plenty other childer, and as I found out at\nafter he'd all along been wishing me to take it. Well, we buried\nMargaret and her husband in a big, crowded, lonely churchyard in\nLondon. I were loath to leave them there, as I thought, when they\nrose again, they'd feel so strange at first away fra Manchester, and\nall old friends; but it couldna be helped. Well, God watches o'er\ntheir grave there as well as here. That funeral cost a mint o' money,\nbut Jennings and I wished to do th' thing decent. Then we'd the stout\nlittle babby to bring home. We'd not overmuch money left; but it were\nfine weather, and we thought we'd take th' coach to Brummagem, and\nwalk on. It were a bright May morning when last I saw London town,\nlooking back from a big hill a mile or two off. And in that big mass\no' a place I were leaving my blessed child asleep--in her last sleep.\nWell, God's will be done! She's gotten to heaven afore me; but I\nshall get there at last, please God, though it's a long while first.\n\n\"The babby had been fed afore we set out, and th' coach moving kept\nit asleep, bless its little heart. But when th' coach stopped for\ndinner it were awake, and crying for its pobbies. [32] So we asked\nfor some bread and milk, and Jennings took it first for to feed it;\nbut it made its mouth like a square, and let it run out at each o'\nth' four corners. 'Shake it, Jennings,' says I; 'that's the way they\nmake water run through a funnel, when it's o'er full; and a child's\nmouth is broad end o' th' funnel, and th' gullet the narrow one.' So\nhe shook it, but it only cried th' more. 'Let me have it,' says I,\nthinking he were an awkward oud chap. But it were just as bad wi' me.\nBy shaking th' babby we got better nor a gill into its mouth, but\nmore nor that came up again, wetting a' th' nice dry clothes landlady\nhad put on. Well, just as we'd gotten to th' dinner-table, and helped\noursels, and eaten two mouthful, came in th' guard, and a fine chap\nwi' a sample o' calico flourishing in his hand. 'Coach is ready!'\nsays one; 'Half-a-crown your dinner!' says th' other. Well, we\nthought it a deal for both our dinners, when we'd hardly tasted 'em;\nbut, bless your life, it were half-a-crown apiece, and a shilling\nfor th' bread and milk as were possetted all over babby's clothes.\nWe spoke up again [33] it; but every body said it were the rule, so\nwhat could two poor oud chaps like us do again it? Well, poor babby\ncried without stopping to take breath, fra' that time till we got\nto Brummagem for the night. My heart ached for th' little thing. It\ncaught wi' its wee mouth at our coat sleeves and at our mouths, when\nwe tried t' comfort it by talking to it. Poor little wench! It wanted\nits mammy, as were lying cold in th' grave. 'Well,' says I, 'it'll\nbe clemmed to death, if it lets out its supper as it did its dinner.\nLet's get some woman to feed it; it comes natural to women to do for\nbabbies.' So we asked th' chamber-maid at the inn, and she took quite\nkindly to it; and we got a good supper, and grew rare and sleepy,\nwhat wi' th' warmth, and wi' our long ride i' th' open air. Th'\nchamber-maid said she would like t' have it t' sleep wi' her, only\nmissis would scold so; but it looked so quiet and smiling like, as it\nlay in her arms, that we thought 'twould be no trouble to have it wi'\nus. I says: 'See, Jennings, how women-folk do quieten babbies; it's\njust as I said.' He looked grave; he were always thoughtful-looking,\nthough I never heard him say any thing very deep. At last says he--\n\n\n   [Footnote 32: \"Pobbies,\" or \"pobs,\" child's porridge.]\n\n   [Footnote 33: \"Again,\" for against. \"He that is not with me,\n                 he is ageyn me.\"--_Wickliffe's Version._]\n\n\n\"'Young woman! have you gotten a spare night-cap?'\n\n\"'Missis always keeps night-caps for gentlemen as does not like to\nunpack,' says she, rather quick.\n\n\"'Ay, but young woman, it's one of your night-caps I want. Th' babby\nseems to have taken a mind to yo; and may be in th' dark it might\ntake me for yo if I'd getten your night-cap on.'\n\n\"The chambermaid smirked and went for a cap, but I laughed outright\nat th' oud bearded chap thinking he'd make hissel like a woman just\nby putting on a woman's cap. Howe'er he'd not be laughed out on't, so\nI held th' babby till he were in bed. Such a night as we had on it!\nBabby began to scream o' th' oud fashion, and we took it turn and\nturn about to sit up and rock it. My heart were very sore for th'\nlittle one, as it groped about wi' its mouth; but for a' that I could\nscarce keep fra' smiling at th' thought o' us two oud chaps, th' one\nwi' a woman's night-cap on, sitting on our hinder ends for half th'\nnight, hushabying a babby as wouldn't be hushabied. Toward morning,\npoor little wench! it fell asleep, fairly tired out wi' crying, but\neven in its sleep it gave such pitiful sobs, quivering up fra' the\nvery bottom of its little heart, that once or twice I almost wished\nit lay on its mother's breast, at peace for ever. Jennings fell\nasleep too; but I began for to reckon up our money. It were little\nenough we had left, our dinner the day afore had ta'en so much. I\ndidn't know what our reckoning would be for that night lodging, and\nsupper, and breakfast. Doing a sum alway sent me asleep ever sin' I\nwere a lad; so I fell sound in a short time, and were only wakened by\nchambermaid tapping at th' door, to say she'd dress the babby afore\nher missis were up if we liked. But bless yo', we'd never thought o'\nundressing it th' night afore, and now it were sleeping so sound, and\nwe were so glad o' the peace and quietness, that we thought it were\nno good to waken it up to screech again.\n\n\"Well! (there's Mary asleep for a good listener!) I suppose you're\ngetting weary of my tale, so I'll not be long over ending it. Th'\nreckoning left us very bare, and we thought we'd best walk home,\nfor it were only sixty mile, they telled us, and not stop again for\nnought, save victuals. So we left Brummagem, (which is as black a\nplace as Manchester, without looking so like home), and walked a'\nthat day, carrying babby turn and turn about. It were well fed by\nchambermaid afore we left, and th' day were fine, and folk began to\nhave some knowledge o' th' proper way o' speaking, and we were more\ncheery at thoughts o' home (though mine, God knows, were lonesome\nenough). We stopped none for dinner, but at baggin-time [34] we\ngetten a good meal at a public-house, an' fed th' babby as well as\nwe could, but that were but poorly. We got a crust too, for it to\nsuck--chambermaid put us up to that. That night, whether we were\ntired or whatten, I don't know, but it were dree [35] work, and poor\nwench had slept out her sleep, and began th' cry as wore my heart out\nagain. Says Jennings, says he,\n\n\n   [Footnote 34: \"Baggin-time,\" time of the evening meal.]\n\n   [Footnote 35: \"Dree,\" long and tedious. Anglo-Saxon, \"dreogan,\"\n                 to suffer, to endure.]\n\n\n\"'We should na ha' set out so like gentlefolk a top o' the coach\nyesterday.'\n\n\"'Nay, lad! We should ha' had more to walk, if we had na ridden, and\nI'm sure both you and I'se [36] weary o' tramping.'\n\n\n   [Footnote 36: \"I have not been, nor _is_, nor never\n                 schal.\"--_Wickliffe's \"Apology,\" p. 1._]\n\n\n\"So he were quiet a bit. But he were one o' them as were sure to find\nout somewhat had been done amiss, when there were no going back to\nundo it. So presently he coughs, as if he were going to speak, and\nI says to mysel, 'At it again, my lad.' Says he,\n\n\"'I ax pardon, neighbour, but it strikes me it would ha' been better\nfor my son if he had never begun to keep company wi' your daughter.'\n\n\"Well! that put me up, and my heart got very full, and but that I\nwere carrying _her_ babby, I think I should ha' struck him. At last\nI could hold in no longer, and says I,\n\n\"'Better say at once it would ha' been better for God never to ha'\nmade th' world, for then we'd never ha' been in it, to have had th'\nheavy hearts we have now.'\n\n\"Well! he said that were rank blasphemy; but I thought his way of\ncasting up again th' events God had pleased to send, were worse\nblasphemy. Howe'er, I said nought more angry, for th' little babby's\nsake, as were th' child o' his dead son, as well as o' my dead\ndaughter.\n\n\"Th' longest lane will have a turning, and that night came to an end\nat last; and we were foot-sore and tired enough, and to my mind th'\nbabby were getting weaker and weaker, and it wrung my heart to hear\nits little wail; I'd ha' given my right hand for one of yesterday's\nhearty cries. We were wanting our breakfasts, and so were it too,\nmotherless babby! We could see no public-house, so about six o'clock\n(only we thought it were later) we stopped at a cottage where a woman\nwere moving about near th' open door. Says I, 'Good woman, may we\nrest us a bit?' 'Come in,' says she, wiping a chair, as looked bright\nenough afore, wi' her apron. It were a cheery, clean room; and we\nwere glad to sit down again, though I thought my legs would never\nbend at th' knees. In a minute she fell a noticing th' babby, and\ntook it in her arms, and kissed it again and again. 'Missis,' says I,\n'we're not without money, and if yo'd give us somewhat for breakfast,\nwe'd pay yo honest, and if yo would wash and dress that poor babby,\nand get some pobbies down its throat, for it's well-nigh clemmed, I'd\npray for yo' till my dying day.' So she said nought, but gived me th'\nbabby back, and afore yo' could say Jack Robinson, she'd a pan on th'\nfire, and bread and cheese on th' table. When she turned round, her\nface looked red, and her lips were tight pressed together. Well! we\nwere right down glad on our breakfast, and God bless and reward that\nwoman for her kindness that day; she fed th' poor babby as gently\nand softly, and spoke to it as tenderly as its own poor mother could\nha' done. It seemed as if that stranger and it had known each other\nafore, maybe in Heaven, where folk's spirits come from they say; th'\nbabby looked up so lovingly in her eyes, and made little noises more\nlike a dove than aught else. Then she undressed it (poor darling! it\nwere time), touching it so softly; and washed it from head to foot,\nand as many on its things were dirty; and what bits o' things its\nmother had gotten ready for it had been sent by th' carrier fra\nLondon, she put 'em aside; and wrapping little naked babby in her\napron, she pulled out a key, as were fastened to a black ribbon, and\nhung down her breast, and unlocked a drawer in th' dresser. I were\nsorry to be prying, but I could na' help seeing in that drawer some\nlittle child's clothes, all strewed wi' lavendar, and lying by 'em\na little whip an' a broken rattle. I began to have an insight into\nthat woman's heart then. She took out a thing or two; and locked the\ndrawer, and went on dressing babby. Just about then come her husband\ndown, a great big fellow as didn't look half awake, though it were\ngetting late; but he'd heard all as had been said down-stairs, as\nwere plain to be seen; but he were a gruff chap. We'd finished our\nbreakfast, and Jennings were looking hard at th' woman as she were\ngetting the babby to sleep wi' a sort of rocking way. At length says\nhe, 'I ha learnt th' way now; it's two jiggits and a shake, two\njiggits and a shake. I can get that babby asleep now mysel.'\n\n\"The man had nodded cross enough to us, and had gone to th' door, and\nstood there whistling wi' his hands in his breeches-pockets, looking\nabroad. But at last he turns and says, quite sharp,\n\n\"'I say, missis, I'm to have no breakfast to-day, I s'pose.'\n\n\"So wi' that she kissed th' child, a long, soft kiss; and looking in\nmy face to see if I could take her meaning, gave me th' babby without\na word. I were loath to stir, but I saw it were better to go. So\ngiving Jennings a sharp nudge (for he'd fallen asleep), I says,\n'Missis, what's to pay?' pulling out my money wi' a jingle that she\nmight na guess we were at all bare o' cash. So she looks at her\nhusband, who said ne'er a word, but were listening wi' all his ears\nnevertheless; and when she saw he would na say, she said, hesitating,\nas if pulled two ways, by her fear o' him, 'Should you think sixpence\nover much?' It were so different to public-house reckoning, for we'd\neaten a main deal afore the chap came down. So says I, 'And, missis,\nwhat should we gie you for the babby's bread and milk?' (I had it\nonce in my mind to say 'and for a' your trouble with it,' but my\nheart would na let me say it, for I could read in her ways how it had\nbeen a work o' love.) So says she, quite quick, and stealing a look\nat her husband's back, as looked all ear, if ever a back did, 'Oh, we\ncould take nought for the little babby's food, if it had eaten twice\nas much, bless it.' Wi' that he looked at her; such a scowling look!\nShe knew what he meant, and stepped softly across the floor to him,\nand put her hand on his arm. He seem'd as though he'd shake it off\nby a jerk on his elbow, but she said quite low, 'For poor little\nJohnnie's sake, Richard.' He did not move or speak again, and after\nlooking in his face for a minute, she turned away, swallowing deep in\nher throat. She kissed th' sleeping babby as she passed, when I paid\nher. To quieten th' gruff husband, and stop him if he rated her, I\ncould na help slipping another sixpence under th' loaf, and then we\nset off again. Last look I had o' that woman she were quietly wiping\nher eyes wi' the corner of her apron, as she went about her husband's\nbreakfast. But I shall know her in heaven.\"\n\nHe stopped to think of that long-ago May morning, when he had carried\nhis grand-daughter under the distant hedge-rows and beneath the\nflowering sycamores.\n\n\"There's nought more to say, wench,\" said he to Margaret, as she\nbegged him to go on. \"That night we reached Manchester, and I'd found\nout that Jennings would be glad enough to give up babby to me, so I\ntook her home at once, and a blessing she's been to me.\"\n\nThey were all silent for a few minutes; each following out the\ncurrent of their thoughts. Then, almost simultaneously, their\nattention fell upon Mary. Sitting on her little stool, her head\nresting on her father's knee, and sleeping as soundly as any infant,\nher breath (still like an infant's) came and went as softly as a bird\nsteals to her leafy nest. Her half-open mouth was as scarlet as the\nwinter-berries, and contrasted finely with the clear paleness of\nher complexion, where the eloquent blood flushed carnation at each\nmotion. Her black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, which was\nstill more shaded by the masses of her golden hair, that seemed to\nform a nest-like pillow for her as she lay. Her father in fond pride\nstraightened one glossy curl, for an instant, as if to display its\nlength and silkiness. The little action awoke her, and, like nine out\nof ten people in similar circumstances, she exclaimed, opening her\neyes to their fullest extent,\n\n\"I'm not asleep. I've been awake all the time.\"\n\nEven her father could not keep from smiling, and Job Legh and\nMargaret laughed outright.\n\n\"Come, wench,\" said Job, \"don't look so gloppened [37] because\nthou'st fallen asleep while an oud chap like me was talking on oud\ntimes. It were like enough to send thee to sleep. Try if thou canst\nkeep thine eyes open while I read thy father a bit on a poem as is\nwritten by a weaver like oursel. A rare chap I'll be bound is he who\ncould weave verse like this.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 37: \"Gloppened,\" amazed, frightened.]\n\n\nSo adjusting his spectacles on nose, cocking his chin, crossing his\nlegs, and coughing to clear his voice, he read aloud a little poem of\nSamuel Bamford's [38] he had picked up somewhere.\n\n\n   [Footnote 38: The fine-spirited author of \"Passages in the Life\n                 of a Radical\"--a man who illustrates his order,\n                 and shows what nobility may be in a cottage.]\n\n\n   God help the poor, who, on this wintry morn,\n     Come forth from alleys dim and courts obscure.\n   God help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn,\n     And meekly her affliction doth endure;\n   God help her, outcast lamb; she trembling stands,\n   All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands;\n   Her sunken eyes are modestly down-cast,\n   Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast;\n   Her bosom, passing fair, is half revealed,\n   And oh! so cold, the snow lies there congealed;\n   Her feet benumbed, her shoes all rent and worn,\n   God help thee, outcast lamb, who standst forlorn!\n         God help the poor!\n\n   God help the poor! An infant's feeble wail\n     Comes from yon narrow gateway, and behold!\n   A female crouching there, so deathly pale,\n     Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold;\n   Her vesture scant, her bonnet crushed and torn;\n     A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold:\n   And so she 'bides the ruthless gale of morn,\n     Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold.\n   And now she, sudden, darts a ravening look,\n   As one, with new hot bread, goes past the nook;\n   And, as the tempting load is onward borne,\n   She weeps. God help thee, helpless one, forlorn!\n         God help the poor!\n\n   God help the poor! Behold yon famished lad,\n     No shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect;\n   With limping gait, and looks so dreamy sad,\n     He wanders onward, stopping to inspect\n   Each window, stored with articles of food.\n     He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal;\n   Oh! to the hungry palate, viands rude,\n     Would yield a zest the famished only feel!\n   He now devours a crust of mouldy bread;\n     With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn;\n   Unmindful of the storm that round his head\n     Impetuous sweeps. God help thee, child forlorn!\n         God help the poor!\n\n   God help the poor! Another have I found--\n     A bowed and venerable man is he;\n   His slouched hat with faded crape is bound;\n     His coat is gray, and threadbare too, I see.\n   \"The rude winds\" seem \"to mock his hoary hair;\"\n   His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare.\n   Anon he turns and casts a wistful eye,\n     And with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray;\n   And looks around, as if he fain would spy\n     Friends he had feasted in his better day:\n   Ah! some are dead; and some have long forborne\n   To know the poor; and he is left forlorn!\n         God help the poor!\n\n   God help the poor, who in lone valleys dwell,\n     Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow;\n   Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell,\n     Yet little cares the world, and less 't would know\n     About the toil and want men undergo.\n   The wearying loom doth call them up at morn,\n     They work till worn-out nature sinks to sleep,\n     They taste, but are not fed. The snow drifts deep\n     Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door;\n     The night-storm howls a dirge across the moor;\n   And shall they perish thus--oppressed and lorn?\n   Shall toil and famine, hopeless, still be borne?\n     No! God will yet arise, and help the poor.\n\n\"Amen!\" said Barton, solemnly, and sorrowfully. \"Mary! wench, couldst\nthou copy me them lines, dost think?--that's to say, if Job there has\nno objection.\"\n\n\"Not I. More they're heard and read and the better, say I.\"\n\nSo Mary took the paper. And the next day, on the blank half sheet\nof a valentine, all bordered with hearts and darts--a valentine she\nhad once suspected to come from Jem Wilson--she copied Bamford's\nbeautiful little poem.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nRETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.\n\n\n   \"My heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarled\n   With gloating on the ills I cannot cure.\"\n\n   ELLIOTT.\n\n   \"Then guard and shield her innocence,\n     Let her not fall like me;\n   'Twere better, Oh! a thousand times,\n     She in her grave should be.\"\n\n   \"THE OUTCAST.\"\n\n\nDespair settled down like a heavy cloud; and now and then, through\nthe dead calm of sufferings, came pipings of stormy winds,\nforetelling the end of these dark prognostics. In times of sorrowful\nor fierce endurance, we are often soothed by the mere repetition of\nold proverbs which tell the experience of our forefathers; but now,\n\"it's a long lane that has no turning,\" \"the weariest day draws to an\nend,\" &c., seemed false and vain sayings, so long and so weary was\nthe pressure of the terrible times. Deeper and deeper still sank the\npoor; it showed how much lingering suffering it takes to kill men,\nthat so few (in comparison) died during those times. But remember! we\nonly miss those who do men's work in their humble sphere; the aged,\nthe feeble, the children, when they die, are hardly noted by the\nworld; and yet to many hearts, their deaths make a blank which long\nyears will never fill up. Remember, too, that though it may take much\nsuffering to kill the able-bodied and effective members of society,\nit does _not_ take much to reduce them to worn, listless, diseased\ncreatures, who thenceforward crawl through life with moody hearts and\npain-stricken bodies.\n\nThe people had thought the poverty of the preceding years hard to\nbear, and had found its yoke heavy; but this year added sorely to\nits weight. Former times had chastised them with whips, but this\nchastised them with scorpions.\n\nOf course, Barton had his share of mere bodily sufferings. Before he\nhad gone up to London on his vain errand, he had been working short\ntime. But in the hopes of speedy redress by means of the interference\nof Parliament, he had thrown up his place; and now, when he asked\nleave to resume work, he was told they were diminishing their number\nof hands every week, and he was made aware by the remarks of fellow\nworkmen, that a Chartist delegate, and a leading member of a Trades'\nUnion, was not likely to be favoured in his search after employment.\nStill he tried to keep up a brave heart concerning himself. He knew\nhe could bear hunger; for that power of endurance had been called\nforth when he was a little child, and had seen his mother hide her\ndaily morsel to share it among her children, and when he, being the\neldest, had told the noble lie, that \"he was not hungry, could not\neat a bit more,\" in order to imitate his mother's bravery, and still\nthe sharp wail of the younger infants. Mary, too, was secure of two\nmeals a day at Miss Simmonds'; though, by the way, the dress-maker,\ntoo, feeling the effect of bad times, had left off giving tea to her\napprentices, setting them the example of long abstinence by putting\noff her own meal until work was done for the night, however late that\nmight be.\n\nBut the rent! It was half-a-crown a week--nearly all Mary's\nearnings--and much less room might do for them, only two.--(Now came\nthe time to be thankful that the early dead were saved from the evil\nto come.)--The agricultural labourer generally has strong local\nattachments; but they are far less common, almost obliterated, among\nthe inhabitants of a town. Still there are exceptions, and Barton\nformed one. He had removed to his present house just after the last\nbad times, when little Tom had sickened and died. He had then thought\nthe bustle of a removal would give his poor stunned wife something to\ndo, and he had taken more interest in the details of the proceeding\nthan he otherwise would have done, in the hope of calling her forth\nto action again. So he seemed to know every brass-headed nail driven\nup for her convenience. One only had been displaced. It was Esther's\nbonnet nail, which, in his deep revengeful anger against her, after\nhis wife's death, he had torn out of the wall, and cast into the\nstreet. It would be hard work to leave that house, which yet seemed\nhallowed by his wife's presence in the happy days of old. But he\nwas a law unto himself, though sometimes a bad, fierce law; and\nhe resolved to give the rent-collector notice, and look out for a\ncheaper abode, and tell Mary they must flit. Poor Mary! she loved the\nhouse, too. It was wrenching up her natural feelings of home, for it\nwould be long before the fibres of her heart would gather themselves\nabout another place.\n\nThis trial was spared. The collector (of himself), on the very Monday\nwhen Barton planned to give him notice of his intention to leave,\nlowered the rent threepence a week, just enough to make Barton\ncompromise and agree to stay on a little longer.\n\nBut by degrees the house was stripped of its little ornaments. Some\nwere broken; and the odd twopences and threepences wanted to pay for\ntheir repairs, were required for the far sterner necessity of food.\nAnd by-and-bye Mary began to part with other superfluities at the\npawn-shop. The smart tea-tray and tea-caddy, long and carefully kept,\nwent for bread for her father. He did not ask for it, or complain,\nbut she saw hunger in his shrunk, fierce, animal look. Then the\nblankets went, for it was summer time, and they could spare them; and\ntheir sale made a fund, which Mary fancied would last till better\ntimes came. But it was soon all gone; and then she looked around\nthe room to crib it of its few remaining ornaments. To all these\nproceedings her father said never a word. If he fasted, or feasted\n(after the sale of some article), on an unusual meal of bread and\ncheese, he took all with a sullen indifference, which depressed\nMary's heart. She often wished he would apply for relief from the\nGuardian's relieving office; often wondered the Trades' Union did\nnothing for him. Once when she asked him as he sat, grimed, unshaven,\nand gaunt, after a day's fasting over the fire, why he did not get\nrelief from the town, he turned round, with grim wrath, and said, \"I\ndon't want money, child! D----n their charity and their money! I want\nwork, and it is my right. I want work.\"\n\nHe would bear it all, he said to himself. And he did bear it, but\nnot meekly; that was too much to expect. Real meekness of character\nis called out by experience of kindness. And few had been kind to\nhim. Yet through it all, with stern determination he refused the\nassistance his Trades' Union would have given him. It had not much\nto give, but with worldly wisdom, thought it better to propitiate\nan active, useful member, than to help those who were unenergetic,\nthough they had large families to provide for. Not so thought John\nBarton. With him need was right.\n\n\"Give it to Tom Darbyshire,\" he said. \"He's more claim on it than me,\nfor he's more need of it, with his seven children.\"\n\nNow Tom Darbyshire was, in his listless, grumbling way, a backbiting\nenemy of John Barton's. And he knew it; but he was not to be\ninfluenced by that in a matter like this.\n\nMary went early to her work; but her cheery laugh over it was now\nmissed by the other girls. Her mind wandered over the present\ndistress, and then settled, as she stitched, on the visions of the\nfuture, where yet her thoughts dwelt more on the circumstances of\nease, and the pomps and vanities awaiting her, than on the lover\nwith whom she was to share them. Still she was not insensible to the\npride of having attracted one so far above herself in station; not\ninsensible to the secret pleasure of knowing that he, whom so many\nadmired, had often said he would give any thing for one of her sweet\nsmiles. Her love for him was a bubble, blown out of vanity; but it\nlooked very real and very bright. Sally Leadbitter, meanwhile, keenly\nobserved the signs of the times; she found out that Mary had begun to\naffix a stern value to money as the \"Purchaser of Life,\" and many\ngirls had been dazzled and lured by gold, even without the betraying\nlove which she believed to exist in Mary's heart. So she urged young\nMr. Carson, by representations of the want she was sure surrounded\nMary, to bring matters more to a point. But he had a kind of\ninstinctive dread of hurting Mary's pride of spirit, and durst not\nhint his knowledge in any way of the distress that many must be\nenduring. He felt that for the present he must still be content\nwith stolen meetings and summer evening strolls, and the delight of\npouring sweet honeyed words into her ear, while she listened with\na blush and a smile that made her look radiant with beauty. No,\nhe would be cautious in order to be certain; for Mary, one way or\nanother, he must make his. He had no doubt of the effect of his own\npersonal charms in the long run; for he knew he was handsome, and\nbelieved himself fascinating.\n\nIf he had known what Mary's home was, he would not have been so much\nconvinced of his increasing influence over her, by her being more and\nmore ready to linger with him in the sweet summer air. For when she\nreturned for the night her father was often out, and the house wanted\nthe cheerful look it had had in the days when money was never wanted\nto purchase soap and brushes, black-lead and pipe-clay. It was dingy\nand comfortless; for, of course, there was not even the dumb familiar\nhome-friend, a fire. And Margaret, too, was now so often from home,\nsinging at some of those grand places. And Alice; oh, Mary wished\nshe had never left her cellar to go and live at Ancoats with her\nsister-in-law. For in that matter Mary felt very guilty; she had put\noff and put off going to see the widow after George Wilson's death\nfrom dread of meeting Jem, or giving him reason to think she wished\nto be as intimate with him as formerly; and now she was so much\nashamed of her delay that she was likely never to go at all.\n\nIf her father was at home it was no better; indeed it was worse. He\nseldom spoke, less than ever; and often when he did speak they were\nsharp angry words, such as he had never given her formerly. Her\ntemper was high, too, and her answers not over-mild; and once in his\npassion he had even beaten her. If Sally Leadbitter or Mr. Carson had\nbeen at hand at that moment, Mary would have been ready to leave home\nfor ever. She sat alone, after her father had flung out of the house,\nbitterly thinking on the days that were gone; angry with her own\nhastiness, and believing that her father did not love her; striving\nto heap up one painful thought on another. Who cared for her? Mr.\nCarson might, but in this grief that seemed no comfort. Mother dead!\nFather so often angry, so lately cruel (for it was a hard blow, and\nblistered and reddened Mary's soft white skin with pain): and then\nher heart turned round, and she remembered with self-reproach how\nprovokingly she had looked and spoken, and how much her father had to\nbear; and oh, what a kind and loving parent he had been, till these\ndays of trial. The remembrance of one little instance of his fatherly\nlove thronged after another into her mind, and she began to wonder\nhow she could have behaved to him as she had done.\n\nThen he came home; and but for very shame she would have confessed\nher penitence in words. But she looked sullen, from her effort to\nkeep down emotion; and for some time her father did not know how to\nbegin to speak. At length he gulped down pride, and said:\n\n\"Mary, I'm not above saying I'm very sorry I beat thee. Thou wert a\nbit aggravating, and I'm not the man I was. But it were wrong, and\nI'll try never to lay hands on thee again.\"\n\nSo he held out his arms, and in many tears she told him her\nrepentance for her fault. He never struck her again.\n\nStill, he often was angry. But that was almost better than being\nsilent. Then he sat near the fire-place (from habit), smoking, or\nchewing opium. Oh, how Mary loathed that smell! And in the dusk, just\nbefore it merged into the short summer night, she had learned to look\nwith dread towards the window, which now her father would have kept\nuncurtained; for there were not seldom seen sights which haunted her\nin her dreams. Strange faces of pale men, with dark glaring eyes,\npeered into the inner darkness, and seemed desirous to ascertain if\nher father were at home. Or a hand and arm (the body hidden) was put\nwithin the door, and beckoned him away. He always went. And once\nor twice, when Mary was in bed, she heard men's voices below, in\nearnest, whispered talk.\n\nThey were all desperate members of Trades' Unions, ready for any\nthing; made ready by want.\n\nWhile all this change for gloom yet struck fresh and heavy on Mary's\nheart, her father startled her out of a reverie one evening, by\nasking her when she had been to see Jane Wilson. From his manner of\nspeaking, she was made aware that he had been; but at the time of his\nvisit he had never mentioned any thing about it. Now, however, he\ngruffly told her to go next day without fail, and added some abuse\nof her for not having been before. The little outward impulse of\nher father's speech gave Mary the push which she, in this instance,\nrequired; and, accordingly, timing her visit so as to avoid Jem's\nhours at home, she went the following afternoon to Ancoats.\n\nThe outside of the well-known house struck her as different; for\nthe door was closed, instead of open, as it once had always stood.\nThe window-plants, George Wilson's pride and especial care, looked\nwithering and drooping. They had been without water for a long time,\nand now, when the widow had reproached herself severely for neglect,\nin her ignorant anxiety, she gave them too much. On opening the door,\nAlice was seen, not stirring about in her habitual way, but knitting\nby the fire-side. The room felt hot, although the fire burnt gray\nand dim, under the bright rays of the afternoon sun. Mrs. Wilson was\n\"siding\" [39] the dinner things, and talking all the time, in a kind of\nwhining, shouting voice, which Mary did not at first understand.\nShe understood at once, however, that her absence had been noted,\nand talked over; she saw a constrained look on Mrs. Wilson's\nsorrow-stricken face, which told her a scolding was to come.\n\n\n   [Footnote 39: To \"side,\" to put aside, or in order.]\n\n\n\"Dear Mary, is that you?\" she began. \"Why, who would ha' dreamt of\nseeing you! We thought you'd clean forgotten us; and Jem has often\nwondered if he should know you, if he met you in the street.\"\n\nNow, poor Jane Wilson had been sorely tried; and at present her\ntrials had had no outward effect, but that of increased acerbity of\ntemper. She wished to show Mary how much she was offended, and meant\nto strengthen her cause, by putting some of her own sharp speeches\ninto Jem's mouth.\n\nMary felt guilty, and had no good reason to give as an apology; so\nfor a minute she stood silent, looking very much ashamed, and then\nturned to speak to aunt Alice, who, in her surprised, hearty greeting\nto Mary, had dropped her ball of worsted, and was busy trying to\nset the thread to rights, before the kitten had entangled it past\nredemption, once round every chair, and twice round the table.\n\n\"You mun speak louder than that, if you mean her to hear; she become\nas deaf as a post this last few weeks. I'd ha' told you, if I'd\nremembered how long it were sin' you'd seen her.\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear, I'm getting very hard o' hearing of late,\" said Alice,\ncatching the state of the case, with her quick-glancing eyes. \"I\nsuppose it's the beginning of th' end.\"\n\n\"Don't talk o' that way,\" screamed her sister-in-law. \"We've had enow\nof ends and deaths without forecasting more.\" She covered her face\nwith her apron, and sat down to cry.\n\n\"He was such a good husband,\" said she, in a less excited tone, to\nMary, as she looked up with tear-streaming eyes from behind her\napron. \"No one can tell what I've lost in him, for no one knew his\nworth like me.\"\n\nMary's listening sympathy softened her, and she went on to unburden\nher heavy laden heart.\n\n\"Eh, dear, dear! No one knows what I've lost. When my poor boys went,\nI thought th' Almighty had crushed me to th' ground, but I never\nthought o' losing George; I did na think I could ha' borne to ha'\nlived without him. And yet I'm here, and he's--\" A fresh burst of\ncrying interrupted her speech.\n\n\"Mary,\"--beginning to speak again,--\"did you ever hear what a poor\ncreature I were when he married me? And he such a handsome fellow!\nJem's nothing to what his father were at his age.\"\n\nYes! Mary had heard, and so she said. But the poor woman's thoughts\nhad gone back to those days, and her little recollections came out,\nwith many interruptions of sighs, and tears, and shakes of the head.\n\n\"There were nought about me for him to choose me. I were just well\nenough afore that accident, but at after I were downright plain. And\nthere was Bessy Witter as would ha' given her eyes for him; she as is\nMrs. Carson now, for she were a handsome lass, although I never could\nsee her beauty then; and Carson warn't so much above her, as they're\nboth above us all now.\"\n\nMary went very red, and wished she could help doing so, and wished\nalso that Mrs. Wilson would tell her more about the father and mother\nof her lover; but she durst not ask, and Mrs. Wilson's thoughts soon\nreturned to her husband, and their early married days.\n\n\"If you'll believe me, Mary, there never was such a born goose at\nhouse-keeping as I were; and yet he married me! I had been in a\nfactory sin' five years old a'most, and I knew nought about cleaning,\nor cooking, let alone washing and such-like work. The day after we\nwere married he goes to his work at after breakfast, and says he,\n'Jenny, we'll ha' th' cold beef, and potatoes, and that's a dinner\nfit for a prince.' I were anxious to make him comfortable, God knows\nhow anxious. And yet I'd no notion how to cook a potato. I know'd\nthey were boiled, and I know'd their skins were taken off, and that\nwere all. So I tidyed my house in a rough kind o' way, and then\nI looked at that very clock up yonder,\" pointing at one that hung\nagainst the wall, \"and I seed it were nine o'clock, so, thinks I, th'\npotatoes shall be well boiled at any rate, and I gets 'em on th' fire\nin a jiffy (that's to say, as soon as I could peel 'em, which were a\ntough job at first), and then I fell to unpacking my boxes! and at\ntwenty minutes past twelve he comes home, and I had th' beef ready on\nth' table, and I went to take the potatoes out o' th' pot; but oh!\nMary, th' water had boiled away, and they were all a nasty brown\nmass, as smelt through all the house. He said nought, and were very\ngentle; but, oh, Mary, I cried so that afternoon. I shall ne'er\nforget it; no, never. I made many a blunder at after, but none that\nfretted me like that.\"\n\n\"Father does not like girls to work in factories,\" said Mary.\n\n\"No, I know he doesn't; and reason good. They oughtn't to go at\nafter they're married, that I'm very clear about. I could reckon up\"\n(counting with her fingers) \"ay, nine men I know, as has been driven\nto th' public-house by having wives as worked in factories; good\nfolk, too, as thought there was no harm in putting their little ones\nout at nurse, and letting their house go all dirty, and their fires\nall out; and that was a place as was tempting for a husband to stay\nin, was it? He soon finds out gin-shops, where all is clean and\nbright, and where th' fire blazes cheerily, and gives a man a welcome\nas it were.\"\n\nAlice, who was standing near for the convenience of hearing, had\ncaught much of this speech, and it was evident the subject had\npreviously been discussed by the women, for she chimed in.\n\n\"I wish our Jem could speak a word to th' Queen about factory work\nfor married women. Eh! but he comes it strong, when once yo get him\nto speak about it. Wife o' his'n will never work away fra' home.\"\n\n\"I say it's Prince Albert as ought to be asked how he'd like his\nmissis to be from home when he comes in, tired and worn, and wanting\nsome one to cheer him; and may be, her to come in by-and-bye, just\nas tired and down in th' mouth; and how he'd like for her never to\nbe at home to see to th' cleaning of his house, or to keep a bright\nfire in his grate. Let alone his meals being all hugger-mugger and\ncomfortless. I'd be bound, prince as he is, if his missis served him\nso, he'd be off to a gin-palace, or summut o' that kind. So why can't\nhe make a law again poor folks' wives working in factories?\"\n\nMary ventured to say that she thought the Queen and Prince Albert\ncould not make laws, but the answer was,\n\n\"Pooh! don't tell me it's not the Queen as makes laws; and isn't she\nbound to obey Prince Albert? And if he said they mustn't, why she'd\nsay they mustn't, and then all folk would say, oh no, we never shall\ndo any such thing no more.\"\n\n\"Jem's getten on rarely,\" said Alice, who had not heard her sister's\nlast burst of eloquence, and whose thoughts were still running on her\nnephew, and his various talents. \"He's found out summut about a crank\nor a tank, I forget rightly which it is, but th' master's made him\nforeman, and he all the while turning off hands; but he said he could\nna part wi' Jem, nohow. He's good wage now: I tell him he'll be\nthinking of marrying soon, and he deserves a right down good wife,\nthat he does.\"\n\nMary went very red, and looked annoyed, although there was a secret\nspring of joy deep down in her heart, at hearing Jem so spoken of.\nBut his mother only saw the annoyed look, and was piqued accordingly.\nShe was not over and above desirous that her son should marry. His\npresence in the house seemed a relic of happier times, and she had\nsome little jealousy of his future wife, whoever she might be. Still\nshe could not bear any one not to feel gratified and flattered by\nJem's preference, and full well she knew how above all others he\npreferred Mary. Now she had never thought Mary good enough for Jem,\nand her late neglect in coming to see her still rankled a little in\nher breast. So she determined to invent a little, in order to do away\nwith any idea Mary might have that Jem would choose her for \"his\nright down good wife,\" as aunt Alice called it.\n\n\"Ay, he'll be for taking a wife soon,\" and then, in a lower voice,\nas if confidentially, but really to prevent any contradiction or\nexplanation from her simple sister-in-law, she added,\n\n\"It'll not be long afore Molly Gibson (that's her at th'\nprovision-shop round the corner) will hear a secret as will not\ndisplease her, I'm thinking. She's been casting sheep's eyes at our\nJem this many a day, but he thought her father would not give her\nto a common working man; but now he's as good as her, every bit. I\nthought once he'd a fancy for thee, Mary, but I donnot think yo'd\never ha' suited, so it's best as it is.\"\n\nBy an effort Mary managed to keep down her vexation, and to say, \"She\nhoped he'd be happy with Molly Gibson. She was very handsome, for\ncertain.\"\n\n\"Ay, and a notable body, too. I'll just step up stairs and show you\nthe patchwork quilt she gave me but last Saturday.\"\n\nMary was glad she was going out of the room. Her words irritated her;\nperhaps not the less because she did not fully believe them. Besides\nshe wanted to speak to Alice, and Mrs. Wilson seemed to think that\nshe, as the widow, ought to absorb all the attention.\n\n\"Dear Alice,\" began Mary, \"I'm so grieved to find you so deaf; it\nmust have come on very rapid.\"\n\n\"Yes, dear, it's a trial; I'll not deny it. Pray God give me strength\nto find out its teaching. I felt it sore one fine day when I thought\nI'd go gather some meadow-sweet to make tea for Jane's cough; and\nthe fields seemed so dree and still, and at first I could na make\nout what was wanting; and then it struck me it were th' song o' the\nbirds, and that I never should hear their sweet music no more, and I\ncould na help crying a bit. But I've much to be thankful for. I think\nI'm a comfort to Jane, if I'm only some one to scold now and then;\npoor body! It takes off her thoughts from her sore losses when she\ncan scold a bit. If my eyes are left I can do well enough; I can\nguess at what folk are saying.\"\n\nThe splendid red and yellow patch quilt now made its appearance, and\nJane Wilson would not be satisfied unless Mary praised it all over,\nborder, centre, and ground-work, right side and wrong; and Mary did\nher duty, saying all the more, because she could not work herself up\nto any very hearty admiration of her rival's present. She made haste,\nhowever, with her commendations, in order to avoid encountering\nJem. As soon as she was fairly away from the house and street, she\nslackened her pace, and began to think. Did Jem really care for Molly\nGibson? Well, if he did, let him. People seemed all to think he was\nmuch too good for her (Mary's own self). Perhaps some one else, far\nmore handsome, and far more grand, would show him one day that she\nwas good enough to be Mrs. Henry Carson. So temper, or what Mary\ncalled \"spirit,\" led her to encourage Mr. Carson more than ever she\nhad done before.\n\nSome weeks after this, there was a meeting of the Trades' Union to\nwhich John Barton belonged. The morning of the day on which it was to\ntake place he had lain late in bed, for what was the use of getting\nup? He had hesitated between the purchase of meal or opium, and had\nchosen the latter, for its use had become a necessity with him. He\nwanted it to relieve him from the terrible depression its absence\noccasioned. A large lump seemed only to bring him into a natural\nstate, or what had been his natural state formerly. Eight o'clock was\nthe hour fixed for the meeting; and at it were read letters, filled\nwith details of woe, from all parts of the country. Fierce, heavy\ngloom brooded over the assembly; and fiercely and heavily did the men\nseparate, towards eleven o'clock, some irritated by the opposition of\nothers to their desperate plans.\n\nIt was not a night to cheer them, as they quitted the glare of the\ngas-lighted room, and came out into the street. Unceasing, soaking\nrain was falling; the very lamps seemed obscured by the damp upon\nthe glass, and their light reached but to a little distance from the\nposts. The streets were cleared of passers-by; not a creature seemed\nstirring, except here and there a drenched policeman in his oil-skin\ncape. Barton wished the others good night, and set off home. He had\ngone through a street or two, when he heard a step behind him; but he\ndid not care to look and see who it was. A little further, and the\nperson quickened step, and touched his arm very lightly. He turned,\nand saw, even by the darkness visible of that badly-lighted street,\nthat the woman who stood by him was of no doubtful profession. It\nwas told by her faded finery, all unfit to meet the pelting of that\npitiless storm; the gauze bonnet, once pink, now dirty white; the\nmuslin gown, all draggled, and soaking wet up to the very knees; the\ngay-coloured barège shawl, closely wrapped round the form, which yet\nshivered and shook, as the woman whispered: \"I want to speak to you.\"\n\nHe swore an oath, and bade her begone.\n\n\"I really do. Don't send me away. I'm so out of breath, I cannot say\nwhat I would all at once.\" She put her hand to her side, and caught\nher breath with evident pain.\n\n\"I tell thee I'm not the man for thee,\" adding an opprobrious name.\n\"Stay,\" said he, as a thought suggested by her voice flashed across\nhim. He gripped her arm--the arm he had just before shaken off, and\ndragged her, faintly resisting, to the nearest lamp-post. He pushed\nher bonnet back, and roughly held the face she would fain have\naverted, to the light, and in her large, unnaturally bright gray\neyes, her lovely mouth, half open, as if imploring the forbearance\nshe could not ask for in words, he saw at once the long-lost Esther;\nshe who had caused his wife's death. Much was like the gay creature\nof former years; but the glaring paint, the sharp features, the\nchanged expression of the whole! But most of all, he loathed the\ndress; and yet the poor thing, out of her little choice of attire,\nhad put on the plainest she had, to come on that night's errand.\n\n\"So it's thee, is it! It's thee!\" exclaimed John, as he ground his\nteeth, and shook her with passion. \"I've looked for thee long at\ncorners o' streets, and such like places. I knew I should find thee\nat last. Thee'll may be bethink thee o' some words I spoke, which put\nthee up at th' time; summut about street-walkers; but oh no! thou\nart none o' them naughts; no one thinks thou art, who sees thy fine\ndraggle-tailed dress, and thy pretty pink cheeks!\" stopping for very\nwant of breath.\n\n\"Oh, mercy! John, mercy! listen to me for Mary's sake!\"\n\nShe meant his daughter, but the name only fell on his ear as\nbelonging to his wife; and it was adding fuel to the fire. In vain\ndid her face grow deadly pale round the vivid circle of paint, in\nvain did she gasp for mercy,--he burst forth again.\n\n\"And thou names that name to me! and thou thinks the thought of her\nwill bring thee mercy! Dost thou know it was thee who killed her, as\nsure as ever Cain killed Abel. She'd loved thee as her own, and she\ntrusted thee as her own, and when thou wert gone she never held up\nhead again, but died in less than a three week; and at the judgment\nday she'll rise, and point to thee as her murderer; or if she don't,\nI will.\"\n\nHe flung her, trembling, sickening, fainting, from him, and strode\naway. She fell with a feeble scream against the lamp-post, and\nlay there in her weakness, unable to rise. A policeman came up in\ntime to see the close of these occurrences, and concluding from\nEsther's unsteady, reeling fall, that she was tipsy, he took her\nin her half-unconscious state to the lock-ups for the night. The\nsuperintendent of that abode of vice and misery was roused from his\ndozing watch through the dark hours, by half-delirious wails and\nmoanings, which he reported as arising from intoxication. If he had\nlistened, he would have heard these words, repeated in various forms,\nbut always in the same anxious, muttering way.\n\n\"He would not listen to me; what can I do? He would not listen to me,\nand I wanted to warn him! Oh, what shall I do to save Mary's child?\nWhat shall I do? How can I keep her from being such a one as I am;\nsuch a wretched, loathsome creature! She was listening just as I\nlistened, and loving just as I loved, and the end will be just like\nmy end. How shall I save her? She won't hearken to warning, or heed\nit more than I did; and who loves her well enough to watch over her\nas she should be watched? God keep her from harm! And yet I won't\npray for her; sinner that I am! Can my prayers be heard? No! they'll\nonly do harm. How shall I save her? He would not listen to me.\"\n\nSo the night wore away. The next morning she was taken up to the\nNew Bailey. It was a clear case of disorderly vagrancy, and she was\ncommitted to prison for a month. How much might happen in that time!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nMR. CARSON'S INTENTIONS REVEALED.\n\n\n   \"O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,\n     Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?\n   Or canst thou break that heart of his,\n     Whase only faut is loving thee?\"\n\n   BURNS.\n\n   \"I can like of the wealth, I must confess,\n   Yet more I prize the man, though moneyless;\n   I am not of their humour yet that can\n   For title or estate affect a man;\n   Or of myself one body deign to make\n   With him I loathe, for his possessions' sake.\"\n\n   WITHER'S \"FIDELIA.\"\n\n\nBarton returned home after his encounter with Esther, uneasy and\ndissatisfied. He had said no more than he had been planning to say\nfor years, in case she was ever thrown in his way, in the character\nin which he felt certain he should meet her. He believed she deserved\nit all, and yet he now wished he had not said it. Her look, as she\nasked for mercy, haunted him through his broken and disordered sleep;\nher form, as he last saw her, lying prostrate in helplessness,\nwould not be banished from his dreams. He sat up in bed to try and\ndispel the vision. Now, too late, his conscience smote him for his\nharshness. It would have been all very well, he thought, to have said\nwhat he did, if he had added some kind words, at last. He wondered\nif his dead wife was conscious of that night's occurrence; and he\nhoped not, for with her love for Esther he believed it would embitter\nHeaven to have seen her so degraded and repulsed. For he now recalled\nher humility, her tacit acknowledgment of her lost character; and he\nbegan to marvel if there was power in the religion he had often heard\nof, to turn her from her ways. He felt that no earthly power that he\nknew of could do it, but there glimmered on his darkness the idea\nthat religion might save her. Still, where to find her again? In the\nwilderness of a large town, where to meet with an individual of so\nlittle value or note to any?\n\nAnd evening after evening he paced those streets in which he had\nheard her footsteps following him, peering under every fantastic,\ndiscreditable bonnet, in the hopes of once more meeting Esther,\nand addressing her in a far different manner from what he had done\nbefore. But he returned, night after night, disappointed in his\nsearch, and at last gave it up in despair, and tried to recall his\nangry feelings towards her, in order to find relief from his present\nself-reproach.\n\nHe often looked at Mary, and wished she were not so like her aunt,\nfor the very bodily likeness seemed to suggest the possibility of\na similar likeness in their fate; and then this idea enraged his\nirritable mind, and he became suspicious and anxious about Mary's\nconduct. Now hitherto she had been so remarkably free from all\ncontrol, and almost from all inquiry concerning her actions, that\nshe did not brook this change in her father's behaviour very well.\nJust when she was yielding more than ever to Mr. Carson's desire of\nfrequent meetings, it was hard to be so questioned concerning her\nhours of leaving off work, whether she had come straight home, &c.\nShe could not tell lies; though she could conceal much if she were\nnot questioned. So she took refuge in obstinate silence, alleging\nas a reason for it her indignation at being so cross-examined. This\ndid not add to the good feeling between father and daughter, and yet\nthey dearly loved each other; and in the minds of each, one principal\nreason for maintaining such behaviour as displeased the other, was\nthe believing that this conduct would insure that person's happiness.\n\nHer father now began to wish Mary were married. Then this terrible\nsuperstitious fear suggested by her likeness to Esther would be done\naway with. He felt that he could not resume the reins he had once\nslackened. But with a husband it would be different. If Jem Wilson\nwould but marry her! With his character for steadiness and talent!\nBut he was afraid Mary had slighted him, he came so seldom now to the\nhouse. He would ask her.\n\n\"Mary, what's come o'er thee and Jem Wilson? Yo were great friends at\none time.\"\n\n\"Oh, folk say he's going to be married to Molly Gibson, and of course\ncourting takes up a deal o' time,\" answered Mary, as indifferently as\nshe could.\n\n\"Thou'st played thy cards badly, then,\" replied her father, in a\nsurly tone. \"At one time he were desperate fond o' thee, or I'm much\nmistaken. Much fonder of thee than thou deservedst.\"\n\n\"That's as people think,\" said Mary, pertly, for she remembered that\nthe very morning before she had met Mr. Carson, who had sighed, and\nswore, and protested all manner of tender vows that she was the\nloveliest, sweetest, best, &c. And when she had seen him afterwards\nriding with one of his beautiful sisters, had he not evidently\npointed her out as in some way or other an object worthy of attention\nand interest, and then lingered behind his sister's horse for a\nmoment to kiss his hand repeatedly. So, as for Jem Wilson, she could\nwhistle him down the wind.\n\nBut her father was not in the mood to put up with pertness, and he\nupbraided her with the loss of Jem Wilson till she had to bite her\nlips till the blood came, in order to keep down the angry words that\nwould rise in her heart. At last her father left the house, and then\nshe might give way to her passionate tears.\n\nIt so happened that Jem, after much anxious thought, had determined\nthat day to \"put his fate to the touch, to win or lose it all.\" He\nwas in a condition to maintain a wife in comfort. It was true his\nmother and aunt must form part of the household; but such is not an\nuncommon case among the poor, and if there were the advantage of\nprevious friendship between the parties, it was not, he thought, an\nobstacle to matrimony. Both mother and aunt he believed would welcome\nMary. And oh! what a certainty of happiness the idea of that welcome\nimplied.\n\nHe had been absent and abstracted all day long with the thought of\nthe coming event of the evening. He almost smiled at himself for his\ncare in washing and dressing in preparation for his visit to Mary. As\nif one waistcoat or another could decide his fate in so passionately\nmomentous a thing. He believed he only delayed before his little\nlooking-glass for cowardice, for absolute fear of a girl. He would\ntry not to think so much about the affair, and he thought the more.\n\nPoor Jem! it is not an auspicious moment for thee!\n\n\"Come in,\" said Mary, as some one knocked at the door, while she sat\nsadly at her sewing, trying to earn a few pence by working over hours\nat some mourning.\n\nJem entered, looking more awkward and abashed than he had ever done\nbefore. Yet here was Mary all alone, just as he had hoped to find\nher. She did not ask him to take a chair, but after standing a minute\nor two he sat down near her.\n\n\"Is your father at home, Mary?\" said he, by way of making an opening,\nfor she seemed determined to keep silence, and went on stitching\naway.\n\n\"No, he's gone to his Union, I suppose.\" Another silence. It was no\nuse waiting, thought Jem. The subject would never be led to by any\ntalk he could think of in his anxious fluttered state. He had better\nbegin at once.\n\n\"Mary!\" said he, and the unusual tone of his voice made her look up\nfor an instant, but in that time she understood from his countenance\nwhat was coming, and her heart beat so suddenly and violently she\ncould hardly sit still. Yet one thing she was sure of; nothing he\ncould say should make her have him. She would show them all _who_\nwould be glad to have her. She was not yet calm after her father's\nirritating speeches. Yet her eyes fell veiled before that passionate\nlook fixed upon her.\n\n\"Dear Mary! (for how dear you are, I cannot rightly tell you in\nwords). It's no new story I'm going to speak about. You must ha' seen\nand known it long; for since we were boy and girl, I ha' loved you\nabove father and mother and all; and all I've thought on by day and\ndreamt on by night, has been something in which you've had a share.\nI'd no way of keeping you for long, and I scorned to try and tie you\ndown; and I lived in terror lest some one else should take you to\nhimself. But now, Mary, I'm foreman in th' works, and, dear Mary!\nlisten,\" as she, in her unbearable agitation, stood up and turned\naway from him. He rose, too, and came nearer, trying to take hold of\nher hand; but this she would not allow. She was bracing herself up to\nrefuse him, for once and for all.\n\n\"And now, Mary, I've a home to offer you, and a heart as true as ever\nman had to love you and cherish you; we shall never be rich folk,\nI dare say; but if a loving heart and a strong right arm can shield\nyou from sorrow, or from want, mine shall do it. I cannot speak\nas I would like; my love won't let itself be put in words. But oh!\ndarling, say you believe me, and that you'll be mine.\"\n\nShe could not speak at once; her words would not come.\n\n\"Mary, they say silence gives consent; is it so?\" he whispered.\n\nNow or never the effort must be made.\n\n\"No! it does not with me.\" Her voice was calm, although she trembled\nfrom head to foot. \"I will always be your friend, Jem, but I can\nnever be your wife.\"\n\n\"Not my wife!\" said he, mournfully. \"Oh Mary, think awhile! you\ncannot be my friend if you will not be my wife. At least I can never\nbe content to be only your friend. Do think awhile! If you say No you\nwill make me hopeless, desperate. It's no love of yesterday. It has\nmade the very groundwork of all that people call good in me. I don't\nknow what I shall be if you won't have me. And, Mary! think how glad\nyour father would be! it may sound vain, but he's told me more than\nonce how much he should like to see us two married!\"\n\nJem intended this for a powerful argument, but in Mary's present mood\nit told against him more than any thing; for it suggested the false\nand foolish idea, that her father, in his evident anxiety to promote\nher marriage with Jem, had been speaking to him on the subject with\nsome degree of solicitation.\n\n\"I tell you, Jem, it cannot be. Once for all, I will never marry\nyou.\"\n\n\"And is this the end of all my hopes and fears? the end of my life,\nI may say, for it is the end of all worth living for!\" His agitation\nrose and carried him into passion. \"Mary! you'll hear, may be, of\nme as a drunkard, and may be as a thief, and may be as a murderer.\nRemember! when all are speaking ill of me, you will have no right to\nblame me, for it's your cruelty that will have made me what I feel\nI shall become. You won't even say you'll try and like me; will you,\nMary?\" said he, suddenly changing his tone from threatening despair\nto fond passionate entreaty, as he took her hand and held it forcibly\nbetween both of his, while he tried to catch a glimpse of her averted\nface. She was silent, but it was from deep and violent emotion. He\ncould not bear to wait; he would not hope, to be dashed away again;\nhe rather in his bitterness of heart chose the certainty of despair,\nand before she could resolve what to answer, he flung away her hand\nand rushed out of the house.\n\n\"Jem! Jem!\" cried she, with faint and choking voice. It was too late;\nhe left street after street behind him with his almost winged speed,\nas he sought the fields, where he might give way unobserved to all\nthe deep despair he felt.\n\nIt was scarcely ten minutes since he had entered the house, and found\nMary at comparative peace, and now she lay half across the dresser,\nher head hidden in her hands, and every part of her body shaking with\nthe violence of her sobs. She could not have told at first (if you\nhad asked her, and she could have commanded voice enough to answer)\nwhy she was in such agonised grief. It was too sudden for her to\nanalyse, or think upon it. She only felt that by her own doing her\nlife would be hereafter dreary and blank. By-and-bye her sorrow\nexhausted her body by its power, and she seemed to have no strength\nleft for crying. She sat down; and now thoughts crowded on her mind.\nOne little hour ago, and all was still unsaid, and she had her fate\nin her own power. And yet, how long ago had she determined to say\npretty much what she did, if the occasion ever offered.\n\nIt was as if two people were arguing the matter; that mournful,\ndesponding communion between her former self and her present self.\nHerself, a day, an hour ago; and herself now. For we have every one\nof us felt how a very few minutes of the months and years called\nlife, will sometimes suffice to place all time past and future in an\nentirely new light; will make us see the vanity or the criminality\nof the bye-gone, and so change the aspect of the coming time, that\nwe look with loathing on the very thing we have most desired. A\nfew moments may change our character for life, by giving a totally\ndifferent direction to our aims and energies.\n\nTo return to Mary. Her plan had been, as we well know, to marry Mr.\nCarson, and the occurrence an hour ago was only a preliminary step.\nTrue; but it had unveiled her heart to her; it had convinced her she\nloved Jem above all persons or things. But Jem was a poor mechanic,\nwith a mother and aunt to keep; a mother, too, who had shown her\npretty clearly she did not desire her for a daughter-in-law: while\nMr. Carson was rich, and prosperous, and gay, and (she believed)\nwould place her in all circumstances of ease and luxury, where want\ncould never come. What were these hollow vanities to her, now she\nhad discovered the passionate secret of her soul? She felt as if she\nalmost hated Mr. Carson, who had decoyed her with his baubles. She\nnow saw how vain, how nothing to her, would be all gaieties and\npomps, all joys and pleasures, unless she might share them with Jem;\nyes, with him she harshly rejected so short a time ago. If he were\npoor, she loved him all the better. If his mother did think her\nunworthy of him, what was it but the truth, as she now owned with\nbitter penitence. She had hitherto been walking in grope-light\ntowards a precipice; but in the clear revelation of that past hour,\nshe saw her danger, and turned away resolutely and for ever.\n\nThat was some comfort: I mean her clear perception of what she ought\nnot to do; of what no luring temptation should ever again induce her\nto hearken to. How she could best undo the wrong she had done to Jem\nand herself by refusing his love, was another anxious question. She\nwearied herself with proposing plans, and rejecting them.\n\nShe was roused to a consciousness of time by hearing the neighbouring\nchurch clock strike twelve. Her father she knew might be expected\nhome any minute, and she was in no mood for a meeting with him.\nSo she hastily gathered up her work, and went to her own little\nbed-room, leaving him to let himself in.\n\nShe put out her candle, that her father might not see its light under\nthe door; and sat down on her bed to think. But after turning things\nover in her mind again and again, she could only determine at once\nto put an end to all further communication with Mr. Carson, in the\nmost decided way she could. Maidenly modesty (and true love is ever\nmodest) seemed to oppose every plan she could think of, for showing\nJem how much she repented her decision against him, and how dearly\nshe had now discovered that she loved him. She came to the unusual\nwisdom of resolving to do nothing, but try and be patient, and\nimprove circumstances as they might turn up. Surely, if Jem knew of\nher remaining unmarried, he would try his fortune again. He would\nnever be content with one rejection; she believed she could not\nin his place. She had been very wrong, but now she would try and\ndo right, and have womanly patience, until he saw her changed and\nrepentant mind in her natural actions. Even if she had to wait for\nyears, it was no more than now it was easy to look forward to, as a\npenance for her giddy flirting on the one hand, and her cruel mistake\nconcerning her feelings on the other. So anticipating a happy ending\nto the course of her love, however distant it might be, she fell\nasleep just as the earliest factory bells were ringing. She had sunk\ndown in her clothes, and her sleep was unrefreshing. She wakened up\nshivery and chill in body, and sorrow-stricken in mind, though she\ncould not at first rightly tell the cause of her depression.\n\nShe recalled the events of the night before, and still resolved to\nadhere to those determinations she had then formed. But patience\nseemed a far more difficult virtue this morning.\n\nShe hastened down-stairs, and in her earnest sad desire to do right,\nnow took much pains to secure a comfortable though scanty breakfast\nfor her father; and when he dawdled into the room, in an evidently\nirritable temper, she bore all with the gentleness of penitence, till\nat last her mild answers turned away wrath.\n\nShe loathed the idea of meeting Sally Leadbitter at her daily\nwork; yet it must be done, and she tried to nerve herself for the\nencounter, and to make it at once understood, that having determined\nto give up having any thing further to do with Mr. Carson, she\nconsidered the bond of intimacy broken between them.\n\nBut Sally was not the person to let these resolutions be carried\ninto effect too easily. She soon became aware of the present state\nof Mary's feelings, but she thought they merely arose from the\nchangeableness of girlhood, and that the time would come when Mary\nwould thank her for almost forcing her to keep up her meetings and\ncommunications with her rich lover.\n\nSo, when two days had passed over in rather too marked avoidance\nof Sally on Mary's part, and when the former was made aware by Mr.\nCarson's complaints that Mary was not keeping her appointments with\nhim, and that unless he detained her by force, he had no chance of\nobtaining a word as she passed him in the street on her rapid walk\nhome, she resolved to compel Mary to what she called her own good.\n\nShe took no notice during the third day of Mary's avoidance as they\nsat at work; she rather seemed to acquiesce in the coolness of their\nintercourse. She put away her sewing early, and went home to her\nmother, who, she said, was more ailing than usual. The other girls\nsoon followed her example, and Mary, casting a rapid glance up and\ndown the street, as she stood last on Miss Simmonds' door-step,\ndarted homewards, in hopes of avoiding the person whom she was fast\nlearning to dread. That night she was safe from any encounter on\nher road, and she arrived at home, which she found as she expected,\nempty; for she knew it was a club night, which her father would not\nmiss. She sat down to recover breath, and to still her heart, which\npanted more from nervousness than from over-exertion, although she\nhad walked so quickly. Then she rose, and taking off her bonnet, her\neye caught the form of Sally Leadbitter passing the window with a\nlingering step, and looking into the darkness with all her might, as\nif to ascertain if Mary were returned. In an instant she re-passed\nand knocked at the house-door, but without awaiting an answer, she\nentered.\n\n\"Well, Mary, dear\" (knowing well how little \"dear\" Mary considered\nher just then); \"i's so difficult to get any comfortable talk at Miss\nSimmonds', I thought I'd just step up and see you at home.\"\n\n\"I understood from what you said your mother was ailing, and that you\nwanted to be with her,\" replied Mary, in no welcoming tone.\n\n\"Ay, but mother's better now,\" said the unabashed Sally. \"Your\nfather's out I suppose?\" looking round as well as she could; for Mary\nmade no haste to perform the hospitable offices of striking a match,\nand lighting a candle.\n\n\"Yes, he's out,\" said Mary, shortly, and busying herself at last\nabout the candle, without ever asking her visitor to sit down.\n\n\"So much the better,\" answered Sally, \"for to tell you the truth,\nMary, I've a friend at th' end of the street, as is anxious to come\nand see you at home, since you're grown so particular as not to like\nto speak to him in the street. He'll be here directly.\"\n\n\"Oh, Sally, don't let him,\" said Mary, speaking at last heartily; and\nrunning to the door she would have fastened it, but Sally held her\nhands, laughing meanwhile at her distress.\n\n\"Oh, please, Sally,\" struggling, \"dear Sally! don't let him come\nhere, the neighbours will so talk, and father'll go mad if he hears;\nhe'll kill me, Sally, he will. Besides, I don't love him--I never\ndid. Oh, let me go,\" as footsteps approached; and then, as they\npassed the house, and seemed to give her a respite, she continued,\n\"Do, Sally, dear Sally, go and tell him I don't love him, and that I\ndon't want to have any thing more to do with him. It was very wrong,\nI dare say, keeping company with him at all, but I'm very sorry, if\nI've led him to think too much of me; and I don't want him to think\nany more. Will you tell him this, Sally? and I'll do any thing for\nyou if you will.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you what I'll do,\" said Sally, in a more relenting mood,\n\"I'll go back with you to where he's waiting for us; or rather, I\nshould say, where I told him to wait for a quarter of an hour, till\nI seed if your father was at home; and if I didn't come back in that\ntime, he said he'd come here, and break the door open but he'd see\nyou.\"\n\n\"Oh, let us go, let us go,\" said Mary, feeling that the interview\nmust be, and had better be anywhere than at home, where her father\nmight return at any minute. She snatched up her bonnet, and was at\nthe end of the court in an instant; but then, not knowing whether to\nturn to the right or to the left, she was obliged to wait for Sally,\nwho came leisurely up, and put her arm through Mary's, with a kind of\ndecided hold, intended to prevent the possibility of her changing her\nmind, and turning back. But this, under the circumstances, was quite\ndifferent to Mary's plan. She had wondered more than once if she must\nnot have another interview with Mr. Carson; and had then determined,\nwhile she expressed her resolution that it should be the final one,\nto tell him how sorry she was if she had thoughtlessly given him\nfalse hopes. For be it remembered, she had the innocence, or the\nignorance, to believe his intentions honourable; and he, feeling\nthat at any price he must have her, only that he would obtain her as\ncheaply as he could, had never undeceived her; while Sally Leadbitter\nlaughed in her sleeve at them both, and wondered how it would all\nend,--whether Mary would gain her point of marriage, with her sly\naffectation of believing such to be Mr. Carson's intention in\ncourting her.\n\nNot very far from the end of the street, into which the court where\nMary lived opened, they met Mr. Carson, his hat a good deal slouched\nover his face as if afraid of being recognised. He turned when he saw\nthem coming, and led the way without uttering a word (although they\nwere close behind) to a street of half-finished houses.\n\nThe length of the walk gave Mary time to recoil from the interview\nwhich was to follow; but even if her own resolve to go through with\nit had failed, there was the steady grasp of Sally Leadbitter, which\nshe could not evade without an absolute struggle.\n\nAt last he stopped in the shelter and concealment of a wooden\nfence, put up to keep the building rubbish from intruding on the\nfoot-pavement. Inside this fence, a minute afterwards, the girls were\nstanding by him; Mary now returning Sally's detaining grasp with\ninterest, for she had determined on the way to make her a witness,\nwilling or unwilling, to the ensuing conversation. But Sally's\ncuriosity led her to be a very passive prisoner in Mary's hold.\n\nWith more freedom than he had ever used before, Mr. Carson put his\narm firmly round Mary's waist, in spite of her indignant resistance.\n\n\"Nay, nay! you little witch! Now I have caught you, I shall keep you\nprisoner. Tell me now what has made you run away from me so fast\nthese few days--tell me, you sweet little coquette!\"\n\nMary ceased struggling, but turned so as to be almost opposite to\nhim, while she spoke out calmly and boldly,\n\n\"Mr. Carson! I want to speak to you for once and for all. Since I met\nyou last Monday evening, I have made up my mind to have nothing more\nto do with you. I know I've been wrong in leading you to think I\nliked you; but I believe I didn't rightly know my own mind; and I\nhumbly beg your pardon, sir, if I've led you to think too much of\nme.\"\n\nFor an instant he was surprised; the next, vanity came to his\naid, and convinced him that she could only be joking. He, young,\nagreeable, rich, handsome! No! she was only showing a little womanly\nfondness for coquetting.\n\n\"You're a darling little rascal to go on in this way! 'Humbly begging\nmy pardon if you've made me think too much of you.' As if you didn't\nknow I think of you from morning to night. But you want to be told it\nagain and again, do you?\"\n\n\"No, indeed, sir, I don't. I would far liefer [40] that you should\nsay you will never think of me again, than that you should speak of\nme in this way. For indeed, sir, I never was more in earnest than I\nam, when I say to-night is the last night I will ever speak to you.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 40: \"Liefer,\" rather.\n                 \"Yet had I _levre_ unwist for sorrow die.\"\n                 _Chaucer; \"Troilus and Creseide.\"_]\n\n\n\"Last night, you sweet little equivocator, but not last day. Ha,\nMary! I've caught you, have I?\" as she, puzzled by his perseverance\nin thinking her joking, hesitated in what form she could now put her\nmeaning.\n\n\"I mean, sir,\" she said, sharply, \"that I will never speak to you\nagain at any time, after to-night.\"\n\n\"And what's made this change, Mary?\" said he, seriously enough now.\n\"Have I done any thing to offend you?\" added he, earnestly.\n\n\"No, sir,\" she answered gently, but yet firmly. \"I cannot tell you\nexactly why I've changed my mind; but I shall not alter it again; and\nas I said before, I beg your pardon if I've done wrong by you. And\nnow, sir, if you please, good night.\"\n\n\"But I do not please. You shall not go. What have I done, Mary? Tell\nme. You must not go without telling me how I have vexed you. What\nwould you have me do?\"\n\n\"Nothing, sir! but (in an agitated tone) oh! let me go! You cannot\nchange my mind; it's quite made up. Oh, sir! why do you hold me so\ntight? If you _will_ know why I won't have any thing more to do\nwith you, it is that I cannot love you. I have tried, and I really\ncannot.\"\n\nThis naive and candid avowal served her but little. He could not\nunderstand how it could be true. Some reason lurked behind. He was\npassionately in love. What should he do to tempt her? A thought\nstruck him.\n\n\"Listen! Mary. Nay, I cannot let you go till you have heard me. I\ndo love you dearly; and I won't believe but what you love me a very\nlittle, just a very little. Well, if you don't like to own it, never\nmind! I only want now to tell you how much I love you, by what I am\nready to give up for you. You know (or perhaps you are not fully\naware) how little my father and mother would like me to marry you.\nSo angry would they be, and so much ridicule should I have to brave,\nthat of course I have never thought of it till now. I thought we\ncould be happy enough without marriage.\" (Deep sank those words into\nMary's heart.) \"But now, if you like, I'll get a licence to-morrow\nmorning--nay, to-night, and I'll marry you in defiance of all the\nworld, rather than give you up. In a year or two my father will\nforgive me, and meanwhile you shall have every luxury money can\npurchase, and every charm that love can devise to make your life\nhappy. After all, my mother was but a factory girl.\" (This was said\nhalf to himself, as if to reconcile himself to this bold step.) \"Now,\nMary, you see how willing I am to--to sacrifice a good deal for you;\nI even offer you marriage, to satisfy your little ambitious heart;\nso, now, won't you say you can love me a little, little bit?\"\n\nHe pulled her towards him. To his surprise, she still resisted. Yes!\nthough all she had pictured to herself for so many months in being\nthe wife of Mr. Carson was now within her grasp, she resisted. His\nspeech had given her but one feeling, that of exceeding great relief.\nFor she had dreaded, now she knew what true love was, to think of\nthe attachment she might have created; the deep feeling her flirting\nconduct might have called out. She had loaded herself with reproaches\nfor the misery she might have caused. It was a relief to gather that\nthe attachment was of that low, despicable kind, which can plan to\nseduce the object of its affection; that the feeling she had caused\nwas shallow enough, for it only pretended to embrace self, at the\nexpense of the misery, the ruin, of one falsely termed beloved. She\nneed not be penitent to such a plotter! That was the relief.\n\n\"I am obliged to you, sir, for telling me what you have. You may\nthink I am a fool; but I did think you meant to marry me all along;\nand yet, thinking so, I felt I could not love you. Still I felt sorry\nI had gone so far in keeping company with you. Now, sir, I tell you,\nif I had loved you before, I don't think I should have loved you now\nyou have told me you meant to ruin me; for that's the plain English\nof not meaning to marry me till just this minute. I said I was sorry,\nand humbly begged your pardon; that was before I knew what you were.\nNow I scorn you, sir, for plotting to ruin a poor girl. Good night.\"\n\nAnd with a wrench, for which she had reserved all her strength, she\nwas off like a bolt. They heard her flying footsteps echo down the\nquiet street. The next sound was Sally's laugh, which grated on Mr.\nCarson's ears, and keenly irritated him.\n\n\"And what do you find so amusing, Sally?\" asked he.\n\n\"Oh, sir, I beg your pardon. I humbly beg your pardon, as Mary says,\nbut I can't help laughing, to think how she's outwitted us.\" (She was\ngoing to have said, \"outwitted you,\" but changed the pronoun.)\n\n\"Why, Sally, had you any idea she was going to fly out in this\nstyle?\"\n\n\"No, I hadn't, to be sure. But if you did think of marrying her, why\n(if I may be so bold as to ask) did you go and tell her you had no\nthought of doing otherwise by her? That was what put her up at last!\"\n\n\"Why I had repeatedly before led her to infer that marriage was not\nmy object. I never dreamed she could have been so foolish as to have\nmistaken me, little provoking romancer though she be! So I naturally\nwished her to know what a sacrifice of prejudice, of--of myself, in\nshort, I was willing to make for her sake; yet I don't think she was\naware of it after all. I believe I might have any lady in Manchester\nif I liked, and yet I was willing and ready to marry a poor\ndress-maker. Don't you understand me now? and don't you see what a\nsacrifice I was making to humour her? and all to no avail.\"\n\nSally was silent, so he went on:\n\n\"My father would have forgiven any temporary connexion, far sooner\nthan my marrying one so far beneath me in rank.\"\n\n\"I thought you said, sir, your mother was a factory girl,\" reminded\nSally, rather maliciously.\n\n\"Yes, yes!--but then my father was in much such a station; at any\nrate, there was not the disparity there is between Mary and me.\"\n\nAnother pause.\n\n\"Then you mean to give her up, sir? She made no bones of saying she\ngave you up.\"\n\n\"No, I do not mean to give her up, whatever you and she may please to\nthink. I am more in love with her than ever; even for this charming\ncapricious ebullition of hers. She'll come round, you may depend upon\nit. Women always do. They always have second thoughts, and find out\nthat they are best in casting off a lover. Mind! I don't say I shall\noffer her the same terms again.\"\n\nWith a few more words of no importance, the allies parted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nOLD ALICE'S BAIRN.\n\n\n   \"I lov'd him not; and yet, now he is gone,\n       I feel I am alone.\n   I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,\n       Alas! I would not check.\n   For reasons not to love him once I sought,\n       And wearied all my thought.\"\n\n   W. S. LANDOR.\n\n\nAnd now Mary had, as she thought, dismissed both her lovers. But they\nlooked on their dismissals with very different eyes. He who loved her\nwith all his heart and with all his soul, considered his rejection\nfinal. He did not comfort himself with the idea, which would have\nproved so well founded in his case, that women have second thoughts\nabout casting off their lovers. He had too much respect for his\nown heartiness of love to believe himself unworthy of Mary; that\nmock humble conceit did not enter his head. He thought he did not\n\"hit Mary's fancy;\" and though that may sound a trivial every-day\nexpression, yet the reality of it cut him to the heart. Wild visions\nof enlistment, of drinking himself into forgetfulness, of becoming\ndesperate in some way or another, entered his mind; but then the\nthought of his mother stood like an angel with a drawn sword in the\nway to sin. For, you know, \"he was the only son of his mother, and\nshe was a widow;\" dependent on him for daily bread. So he could not\nsquander away health and time, which were to him money wherewith to\nsupport her failing years. He went to his work, accordingly, to all\noutward semblance just as usual; but with a heavy, heavy heart\nwithin.\n\nMr. Carson, as we have seen, persevered in considering Mary's\nrejection of him as merely a \"charming caprice.\" If she were at work,\nSally Leadbitter was sure to slip a passionately loving note into her\nhand, and then so skilfully move away from her side, that Mary could\nnot all at once return it, without making some sensation among the\nwork-women. She was even forced to take several home with her. But\nafter reading one, she determined on her plan. She made no great\nresistance to receiving them from Sally, but kept them unopened, and\noccasionally returned them in a blank half-sheet of paper. But far\nworse than this, was the being so constantly waylaid as she went home\nby her persevering lover; who had been so long acquainted with all\nher habits, that she found it difficult to evade him. Late or early,\nshe was never certain of being free from him. Go this way or that,\nhe might come up some cross street when she had just congratulated\nherself on evading him for that day. He could not have taken a surer\nmode of making himself odious to her.\n\nAnd all this time Jem Wilson never came! Not to see her--that she did\nnot expect--but to see her father; to--she did not know what, but\nshe had hoped he would have come on some excuse, just to see if she\nhadn't changed her mind. He never came. Then she grew weary and\nimpatient, and her spirits sank. The persecution of the one lover,\nand the neglect of the other, oppressed her sorely. She could not now\nsit quietly through the evening at her work; or, if she kept, by a\nstrong effort, from pacing up and down the room, she felt as if she\nmust sing to keep off thought while she sewed. And her songs were\nthe maddest, merriest, she could think of. \"Barbara Allen,\" and such\nsorrowful ditties, did well enough for happy times; but now she\nrequired all the aid that could be derived from external excitement\nto keep down the impulse of grief.\n\nAnd her father, too--he was a great anxiety to her, he looked so\nchanged and so ill. Yet he would not acknowledge to any ailment. She\nknew, that be it as late as it would, she never left off work until\n(if the poor servants paid her pretty regularly for the odd jobs of\nmending she did for them) she had earned a few pence, enough for one\ngood meal for her father on the next day. But very frequently all she\ncould do in the morning, after her late sitting up at night, was to\nrun with the work home, and receive the money from the person for\nwhom it was done. She could not stay often to make purchases of food,\nbut gave up the money at once to her father's eager clutch; sometimes\nprompted by savage hunger it is true, but more frequently by a\ncraving for opium.\n\nOn the whole he was not so hungry as his daughter. For it was a long\nfast from the one o'clock dinner-hour at Miss Simmonds' to the close\nof Mary's vigil, which was often extended to midnight. She was young,\nand had not yet learned to bear \"clemming.\"\n\nOne evening, as she sang a merry song over her work, stopping\noccasionally to sigh, the blind Margaret came groping in. It had been\none of Mary's additional sorrows that her friend had been absent\nfrom home, accompanying the lecturer on music in his round among the\nmanufacturing towns of Yorkshire and Lancashire. Her grandfather,\ntoo, had seen this a good time for going his expeditions in search of\nspecimens; so that the house had been shut up for several weeks.\n\n\"Oh! Margaret, Margaret! how glad I am to see you. Take care. There,\nnow, you're all right, that's father's chair. Sit down.\"--She kissed\nher over and over again.\n\n\"It seems like the beginning o' brighter times, to see you again,\nMargaret. Bless you! And how well you look!\"\n\n\"Doctors always send ailing folk for change of air! and you know I've\nhad plenty o' that same lately.\"\n\n\"You've been quite a traveller for sure! Tell us all about it, do,\nMargaret. Where have you been to, first place?\"\n\n\"Eh, lass, that would take a long time to tell. Half o'er the world I\nsometimes think. Bolton, and Bury, and Owdham, and Halifax, and--but\nMary, guess who I saw there! May be you know though, so it's not fair\nguessing.\"\n\n\"No, I donnot. Tell me, Margaret, for I cannot abide waiting and\nguessing.\"\n\n\"Well, one night as I were going fra' my lodgings wi' the help on a\nlad as belonged to th' landlady, to find the room where I were to\nsing, I heard a cough before me, walking along. Thinks I, that's Jem\nWilson's cough, or I'm much mistaken. Next time came a sneeze and a\ncough, and then I were certain. First I hesitated whether I should\nspeak, thinking if it were a stranger he'd may be think me forrard.\n[41] But I knew blind folks must not be nesh about using their\ntongues, so says I, 'Jem Wilson, is that you?' And sure enough it\nwas, and nobody else. Did you know he were in Halifax, Mary?\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 41: \"Forrard,\" forward.]\n\n\n\"No;\" she answered, faintly and sadly; for Halifax was all the\nsame to her heart as the Antipodes; equally inaccessible by humble\npenitent looks and maidenly tokens of love.\n\n\"Well, he's there, however; he's putting up an engine for some folks\nthere, for his master. He's doing well, for he's getten four or five\nmen under him; we'd two or three meetings, and he telled me all about\nhis invention for doing away wi' the crank, or somewhat. His master's\nbought it from him, and ta'en out a patent, and Jem's a gentleman\nfor life wi' the money his master gied him. But you'll ha' heard all\nthis, Mary?\"\n\nNo! she had not.\n\n\"Well, I thought it all happened afore he left Manchester, and then\nin course you'd ha' known. But may be it were all settled after he\ngot to Halifax; however, he's gotten two or three hunder pounds for\nhis invention. But what's up with you, Mary? you're sadly out o'\nsorts. You've never been quarrelling wi' Jem, surely?\"\n\nNow Mary cried outright; she was weak in body, and unhappy in mind,\nand the time was come when she might have the relief of telling her\ngrief. She could not bring herself to confess how much of her sorrow\nwas caused by her having been vain and foolish; she hoped that need\nnever be known, and she could not bear to think of it.\n\n\"Oh, Margaret; do you know Jem came here one night when I were put\nout, and cross. Oh, dear! dear! I could bite my tongue out when I\nthink on it. And he told me how he loved me, and I thought I did not\nlove him, and I told him I didn't; and, Margaret,--he believed me,\nand went away so sad, and so angry; and now I'd do any thing,--I\nwould, indeed,\" her sobs choked the end of her sentence. Margaret\nlooked at her with sorrow, but with hope; for she had no doubt in her\nown mind, that it was only a temporary estrangement.\n\n\"Tell me, Margaret,\" said Mary, taking her apron down from her eyes,\nand looking at Margaret with eager anxiety, \"what can I do to bring\nhim back to me? Should I write to him?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied her friend, \"that would not do. Men are so queer, they\nlike to have a' the courting to themselves.\"\n\n\"But I did not mean to write him a courting letter,\" said Mary,\nsomewhat indignantly.\n\n\"If you wrote at all, it would be to give him a hint you'd taken\nthe rue, and would be very glad to have him now. I believe now he'd\nrather find that out himself.\"\n\n\"But he won't try,\" said Mary, sighing. \"How can he find it out when\nhe's at Halifax?\"\n\n\"If he's a will he's a way, depend upon it. And you would not have\nhim if he's not a will to you, Mary! No, dear!\" changing her tone\nfrom the somewhat hard way in which sensible people too often speak,\nto the soft accents of tenderness which come with such peculiar grace\nfrom them; \"you must just wait and be patient. You may depend upon\nit, all will end well, and better than if you meddled in it now.\"\n\n\"But it's so hard to be patient,\" pleaded Mary.\n\n\"Ay, dear; being patient is the hardest work we, any on us, have\nto do through life, I take it. Waiting is far more difficult than\ndoing. I've known that about my sight, and many a one has known it in\nwatching the sick; but it's one of God's lessons we all must learn,\none way or another.\" After a pause. \"Have ye been to see his mother\nof late?\"\n\n\"No; not for some weeks. When last I went she was so frabbit [42]\nwith me, that I really thought she wished I'd keep away.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 42: \"Frabbit,\" ill-tempered.]\n\n\n\"Well! if I were you I'd go. Jem will hear on't, and it will do you\nfar more good in his mind than writing a letter, which, after all,\nyou would find a tough piece of work when you came to settle to it.\n'Twould be hard to say neither too much nor too little. But I must be\ngoing, grandfather is at home, and it's our first night together, and\nhe must not be sitting wanting me any longer.\"\n\nShe rose up from her seat, but still delayed going.\n\n\"Mary! I've somewhat else I want to say to you, and I don't rightly\nknow how to begin. You see, grandfather and I know what bad times is,\nand we know your father is out o' work, and I'm getting more money\nthan I can well manage; and, dear, would you just take this bit o'\ngold, and pay me back in good times?\" The tears stood in Margaret's\neyes as she spoke.\n\n\"Dear Margaret, we're not so bad pressed as that.\" (The thought of\nher father, and his ill looks, and his one meal a day, rushed upon\nMary.) \"And yet, dear, if it would not put you out o' your way,--I\nwould work hard to make it up to you;--but would not your grandfather\nbe vexed?\"\n\n\"Not he, wench! It were more his thought than mine, and we have\ngotten ever so many more at home, so don't hurry yoursel about\npaying. It's hard to be blind, to be sure, else money comes in so\neasily now to what it used to do; and it's downright pleasure to earn\nit, for I do so like singing.\"\n\n\"I wish I could sing,\" said Mary, looking at the sovereign.\n\n\"Some has one kind o' gifts, and some another. Many's the time when\nI could see, that I longed for your beauty, Mary! We're like childer,\never wanting what we han not got. But now I must say just one more\nword. Remember, if you're sore pressed for money, we shall take it\nvery unkind if you donnot let us know. Good bye to ye.\"\n\nIn spite of her blindness she hurried away, anxious to rejoin her\ngrandfather, and desirous also to escape from Mary's expressions of\ngratitude.\n\nHer visit had done Mary good in many ways. It had strengthened her\npatience and her hope. It had given her confidence in Margaret's\nsympathy; and last, and really least in comforting power (of so\nlittle value are silver and gold in comparison to love, that gift\nin every one's power to bestow), came the consciousness of the\nmoney-value of the sovereign she held in her hand. The many things it\nmight purchase! First of all came the thought of a comfortable supper\nfor her father that very night; and acting instantly upon the idea,\nshe set off in hopes that all the provision-shops might not yet be\nclosed, although it was so late.\n\nThat night the cottage shone with unusual light, and fire-gleam;\nand the father and daughter sat down to a meal they thought almost\nextravagant. It was so long since they had had enough to eat.\n\n\"Food gives heart,\" say the Lancashire people; and the next day Mary\nmade time to go and call on Mrs. Wilson, according to Margaret's\nadvice. She found her quite alone, and more gracious than she had\nbeen the last time Mary had visited her. Alice was gone out, she\nsaid.\n\n\"She would just step to the post-office, all for no earthly use. For\nit were to ask if they hadn't a letter lying there for her from her\nfoster-son Will Wilson, the sailor-lad.\"\n\n\"What made her think there were a letter?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"Why, yo see, a neighbour as has been in Liverpool, telled us Will's\nship were come in. Now he said last time he were in Liverpool he'd\nha' come to ha' seen Alice, but his ship had but a week holiday, and\nhard work for the men in that time too. So Alice makes sure he'll\ncome this, and has had her hand behind her ear at every noise in th'\nstreet, thinking it were him. And to-day she were neither to have nor\nto hold, but off she would go to th' post, and see if he had na sent\nher a line to th' old house near yo. I tried to get her to give up\ngoing, for let alone her deafness she's getten so dark, she cannot\nsee five yards afore her; but no, she would go, poor old body.\"\n\n\"I did not know her sight had failed her; she used to have good eyes\nenough when she lived near us.\"\n\n\"Ay, but it's gone lately a good deal. But you never ask after Jem--\"\nanxious to get in a word on the subject nearest her heart.\n\n\"No,\" replied Mary, blushing scarlet. \"How is he?\"\n\n\"I cannot justly say how he is, seeing he's at Halifax; but he were\nvery well when he wrote last Tuesday. Han ye heard o' his good luck?\"\n\nRather to her disappointment, Mary owned she had heard of the sum his\nmaster had paid him for his invention.\n\n\"Well! and did not Margaret tell yo what he'd done wi' it? It's just\nlike him though, ne'er to say a word about it. Why, when it were paid\nwhat does he do, but get his master to help him to buy an income for\nme and Alice. He had her name put down for her life; but, poor thing,\nshe'll not be long to the fore, I'm thinking. She's sadly failed of\nlate. And so, Mary, yo see, we're two ladies o' property. It's a\nmatter o' twenty pound a year they tell me. I wish the twins had\nlived, bless 'em,\" said she, dropping a few tears. \"They should ha'\nhad the best o' schooling, and their belly-fulls o' food. I suppose\nthey're better off in heaven, only I should so like to see 'em.\"\n\nMary's heart filled with love at this new proof of Jem's goodness;\nbut she could not talk about it. She took Jane Wilson's hand, and\npressed it with affection; and then turned the subject to Will, her\nsailor nephew. Jane was a little bit sorry, but her prosperity had\nmade her gentler, and she did not resent what she felt as Mary's\nindifference to Jem and his merits.\n\n\"He's been in Africa and that neighbourhood, I believe. He's a fine\nchap, but he's not gotten Jem's hair. His has too much o' the red\nin it. He sent Alice (but, maybe, she telled you) a matter o' five\npound when he were over before; but that were nought to an income, yo\nknow.\"\n\n\"It's not every one that can get a hundred or two at a time,\" said\nMary.\n\n\"No! no! that's true enough. There's not many a one like Jem.\nThat's Alice's step,\" said she, hastening to open the door to her\nsister-in-law. Alice looked weary, and sad, and dusty. The weariness\nand the dust would not have been noticed either by her, or the\nothers, if it had not been for the sadness.\n\n\"No letters!\" said Mrs. Wilson.\n\n\"No, none! I must just wait another day to hear fra my lad. It's very\ndree work, waiting!\" said Alice.\n\nMargaret's words came into Mary's mind. Every one has their time and\nkind of waiting.\n\n\"If I but knew he were safe, and not drowned!\" spoke Alice. \"If I but\nknew he _were_ drowned, I would ask grace to say, Thy will be done.\nIt's the waiting.\"\n\n\"It's hard work to be patient to all of us,\" said Mary; \"I know I\nfind it so, but I did not know one so good as you did, Alice; I shall\nnot think so badly of myself for being a bit impatient, now I've\nheard you say you find it difficult.\"\n\nThe idea of reproach to Alice was the last in Mary's mind; and Alice\nknew it was. Nevertheless, she said,\n\n\"Then, my dear, I ask your pardon, and God's pardon, too, if I've\nweakened your faith, by showing you how feeble mine was. Half our\nlife's spent in waiting, and it ill becomes one like me, wi' so many\nmercies, to grumble. I'll try and put a bridle o'er my tongue, and\nmy thoughts too.\" She spoke in a humble and gentle voice, like one\nasking forgiveness.\n\n\"Come, Alice,\" interposed Mrs. Wilson, \"don't fret yoursel for e'er a\ntrifle wrong said here or there. See! I've put th' kettle on, and you\nand Mary shall ha' a dish o' tea in no time.\"\n\nSo she bustled about, and brought out a comfortable-looking\nsubstantial loaf, and set Mary to cut bread and butter, while she\nrattled out the tea-cups--always a cheerful sound.\n\nJust as they were sitting down, there was a knock heard at the door,\nand without waiting for it to be opened from the inside, some one\nlifted the latch, and in a man's voice asked, if one George Wilson\nlived there?\n\nMrs. Wilson was entering on a long and sorrowful explanation of\nhis having once lived there, but of his having dropped down dead;\nwhen Alice, with the instinct of love (for in all usual and common\ninstances, sight and hearing failed to convey impressions to her\nuntil long after other people had received them), arose, and tottered\nto the door.\n\n\"My bairn!--my own dear bairn!\" she exclaimed, falling on Will\nWilson's neck.\n\nYou may fancy the hospitable and welcoming commotion that ensued; how\nMrs. Wilson laughed, and talked, and cried, altogether, if such a\nthing can be done; and how Mary gazed with wondering pleasure at\nher old playmate; now a dashing, bronzed-looking, ringletted sailor,\nfrank, and hearty, and affectionate.\n\nBut it was something different from common to see Alice's joy at once\nmore having her foster-child with her. She did not speak, for she\nreally could not; but the tears came coursing down her old withered\ncheeks, and dimmed the horn spectacles she had put on, in order to\npry lovingly into his face. So what with her failing sight, and her\ntear-blinded eyes, she gave up the attempt of learning his face by\nheart through the medium of that sense, and tried another. She passed\nher sodden, shrivelled hands, all trembling with eagerness, over his\nmanly face, bent meekly down in order that she might more easily make\nher strange inspection. At last, her soul was satisfied.\n\nAfter tea, Mary, feeling sure there was much to be said on both\nsides, at which it would be better no one should be present, not even\nan intimate friend like herself, got up to go away. This seemed to\narouse Alice from her dreamy consciousness of exceeding happiness,\nand she hastily followed Mary to the door. There, standing outside,\nwith the latch in her hand, she took hold of Mary's arm, and spoke\nnearly the first words she had uttered since her nephew's return.\n\n\"My dear! I shall never forgive mysel, if my wicked words to-night\nare any stumbling-block in your path. See how the Lord has put coals\nof fire on my head! Oh! Mary, don't let my being an unbelieving\nThomas weaken your faith. Wait patiently on the Lord, whatever your\ntrouble may be.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nA TRAVELLER'S TALES.\n\n\n   \"The mermaid sat upon the rocks\n         All day long,\n   Admiring her beauty and combing her locks,\n         And singing a mermaid song.\n\n   \"And hear the mermaid's song you may,\n         As sure as sure can be,\n   If you will but follow the sun all day,\n         And souse with him into the sea.\"\n\n   W. S. LANDOR.\n\n\nIt was perhaps four or five days after the events mentioned in the\nlast chapter, that one evening, as Mary stood lost in reverie at the\nwindow, she saw Will Wilson enter the court, and come quickly up to\nher door. She was glad to see him, for he had always been a friend of\nhers, perhaps too much like her in character ever to become any thing\nnearer or dearer. She opened the door in readiness to receive his\nfrank greeting, which she as frankly returned.\n\n\"Come, Mary! on with bonnet and shawl, or whatever rigging you women\nrequire before leaving the house. I'm sent to fetch you, and I can't\nlose time when I'm under orders.\"\n\n\"Where am I to go to?\" asked Mary, as her heart leaped up at the\nthought of who might be waiting for her.\n\n\"Not very far,\" replied he. \"Only to old Job Legh's round the corner\nhere. Aunt would have me come and see these new friends of hers, and\nthen we meant to ha' come on here to see you and your father, but the\nold gentleman seems inclined to make a night of it, and have you all\nthere. Where's your father? I want to see him. He must come too.\"\n\n\"He's out, but I'll leave word next door for him to follow me; that's\nto say, if he comes home afore long.\" She added, hesitatingly, \"Is\nany one else at Job's?\"\n\n\"No! My aunt Jane would not come for some maggot or other; and as\nfor Jem! I don't know what you've all been doing to him, but he's as\ndown-hearted a chap as I'd wish to see. He's had his sorrows sure\nenough, poor lad! But it's time for him to be shaking off his dull\nlooks, and not go moping like a girl.\"\n\n\"Then he's come fra Halifax, is he?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"Yes! his body's come, but I think he's left his heart behind him.\nHis tongue I'm sure he has, as we used to say to childer, when they\nwould not speak. I try to rouse him up a bit, and I think he likes\nhaving me with him, but still he's as gloomy and as dull as can be.\n'Twas only yesterday he took me to the works, and you'd ha' thought\nus two Quakers as the spirit hadn't moved, all the way down we were\nso mum. It's a place to craze a man, certainly; such a noisy black\nhole! There were one or two things worth looking at, the bellows for\ninstance, or the gale they called a bellows. I could ha' stood near\nit a whole day; and if I'd a berth in that place, I should like to be\nbellows-man, if there is such a one. But Jem weren't diverted even\nwith that; he stood as grave as a judge while it blew my hat out o'\nmy hand. He's lost all relish for his food, too, which frets my aunt\nsadly. Come! Mary, ar'n't you ready?\"\n\nShe had not been able to gather if she were to see Jem at Job Legh's;\nbut when the door was opened, she at once saw and felt he was not\nthere. The evening then would be a blank; at least so she thought for\nthe first five minutes; but she soon forgot her disappointment in the\ncheerful meeting of old friends, all, except herself, with some cause\nfor rejoicing at that very time. Margaret, who could not be idle, was\nknitting away, with her face looking full into the room, away from\nher work. Alice sat meek and patient with her dimmed eyes and gentle\nlook, trying to see and to hear, but never complaining; indeed, in\nher inner self she was blessing God for her happiness; for the joy of\nhaving her nephew, her child, near her, was far more present to her\nmind, than her deprivations of sight and hearing.\n\nJob was in the full glory of host and hostess too, for by a tacit\nagreement he had roused himself from his habitual abstraction, and\nhad assumed many of Margaret's little household duties. While he\nmoved about he was deep in conversation with the young sailor, trying\nto extract from him any circumstances connected with the natural\nhistory of the different countries he had visited.\n\n\"Oh! if you are fond of grubs, and flies, and beetles, there's no\nplace for 'em like Sierra Leone. I wish you'd had some of ours; we\nhad rather too much of a good thing; we drank them with our drink,\nand could scarcely keep from eating them with our food. I never\nthought any folk could care for such fat green beasts as those, or I\nwould ha' brought you them by the thousand. A plate full o' peas-soup\nwould ha' been full enough for you, I dare say; it were often too\nfull for us.\"\n\n\"I would ha' given a good deal for some on 'em,\" said Job.\n\n\"Well, I knew folk at home liked some o' the queer things one meets\nwith abroad; but I never thought they'd care for them nasty slimy\nthings. I were always on the look-out for a mermaid, for that I knew\nwere a curiosity.\"\n\n\"You might ha' looked long enough,\" said Job, in an under-tone of\ncontempt, which, however, the quick ears of the sailor caught.\n\n\"Not so long, master, in some latitudes, as you think. It stands to\nreason th' sea hereabouts is too cold for mermaids; for women here\ndon't go half-naked on account o' climate. But I've been in lands\nwhere muslin were too hot to wear on land, and where the sea were\nmore than milk-warm; and though I'd never the good luck to see a\nmermaid in that latitude, I know them that has.\"\n\n\"Do tell us about it,\" cried Mary.\n\n\"Pooh, pooh!\" said Job the naturalist.\n\nBoth speeches determined Will to go on with his story. What could a\nfellow who had never been many miles from home know about the wonders\nof the deep, that he should put him down in that way?\n\n\"Well, it were Jack Harris, our third mate last voyage, as many\nand many a time telled us all about it. You see he were becalmed\noff Chatham Island (that's in the Great Pacific, and a warm enough\nlatitude for mermaids, and sharks, and such like perils). So some of\nthe men took the long boat, and pulled for the island to see what\nit were like; and when they got near, they heard a puffing, like a\ncreature come up to take breath; you've never heard a diver? No!\nWell! you've heard folks in th' asthma, and it were for all the world\nlike that. So they looked around, and what should they see but a\nmermaid, sitting on a rock, and sunning herself. The water is always\nwarmer when it's rough, you know, so I suppose in the calm she felt\nit rather chilly, and had come up to warm herself.\"\n\n\"What was she like?\" asked Mary, breathlessly.\n\nJob took his pipe off the chimney-piece and began to smoke with very\naudible puffs, as if the story were not worth listening to.\n\n\"Oh! Jack used to say she was for all the world as beautiful as any\nof the wax ladies in the barbers' shops; only, Mary, there were one\nlittle difference: her hair was bright grass green.\"\n\n\"I should not think that was pretty,\" said Mary, hesitatingly; as if\nnot liking to doubt the perfection of any thing belonging to such an\nacknowledged beauty.\n\n\"Oh! but it is when you're used to it. I always think when first\nwe get sight of land, there's no colour so lovely as grass green.\nHowever, she had green hair sure enough; and were proud enough of it,\ntoo; for she were combing it out full-length when first they saw her.\nThey all thought she were a fair prize, and may be as good as a whale\nin ready money (they were whale-fishers you know). For some folk\nthink a deal of mermaids, whatever other folk do.\" This was a hit at\nJob, who retaliated in a series of sonorous spittings and puffs.\n\n\"So, as I were saying, they pulled towards her, thinking to catch\nher. She were all the while combing her beautiful hair, and beckoning\nto them, while with the other hand she held a looking-glass.\"\n\n\"How many hands had she?\" asked Job.\n\n\"Two, to be sure, just like any other woman,\" answered Will,\nindignantly.\n\n\"Oh! I thought you said she beckoned with one hand, and combed her\nhair with another, and held a looking-glass with a third,\" said Job,\nwith provoking quietness.\n\n\"No! I didn't! at least if I did, I meant she did one thing after\nanother, as any one but\" (here he mumbled a word or two) \"could\nunderstand. Well, Mary,\" turning very decidedly towards her, \"when\nshe saw them coming near, whether it were she grew frightened at\ntheir fowling-pieces, as they had on board, for a bit o' shooting on\nthe island, or whether it were she were just a fickle jade as did not\nrightly know her own mind (which, seeing one half of her was woman,\nI think myself was most probable), but when they were only about two\noars' length from the rock where she sat, down she plopped into the\nwater, leaving nothing but her hinder end of a fish tail sticking up\nfor a minute, and then that disappeared too.\"\n\n\"And did they never see her again?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"Never so plain; the man who had the second watch one night declared\nhe saw her swimming round the ship, and holding up her glass for him\nto look in; and then he saw the little cottage near Aber in Wales\n(where his wife lived) as plain as ever he saw it in life, and his\nwife standing outside, shading her eyes as if she were looking for\nhim. But Jack Harris gave him no credit, for he said he were always a\nbit of a romancer, and beside that, were a home-sick, down-hearted\nchap.\"\n\n\"I wish they had caught her,\" said Mary, musing.\n\n\"They got one thing as belonged to her,\" replied Will, \"and that I've\noften seen with my own eyes, and I reckon it's a sure proof of the\ntruth of their story; for them that wants proof.\"\n\n\"What was it?\" asked Margaret, almost anxious her grandfather should\nbe convinced.\n\n\"Why, in her hurry she left her comb on the rock, and one o' the men\nspied it; so they thought that were better than nothing, and they\nrowed there and took it, and Jack Harris had it on board the _John\nCropper_, and I saw him comb his hair with it every Sunday morning.\"\n\n\"What was it like?\" asked Mary, eagerly; her imagination running on\ncoral combs, studded with pearls.\n\n\"Why, if it had not had such a strange yarn belonging to it, you'd\nnever ha' noticed it from any other small-tooth comb.\"\n\n\"I should rather think not,\" sneered Job Legh.\n\nThe sailor bit his lips to keep down his anger against an old man.\nMargaret felt very uneasy, knowing her grandfather so well, and not\ndaring to guess what caustic remark might come next to irritate the\nyoung sailor guest.\n\nMary, however, was too much interested by the wonders of the deep\nto perceive the incredulity with which Job Legh received Wilson's\naccount of the mermaid; and when he left off, half offended, and very\nmuch inclined not to open his lips again through the evening, she\neagerly said,\n\n\"Oh do tell us something more of what you hear and see on board ship.\nDo, Will!\"\n\n\"What's the use, Mary, if folk won't believe one. There are things\nI saw with my own eyes, that some people would pish and pshaw at, as\nif I were a baby to be put down by cross noises. But I'll tell you,\nMary,\" with an emphasis on _you_, \"some more of the wonders of the\nsea, sin' you're not too wise to believe me. I have seen a fish fly.\"\n\nThis did stagger Mary. She had heard of mermaids as signs of inns,\nand as sea-wonders, but never of flying fish. Not so Job. He put down\nhis pipe, and nodding his head as a token of approbation, he said\n\n\"Ay, ay! young man. Now you're speaking truth.\"\n\n\"Well now! you'll swallow that, old gentleman. You'll credit me when\nI say I've seen a crittur half fish, half bird, and you won't credit\nme when I say there be such beasts as mermaids, half fish, half\nwoman. To me, one's just as strange as t'other.\"\n\n\"You never saw the mermaid yoursel,\" interposed Margaret, gently. But\n\"love me, love my dog,\" was Will Wilson's motto, only his version was\n\"believe me, believe Jack Harris;\" and the remark was not so soothing\nto him as it was intended to have been.\n\n\"It's the Exocetus; one of the Malacopterygii Abdominales,\" said Job,\nmuch interested.\n\n\"Ay, there you go! You're one o' them folks as never knows beasts\nunless they're called out o' their names. Put 'em in Sunday clothes\nand you know 'em, but in their work-a-day English you never know\nnought about 'em. I've met wi' many o' your kidney; and if I'd ha'\nknown it, I'd ha' christened poor Jack's mermaid wi' some grand\ngibberish of a name. Mermaidicus Jack Harrisensis; that's just like\ntheir new-fangled words. D'ye believe there's such a thing as the\nMermaidicus, master?\" asked Will, enjoying his own joke uncommonly,\nas most people do.\n\n\"Not I! Tell me about the--\"\n\n\"Well!\" said Will, pleased at having excited the old gentleman's\nfaith and credit at last. \"It were on this last voyage, about a day's\nsail from Madeira, that one of our men--\"\n\n\"Not Jack Harris, I hope,\" murmured Job.\n\n\"Called me,\" continued Will, not noticing the interruption, \"to see\nthe what d'ye call it--flying fish I say it is. It were twenty feet\nout o' water, and it flew near on to a hundred yards. But I say, old\ngentleman, I ha' gotten one dried, and if you'll take it, why, I'll\ngive it you; only,\" he added, in a lower tone, \"I wish you'd just gie\nme credit for the Mermaidicus.\"\n\nI really believe if the assuming faith in the story of the mermaid\nhad been made the condition of receiving the flying fish, Job Legh,\nsincere man as he was, would have pretended belief; he was so much\ndelighted at the idea of possessing this specimen. He won the\nsailor's heart by getting up to shake both his hands in his vehement\ngratitude, puzzling poor old Alice, who yet smiled through her\nwonder; for she understood the action to indicate some kindly feeling\ntowards her nephew.\n\nJob wanted to prove his gratitude, and was puzzled how to do it.\nHe feared the young man would not appreciate any of his duplicate\nAraneides; not even the great American Mygale, one of his most\nprecious treasures; or else he would gladly have bestowed any\nduplicate on the donor of a real dried Exocetus. What could he do\nfor him? He could ask Margaret to sing. Other folks beside her old\ndoating grandfather thought a deal of her songs. So Margaret began\nsome of her noble old-fashioned songs. She knew no modern music (for\nwhich her auditors might have been thankful), but she poured her rich\nvoice out in some of the old canzonets she had lately learnt while\naccompanying the musical lecturer on his tour.\n\nMary was amused to see how the young sailor sat entranced; mouth,\neyes, all open, in order to catch every breath of sound. His very\nlids refused to wink, as if afraid in that brief proverbial interval\nto lose a particle of the rich music that floated through the room.\nFor the first time the idea crossed Mary's mind that it was possible\nthe plain little sensible Margaret, so prim and demure, might have\npower over the heart of the handsome, dashing, spirited Will Wilson.\n\nJob, too, was rapidly changing his opinion of his new guest. The\nflying fish went a great way, and his undisguised admiration for\nMargaret's singing carried him still further.\n\nIt was amusing enough to see these two, within the hour so barely\ncivil to each other, endeavouring now to be ultra-agreeable. Will,\nas soon as he had taken breath (a long, deep gasp of admiration)\nafter Margaret's song, sidled up to Job, and asked him in a sort of\ndoubting tone,\n\n\"You wouldn't like a live Manx cat, would ye, master?\"\n\n\"A what?\" exclaimed Job.\n\n\"I don't know its best name,\" said Will, humbly. \"But we call 'em\njust Manx cats. They're cats without tails.\"\n\nNow Job, in all his natural history, had never heard of such animals;\nso Will continued,\n\n\"Because I'm going, afore joining my ship, to see mother's friends in\nthe island, and would gladly bring you one, if so be you'd like to\nhave it. They look as queer and out o' nature as flying fish, or\"--he\ngulped the words down that should have followed. \"Especially when\nyou see 'em walking a roof-top, right again the sky, when a cat, as\nis a proper cat, is sure to stick her tail stiff out behind, like a\nslack-rope dancer a-balancing; but these cats having no tail, cannot\nstick it out, which captivates some people uncommonly. If yo'll allow\nme, I'll bring one for Miss there,\" jerking his head at Margaret. Job\nassented with grateful curiosity, wishing much to see the tail-less\nphenomenon.\n\n\"When are you going to sail?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"I cannot justly say; our ship's bound for America next voyage, they\ntell me. A mess-mate will let me know when her sailing-day is fixed;\nbut I've got to go to th' Isle o' Man first. I promised uncle last\ntime I were in England to go this next time. I may have to hoist the\nblue Peter any day; so, make much of me while you have me, Mary.\"\n\nJob asked him if he had ever been in America.\n\n\"Haven't I? North and South both! This time we're bound to North.\nYankee-Land, as we call it, where Uncle Sam lives.\"\n\n\"Uncle who?\" said Mary.\n\n\"Oh, it's a way sailors have of speaking. I only mean I'm going to\nBoston, U. S., that's Uncle Sam.\"\n\nMary did not understand, so she left him and went to sit by Alice,\nwho could not hear conversation unless expressly addressed to her.\nShe had sat patiently silent the greater part of the night, and now\ngreeted Mary with a quiet smile.\n\n\"Where's yo'r father?\" asked she.\n\n\"I guess he's at his Union; he's there most evenings.\"\n\nAlice shook her head; but whether it were that she did not hear, or\nthat she did not quite approve of what she heard, Mary could not\nmake out. She sat silently watching Alice, and regretting over her\ndimmed and veiled eyes, formerly so bright and speaking; as if Alice\nunderstood by some other sense what was passing in Mary's mind, she\nturned suddenly round, and answered Mary's thought.\n\n\"Yo're mourning for me, my dear; and there's no need, Mary. I'm as\nhappy as a child. I sometimes think I am a child, whom the Lord is\nhushabying to my long sleep. For when I were a nurse-girl, my missis\nalway telled me to speak very soft and low, and to darken the room\nthat her little one might go to sleep; and now all noises are hushed\nand still to me, and the bonny earth seems dim and dark, and I\nknow it's my Father lulling me away to my long sleep. I'm very\nwell content, and yo mustn't fret for me. I've had well nigh every\nblessing in life I could desire.\"\n\nMary thought of Alice's long-cherished, fond wish to revisit the home\nof her childhood, so often and often deferred, and now probably never\nto take place. Or if it did, how changed from the fond anticipation\nof what it was to have been! It would be a mockery to the blind and\ndeaf Alice.\n\nThe evening came quickly to an end. There was the humble cheerful\nmeal, and then the bustling merry farewell, and Mary was once more in\nthe quietness and solitude of her own dingy, dreary-looking home; her\nfather still out, the fire extinguished, and her evening's task of\nwork lying all undone upon the dresser. But it had been a pleasant\nlittle interlude to think upon. It had distracted her attention for\na few hours from the pressure of many uneasy thoughts, of the dark,\nheavy, oppressive times, when sorrow and want seemed to surround her\non every side; of her father, his changed and altered looks, telling\nso plainly of broken health, and an embittered heart; of the morrow,\nand the morrow beyond that, to be spent in that close monotonous\nwork-room, with Sally Leadbitter's odious whispers hissing in her\near; and of the hunted look, so full of dread, from Miss Simmonds'\ndoor-step up and down the street, lest her persecuting lover should\nbe near: for he lay in wait for her with wonderful perseverance, and\nof late had made himself almost hateful, by the unmanly force which\nhe had used to detain her to listen to him, and the indifference with\nwhich he exposed her to the remarks of the passers-by, any one of\nwhom might circulate reports which it would be terrible for her\nfather to hear--and worse than death should they reach Jem Wilson.\nAnd all this she had drawn upon herself by her giddy flirting. Oh!\nhow she loathed the recollection of the hot summer evening, when,\nworn out by stitching and sewing, she had loitered homewards with\nweary languor, and first listened to the voice of the tempter.\n\nAnd Jem Wilson! Oh, Jem, Jem, why did you not come to receive some of\nthe modest looks and words of love which Mary longed to give you, to\ntry and make up for the hasty rejection which you as hastily took to\nbe final, though both mourned over it with many tears. But day after\nday passed away, and patience seemed of no avail; and Mary's cry was\never the old moan of the Moated Grange,\n\n   \"Why comes he not,\" she said,\n   \"I am aweary, aweary,\n   I would that I were dead.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nJEM'S INTERVIEW WITH POOR ESTHER.\n\n\n   \"Know the temptation ere you judge the crime!\n   Look on this tree--'twas green, and fair, and graceful;\n   Yet now, save these few shoots, how dry and rotten!\n   Thou canst not tell the cause. Not long ago,\n   A neighbour oak, with which its roots were twined,\n   In falling wrenched them with such cruel force,\n   That though we covered them again with care,\n   Its beauty withered, and it pined away.\n   So, could we look into the human breast,\n   How oft the fatal blight that meets our view,\n   Should we trace down to the torn, bleeding fibres\n   Of a too trusting heart--where it were shame,\n   For pitying tears, to give contempt or blame.\"\n\n   \"STREET WALKS.\"\n\n\nThe month was over;--the honeymoon to the newly-married; the\nexquisite convalescence to the \"living mother of a living child;\" the\n\"first dark days of nothingness\" to the widow and the child bereaved;\nthe term of penance, of hard labour, and solitary confinement, to the\nshrinking, shivering, hopeless prisoner.\n\n\"Sick, and in prison, and ye visited me.\" Shall you, or I, receive\nsuch blessing? I know one who will. An overseer of a foundry, an aged\nman, with hoary hair, has spent his Sabbaths, for many years, in\nvisiting the prisoners and the afflicted in Manchester New Bailey;\nnot merely advising and comforting, but putting means into their\npower of regaining the virtue and the peace they had lost; becoming\nhimself their guarantee in obtaining employment, and never deserting\nthose who have once asked help from him. [43]\n\n\n   [Footnote 43: Vide _Manchester Guardian_, of Wednesday, March 18,\n                 1846; and also the Reports of Captain Williams,\n                 prison inspector.]\n\n\nEsther's term of imprisonment was ended. She received a good\ncharacter in the governor's books; she had picked her daily quantity\nof oakum, had never deserved the extra punishment of the tread-mill,\nand had been civil and decorous in her language. And once more she\nwas out of prison. The door closed behind her with a ponderous clang,\nand in her desolation she felt as if shut out of home--from the only\nshelter she could meet with, houseless and pennyless as she was, on\nthat dreary day.\n\nBut it was but for an instant that she stood there doubting. One\nthought had haunted her both by night and by day, with monomaniacal\nincessancy; and that thought was how to save Mary (her dead sister's\nonly child, her own little pet in the days of her innocence) from\nfollowing in the same downward path to vice. To whom could she speak\nand ask for aid? She shrank from the idea of addressing John Barton\nagain; her heart sank within her, at the remembrance of his fierce\nrepulsing action, and far fiercer words. It seemed worse than death\nto reveal her condition to Mary, else she sometimes thought that this\ncourse would be the most terrible, the most efficient warning. She\nmust speak; to that she was soul-compelled; but to whom? She dreaded\naddressing any of her former female acquaintance, even supposing they\nhad sense, or spirit, or interest enough to undertake her mission.\n\nTo whom shall the outcast prostitute tell her tale? Who will give her\nhelp in her day of need? Hers is the leper-sin, and all stand aloof\ndreading to be counted unclean.\n\nIn her wild night wanderings, she had noted the haunts and habits\nof many a one who little thought of a watcher in the poor forsaken\nwoman. You may easily imagine that a double interest was attached\nby her to the ways and companionships of those with whom she had\nbeen acquainted in the days which, when present, she had considered\nhardly-worked and monotonous, but which now in retrospection seemed\nso happy and unclouded. Accordingly, she had, as we have seen, known\nwhere to meet with John Barton on that unfortunate night, which had\nonly produced irritation in him, and a month's imprisonment to her.\nShe had also observed that he was still intimate with the Wilsons.\nShe had seen him walking and talking with both father and son; her\nold friends too; and she had shed unregarded, unvalued tears, when\nsome one had casually told her of George Wilson's sudden death. It\nnow flashed across her mind, that to the son, to Mary's play-fellow,\nher elder brother in the days of childhood, her tale might be told,\nand listened to with interest, and some mode of action suggested by\nhim by which Mary might be guarded and saved.\n\nAll these thoughts had passed through her mind while yet she was in\nprison; so when she was turned out, her purpose was clear, and she\ndid not feel her desolation of freedom as she would otherwise have\ndone.\n\nThat night she stationed herself early near the foundry where she\nknew Jem worked; he stayed later than usual, being detained by some\narrangements for the morrow. She grew tired and impatient; many\nworkmen had come out of the door in the long, dead, brick wall, and\neagerly had she peered into their faces, deaf to all insult or curse.\nHe must have gone home early; one more turn in the street, and she\nwould go.\n\nDuring that turn he came out, and in the quiet of that street of\nworkshops and warehouses, she directly heard his steps. Now her heart\nfailed her for an instant; but still she was not daunted from her\npurpose, painful as its fulfilment was sure to be. She laid her hand\non his arm. As she expected, after a momentary glance at the person\nwho thus endeavoured to detain him, he made an effort to shake it\noff, and pass on. But trembling as she was, she had provided against\nthis by a firm and unusual grasp.\n\n\"You must listen to me, Jem Wilson,\" she said, with almost an accent\nof command.\n\n\"Go away, missis; I've nought to do with you, either in hearkening,\nor talking.\"\n\nHe made another struggle.\n\n\"You must listen,\" she said again, authoritatively, \"for Mary\nBarton's sake.\"\n\nThe spell of her name was as potent as that of the mariner's\nglittering eye. \"He listened like a three-year child.\"\n\n\"I know you care enough for her to wish to save her from harm.\"\n\nHe interrupted his earnest gaze into her face, with the exclamation--\n\n\"And who can yo be to know Mary Barton, or to know that she's ought\nto me?\"\n\nThere was a little strife in Esther's mind for an instant, between\nthe shame of acknowledging herself, and the additional weight to her\nrevelation which such acknowledgment would give. Then she spoke.\n\n\"Do you remember Esther, the sister of John Barton's wife? the aunt\nto Mary? And the Valentine I sent you last February ten years?\"\n\n\"Yes, I mind her well! But yo are not Esther, are you?\" He looked\nagain into her face, and seeing that indeed it was his boyhood's\nfriend, he took her hand, and shook it with a cordiality that forgot\nthe present in the past.\n\n\"Why, Esther! Where han ye been this many a year? Where han ye been\nwandering that we none of us could find you out?\"\n\nThe question was asked thoughtlessly, but answered with fierce\nearnestness.\n\n\"Where have I been? What have I been doing? Why do you torment me\nwith questions like these? Can you not guess? But the story of my\nlife is wanted to give force to my speech, afterwards I will tell it\nyou. Nay! don't change your fickle mind now, and say you don't want\nto hear it. You must hear it, and I must tell it; and then see after\nMary, and take care she does not become like me. As she is loving\nnow, so did I love once; one above me far.\" She remarked not, in her\nown absorption, the change in Jem's breathing, the sudden clutch at\nthe wall which told the fearfully vivid interest he took in what she\nsaid. \"He was so handsome, so kind! Well, the regiment was ordered to\nChester (did I tell you he was an officer?), and he could not bear to\npart from me, nor I from him, so he took me with him. I never thought\npoor Mary would have taken it so to heart! I always meant to send for\nher to pay me a visit when I was married; for, mark you! he promised\nme marriage. They all do. Then came three years of happiness. I\nsuppose I ought not to have been happy, but I was. I had a little\ngirl, too. Oh! the sweetest darling that ever was seen! But I must\nnot think of her,\" putting her hand wildly up to her forehead, \"or I\nshall go mad; I shall.\"\n\n\"Don't tell me any more about yoursel,\" said Jem, soothingly.\n\n\"What! you're tired already, are you? but I'll tell you; as you've\nasked for it, you shall hear it. I won't recall the agony of the past\nfor nothing. I will have the relief of telling it. Oh, how happy I\nwas!\"--sinking her voice into a plaintive child-like manner. \"It\ncame like a shot on me when one day he came to me and told me he was\nordered to Ireland, and must leave me behind; at Bristol we then\nwere.\"\n\nJem muttered some words; she caught their meaning, and in a pleading\nvoice continued,\n\n\"Oh, don't abuse him; don't speak a word against him! You don't know\nhow I love him yet; yet, when I am sunk so low. You don't guess how\nkind he was. He gave me fifty pound before we parted, and I knew he\ncould ill spare it. Don't, Jem, please,\" as his muttered indignation\nrose again. For her sake he ceased. \"I might have done better with\nthe money; I see now. But I did not know the value of money. Formerly\nI had earned it easily enough at the factory, and as I had no more\nsensible wants, I spent it on dress and on eating. While I lived with\nhim, I had it for asking; and fifty pounds would, I thought, go a\nlong way. So I went back to Chester, where I'd been so happy, and\nset up a small-ware shop, and hired a room near. We should have done\nwell, but alas! alas! my little girl fell ill, and I could not mind\nmy shop and her too; and things grew worse and worse. I sold my\ngoods any how to get money to buy her food and medicine; I wrote\nover and over again to her father for help, but he must have changed\nhis quarters, for I never got an answer. The landlord seized the\nfew bobbins and tapes I had left, for shop-rent; and the person to\nwhom the mean little room, to which we had been forced to remove,\nbelonged, threatened to turn us out unless his rent was paid; it had\nrun on many weeks, and it was winter, cold bleak winter; and my child\nwas so ill, so ill, and I was starving. And I could not bear to see\nher suffer, and forgot how much better it would be for us to die\ntogether;--oh her moans, her moans, which money would give me the\nmeans of relieving! So I went out into the street, one January\nnight--Do you think God will punish me for that?\" she asked with wild\nvehemence, almost amounting to insanity, and shaking Jem's arm in\norder to force an answer from him.\n\nBut before he could shape his heart's sympathy into words, her voice\nhad lost its wildness, and she spoke with the quiet of despair.\n\n\"But it's no matter! I've done that since, which separates us as far\nasunder as heaven and hell can be.\" Her voice rose again to the sharp\npitch of agony. \"My darling! my darling! even after death I may not\nsee thee, my own sweet one! She was so good--like a little angel.\nWhat is that text, I don't remember,--that text mother used to teach\nme when I sat on her knee long ago; it begins, 'Blessed are the\npure'\"--\n\n\"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.\"\n\n\"Ay, that's it! It would break mother's heart if she knew what I am\nnow--it did break Mary's heart, you see. And now I recollect it was\nabout her child I wanted so to see you, Jem. You know Mary Barton,\ndon't you?\" said she, trying to collect her thoughts.\n\nYes, Jem knew her. How well, his beating heart could testify!\n\n\"Well, there's something to do for her; I forget what; wait a\nminute! She is so like my little girl;\" said she, raising her eyes,\nglistening with unshed tears, in search of the sympathy of Jem's\ncountenance.\n\nHe deeply pitied her; but oh! how he longed to recall her mind to the\nsubject of Mary, and the lover above her in rank, and the service to\nbe done for her sake. But he controlled himself to silence. After\nawhile, she spoke again, and in a calmer voice.\n\n\"When I came to Manchester (for I could not stay in Chester after her\ndeath), I found you all out very soon. And yet I never thought my\npoor sister was dead. I suppose I would not think so. I used to watch\nabout the court where John lived, for many and many a night, and\ngather all I could about them from the neighbours' talk; for I never\nasked a question. I put this and that together, and followed one, and\nlistened to the other; many's the time I've watched the policeman off\nhis beat, and peeped through the chink of the window-shutter to see\nthe old room, and sometimes Mary or her father sitting up late for\nsome reason or another. I found out Mary went to learn dress-making,\nand I began to be frightened for her; for it's a bad life for a girl\nto be out late at night in the streets, and after many an hour of\nweary work, they're ready to follow after any novelty that makes a\nlittle change. But I made up my mind, that bad as I was, I could\nwatch over Mary and perhaps keep her from harm. So I used to wait\nfor her at nights, and follow her home, often when she little knew\nany one was near her. There was one of her companions I never could\nabide, and I'm sure that girl is at the bottom of some mischief.\nBy-and-bye, Mary's walks homewards were not alone. She was joined\nsoon after she came out, by a man; a gentleman. I began to fear\nfor her, for I saw she was light-hearted, and pleased with his\nattentions; and I thought worse of him for having such long talks\nwith that bold girl I told you of. But I was laid up for a long time\nwith spitting of blood; and could do nothing. I'm sure it made me\nworse, thinking about what might be happening to Mary. And when I\ncame out, all was going on as before, only she seemed fonder of him\nthan ever; and oh Jem! her father won't listen to me, and it's you\nmust save Mary! You're like a brother to her, and maybe could give\nher advice and watch over her, and at any rate John will hearken to\nyou; only he's so stern and so cruel.\" She began to cry a little at\nthe remembrance of his harsh words; but Jem cut her short by his\nhoarse, stern inquiry,\n\n\"Who is this spark that Mary loves? Tell me his name!\"\n\n\"It's young Carson, old Carson's son, that your father worked for.\"\n\nThere was a pause. She broke the silence.\n\n\"Oh! Jem, I charge you with the care of her! I suppose it would be\nmurder to kill her, but it would be better for her to die than to\nlive to lead such a life as I do. Do you hear me, Jem?\"\n\n\"Yes! I hear you. It would be better. Better we were all dead.\" This\nwas said as if thinking aloud; but he immediately changed his tone,\nand continued,\n\n\"Esther, you may trust to my doing all I can for Mary. That I have\ndetermined on. And now listen to me! you loathe the life you lead,\nelse you would not speak of it as you do. Come home with me. Come to\nmy mother. She and my aunt Alice live together. I will see that they\ngive you a welcome. And to-morrow I will see if some honest way of\nliving cannot be found for you. Come home with me.\"\n\nShe was silent for a minute, and he hoped he had gained his point.\nThen she said,\n\n\"God bless you, Jem, for the words you have just spoken. Some years\nago you might have saved me, as I hope and trust you will yet save\nMary. But it is too late now;--too late,\" she added, with accents of\ndeep despair.\n\nStill he did not relax his hold. \"Come home,\" he said.\n\n\"I tell you, I cannot. I could not lead a virtuous life if I would.\nI should only disgrace you. If you will know all,\" said she, as he\nstill seemed inclined to urge her, \"I must have drink. Such as live\nlike me could not bear life if they did not drink. It's the only\nthing to keep us from suicide. If we did not drink, we could not\nstand the memory of what we have been, and the thought of what we\nare, for a day. If I go without food, and without shelter, I must\nhave my dram. Oh! you don't know the awful nights I have had in\nprison for want of it!\" said she, shuddering, and glaring round with\nterrified eyes, as if dreading to see some spiritual creature, with\ndim form, near her.\n\n\"It is so frightful to see them,\" whispering in tones of wildness,\nalthough so low spoken. \"There they go round and round my bed the\nwhole night through. My mother, carrying little Annie (I wonder how\nthey got together) and Mary--and all looking at me with their sad,\nstony eyes; oh Jem! it is so terrible! They don't turn back either,\nbut pass behind the head of the bed, and I feel their eyes on me\neverywhere. If I creep under the clothes I still see them; and what\nis worse,\" hissing out her words with fright, \"they see me. Don't\nspeak to me of leading a better life--I must have drink. I cannot\npass to-night without a dram; I dare not.\"\n\nJem was silent from deep sympathy. Oh! could he, then, do nothing for\nher! She spoke again, but in a less excited tone, although it was\nthrillingly earnest.\n\n\"You are grieved for me! I know it better than if you told me in\nwords. But you can do nothing for me. I am past hope. You can yet\nsave Mary. You must. She is innocent, except for the great error of\nloving one above her in station. Jem! you _will_ save her?\"\n\nWith heart and soul, though in few words, Jem promised that if aught\nearthly could keep her from falling, he would do it. Then she blessed\nhim, and bade him good-night.\n\n\"Stay a minute,\" said he, as she was on the point of departure. \"I\nmay want to speak to you again. I mun know where to find you--where\ndo you live?\"\n\nShe laughed strangely. \"And do you think one sunk so low as I am has\na home? Decent, good people have homes. We have none. No, if you want\nme, come at night, and look at the corners of the streets about here.\nThe colder, the bleaker, the more stormy the night, the more certain\nyou will be to find me. For then,\" she added, with a plaintive fall\nin her voice, \"it is so cold sleeping in entries, and on door-steps,\nand I want a dram more than ever.\"\n\nAgain she rapidly turned off, and Jem also went on his way. But\nbefore he reached the end of the street, even in the midst of the\njealous anguish that filled his heart, his conscience smote him.\nHe had not done enough to save her. One more effort, and she might\nhave come. Nay, twenty efforts would have been well rewarded by her\nyielding. He turned back, but she was gone. In the tumult of his\nother feelings, his self-reproach was deadened for the time. But many\nand many a day afterwards he bitterly regretted his omission of duty;\nhis weariness of well-doing.\n\nNow, the great thing was to reach home, and solitude. Mary loved\nanother! Oh! how should he bear it? He had thought her rejection of\nhim a hard trial, but that was nothing now. He only remembered it,\nto be thankful he had not yielded to the temptation of trying his\nfate again, not in actual words, but in a meeting, where her manner\nshould tell far more than words, that her sweeter smiles, her dainty\nmovements, her pretty household ways, were all to be reserved to\ngladden another's eyes and heart. And he must live on; that seemed\nthe strangest. That a long life (and he knew men did live long, even\nwith deep, biting sorrow corroding at their hearts) must be spent\nwithout Mary; nay, with the consciousness she was another's! That\nhell of thought he would reserve for the quiet of his own room, the\ndead stillness of night. He was on the threshold of home now.\n\nHe entered. There were the usual faces, the usual sights. He loathed\nthem, and then he cursed himself because he loathed them. His\nmother's love had taken a cross turn, because he had kept the\ntempting supper she had prepared for him waiting until it was\nnearly spoilt. Alice, her dulled senses deadening day by day, sat\nmutely near the fire; her happiness, bounded by the circle of the\nconsciousness of the presence of her foster child, knowing that his\nvoice repeated what was passing to her deafened ear, that his arm\nremoved each little obstacle to her tottering steps. And Will, out\nof the very kindness of his heart, talked more and more merrily than\never. He saw Jem was downcast, and fancied his rattling might cheer\nhim; at any rate, it drowned his aunt's muttered grumblings, and in\nsome measure concealed the blank of the evening. At last, bed-time\ncame; and Will withdrew to his neighbouring lodging; and Jane and\nAlice Wilson had raked the fire, and fastened doors and shutters,\nand pattered up stairs, with their tottering foot-steps, and shrill\nvoices. Jem, too, went to the closet termed his bed-room. There was\nno bolt to the door; but by one strong effort of his right arm, a\nheavy chest was moved against it, and he could sit down on the side\nof his bed, and think.\n\nMary loved another! That idea would rise uppermost in his mind, and\nhad to be combated in all its forms of pain. It was, perhaps, no\ngreat wonder that she should prefer one so much above Jem in the\nexternal things of life. But the gentleman; why did he, with his\nrange of choice among the ladies of the land, why did he stoop down\nto carry off the poor man's darling? With all the glories of the\ngarden at his hand, why did he prefer to cull the wild-rose,--Jem's\nown fragrant wild-rose?\n\nHis _own!_ Oh! never now his own!--Gone for evermore!\n\nThen uprose the guilty longing for blood!--The frenzy of\njealousy!--Some one should die. He would rather Mary were dead, cold\nin her grave, than that she were another's. A vision of her pale,\nsweet face, with her bright hair all bedabbled with gore, seemed to\nfloat constantly before his aching eyes. But hers were ever open,\nand contained, in their soft, deathly look, such mute reproach! What\nhad she done to deserve such cruel treatment from him? She had been\nwooed by one whom Jem knew to be handsome, gay, and bright, and she\nhad given him her love. That was all! It was the wooer who should\ndie. Yes, die, knowing the cause of his death. Jem pictured him (and\ngloated on the picture), lying smitten, yet conscious; and listening\nto the upbraiding accusation of his murderer. How he had left his own\nrank, and dared to love a maiden of low degree; and--oh! stinging\nagony of all--how she, in return, had loved him! Then the other\nnature spoke up, and bade him remember the anguish he should so\nprepare for Mary! At first he refused to listen to that better voice;\nor listened only to pervert. He would glory in her wailing grief! he\nwould take pleasure in her desolation of heart!\n\nNo! he could not, said the still small voice. It would be worse, far\nworse, to have caused such woe, than it was now to bear his present\nheavy burden.\n\nBut it was too heavy, too grievous to be borne, and live. He would\nslay himself, and the lovers should love on, and the sun shine\nbright, and he with his burning, woeful heart would be at rest. \"Rest\nthat is reserved for the people of God.\"\n\nHad he not promised with such earnest purpose of soul, as makes words\nmore solemn than oaths, to save Mary from becoming such as Esther?\nShould he shrink from the duties of life, into the cowardliness of\ndeath? Who would then guard Mary, with her love and her innocence?\nWould it not be a goodly thing to serve her, although she loved him\nnot; to be her preserving angel, through the perils of life; and she,\nunconscious all the while?\n\nHe braced up his soul, and said to himself, that with God's help he\nwould be that earthly keeper.\n\nAnd now the mists and the storms seemed clearing away from his path,\nthough it still was full of stinging thorns. Having done the duty\nnearest to him (of reducing the tumult of his own heart to something\nlike order), the second became more plain before him.\n\nPoor Esther's experience had led her, perhaps, too hastily to the\nconclusion, that Mr. Carson's intentions were evil towards Mary; at\nleast she had given no just ground for the fears she entertained\nthat such was the case. It was possible, nay, to Jem's heart, very\nprobable, that he might only be too happy to marry her. She was a\nlady by right of nature, Jem thought; in movement, grace, and spirit.\nwhat was birth to a Manchester manufacturer, many of whom glory, and\njustly too, in being the architects of their own fortunes? And, as\nfar as wealth was concerned, judging another by himself, Jem could\nonly imagine it a great privilege to lay it at the feet of the loved\none. Harry Carson's mother had been a factory girl; so, after all,\nwhat was the great reason for doubting his intentions towards Mary?\n\nThere might probably be some little awkwardness about the affair at\nfirst: Mary's father having such strong prejudices on the one hand;\nand something of the same kind being likely to exist on the part of\nMr. Carson's family. But Jem knew he had power over John Barton's\nmind; and it would be something to exert that power in promoting\nMary's happiness, and to relinquish all thought of self in so doing.\n\nOh! why had Esther chosen him for this office? It was beyond his\nstrength to act rightly! Why had she singled him out?\n\nThe answer came when he was calm enough to listen for it. Because\nMary had no other friend capable of the duty required of him; the\nduty of a brother, as Esther imagined him to be in feeling, from his\nlong friendship. He would be unto her as a brother.\n\nAs such, he ought to ascertain Harry Carson's intentions towards\nher in winning her affections. He would ask him, straightforwardly,\nas became man speaking to man, not concealing, if need were, the\ninterest he felt in Mary.\n\nThen, with the resolve to do his duty to the best of his power, peace\ncame into his soul; he had left the windy storm and tempest behind.\n\nTwo hours before day-dawn he fell asleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nA VIOLENT MEETING BETWEEN THE RIVALS.\n\n\n   \"What thoughtful heart can look into this gulf\n   That darkly yawns 'twixt rich and poor,\n   And not find food for saddest meditation!\n   Can see, without a pang of keenest grief,\n   Them fiercely battling (like some natural foes)\n   Whom God had made, with help and sympathy,\n   To stand as brothers, side by side, united!\n   Where is the wisdom that shall bridge this gulf,\n   And bind them once again in trust and love?\"\n\n   \"LOVE-TRUTHS.\"\n\n\nWe must return to John Barton. Poor John! He never got over his\ndisappointing journey to London. The deep mortification he then\nexperienced (with, perhaps, as little selfishness for its cause as\nmortification ever had) was of no temporary nature; indeed, few of\nhis feelings were.\n\nThen came a long period of bodily privation; of daily hunger after\nfood; and though he tried to persuade himself he could bear want\nhimself with stoical indifference, and did care about it as little\nas most men, yet the body took its revenge for its uneasy feelings.\nThe mind became soured and morose, and lost much of its equipoise.\nIt was no longer elastic, as in the days of youth, or in times of\ncomparative happiness; it ceased to hope. And it is hard to live on\nwhen one can no longer hope.\n\nThe same state of feeling which John Barton entertained, if belonging\nto one who had had leisure to think of such things, and physicians to\ngive names to them, would have been called monomania; so haunting, so\nincessant, were the thoughts that pressed upon him. I have somewhere\nread a forcibly described punishment among the Italians, worthy of a\nBorgia. The supposed or real criminal was shut up in a room, supplied\nwith every convenience and luxury; and at first mourned little\nover his imprisonment. But day by day he became aware that the\nspace between the walls of his apartment was narrowing, and then\nhe understood the end. Those painted walls would come into hideous\nnearness, and at last crush the life out of him.\n\nAnd so day by day, nearer and nearer, came the diseased thoughts of\nJohn Barton. They excluded the light of heaven, the cheering sounds\nof earth. They were preparing his death.\n\nIt is true, much of their morbid power might be ascribed to the use\nof opium. But before you blame too harshly this use, or rather abuse,\ntry a hopeless life, with daily cravings of the body for food. Try,\nnot alone being without hope yourself, but seeing all around you\nreduced to the same despair, arising from the same circumstances; all\naround you telling (though they use no words or language), by their\nlooks and feeble actions, that they are suffering and sinking under\nthe pressure of want. Would you not be glad to forget life, and its\nburdens? And opium gives forgetfulness for a time.\n\nIt is true they who thus purchase it pay dearly for their oblivion;\nbut can you expect the uneducated to count the cost of their whistle?\nPoor wretches! They pay a heavy price. Days of oppressive weariness\nand languor, whose realities have the feeble sickliness of dreams;\nnights, whose dreams are fierce realities of agony; sinking health,\ntottering frames, incipient madness, and worse, the _consciousness_\nof incipient madness; this is the price of their whistle. But have\nyou taught them the science of consequences?\n\nJohn Barton's overpowering thought, which was to work out his fate on\nearth, was rich and poor; why are they so separate, so distinct, when\nGod has made them all? It is not His will, that their interests are\nso far apart. Whose doing is it?\n\nAnd so on into the problems and mysteries of life, until, bewildered\nand lost, unhappy and suffering, the only feeling that remained clear\nand undisturbed in the tumult of his heart, was hatred to the one\nclass and keen sympathy with the other.\n\nBut what availed his sympathy? No education had given him wisdom;\nand without wisdom, even love, with all its effects, too often\nworks but harm. He acted to the best of his judgment, but it was a\nwidely-erring judgment.\n\nThe actions of the uneducated seem to me typified in those of\nFrankenstein, that monster of many human qualities, ungifted with a\nsoul, a knowledge of the difference between good and evil.\n\nThe people rise up to life; they irritate us, they terrify us, and we\nbecome their enemies. Then, in the sorrowful moment of our triumphant\npower, their eyes gaze on us with a mute reproach. Why have we made\nthem what they are; a powerful monster, yet without the inner means\nfor peace and happiness?\n\nJohn Barton became a Chartist, a Communist, all that is commonly\ncalled wild and visionary. Ay! but being visionary is something. It\nshows a soul, a being not altogether sensual; a creature who looks\nforward for others, if not for himself.\n\nAnd with all his weakness he had a sort of practical power, which\nmade him useful to the bodies of men to whom he belonged. He had a\nready kind of rough Lancashire eloquence, arising out of the fulness\nof his heart, which was very stirring to men similarly circumstanced,\nwho liked to hear their feelings put into words. He had a pretty\nclear head at times, for method and arrangement; a necessary talent\nto large combinations of men. And what perhaps more than all made him\nrelied upon and valued, was the consciousness which every one who\ncame in contact with him felt, that he was actuated by no selfish\nmotives; that his class, his order, was what he stood by, not the\nrights of his own paltry self. For even in great and noble men, as\nsoon as self comes into prominent existence, it becomes a mean and\npaltry thing.\n\nA little time before this, there had come one of those occasions for\ndeliberation among the employed, which deeply interested John Barton;\nand the discussions concerning which had caused his frequent absence\nfrom home of late.\n\nI am not sure if I can express myself in the technical terms of\neither masters or workmen, but I will try simply to state the case on\nwhich the latter deliberated.\n\nAn order for coarse goods came in from a new foreign market. It was\na large order, giving employment to all the mills engaged in that\nspecies of manufacture: but it was necessary to execute it speedily,\nand at as low prices as possible, as the masters had reason to\nbelieve a duplicate order had been sent to one of the continental\nmanufacturing towns, where there were no restrictions on food, no\ntaxes on building or machinery, and where consequently they dreaded\nthat the goods could be made at a much lower price than they could\nafford them for; and that, by so acting and charging, the rival\nmanufacturers would obtain undivided possession of the market. It was\nclearly their interest to buy cotton as cheaply, and to beat down\nwages as low as possible. And in the long run the interests of the\nworkmen would have been thereby benefited. Distrust each other as\nthey may, the employers and the employed must rise or fall together.\nThere may be some difference as to chronology, none as to fact.\n\nBut the masters did not choose to make all these facts known. They\nstood upon being the masters, and that they had a right to order work\nat their own prices, and they believed that in the present depression\nof trade, and unemployment of hands, there would be no great\ndifficulty in getting it done.\n\nNow let us turn to the workmen's view of the question. The masters\n(of the tottering foundation of whose prosperity they were ignorant)\nseemed doing well, and like gentlemen, \"lived at home in ease,\" while\nthey were starving, gasping on from day to day; and there was a\nforeign order to be executed, the extent of which, large as it was,\nwas greatly exaggerated; and it was to be done speedily. Why were the\nmasters offering such low wages under these circumstances? Shame\nupon them! It was taking advantage of their work-people being almost\nstarved; but they would starve entirely rather than come into such\nterms. It was bad enough to be poor, while by the labour of their\nthin hands, the sweat of their brows, the masters were made rich; but\nthey would not be utterly ground down to dust. No! they would fold\ntheir hands, and sit idle, and smile at the masters, whom even in\ndeath they could baffle. With Spartan endurance they determined to\nlet the employers know their power, by refusing to work.\n\nSo class distrusted class, and their want of mutual confidence\nwrought sorrow to both. The masters would not be bullied, and\ncompelled to reveal why they felt it wisest and best to offer only\nsuch low wages; they would not be made to tell that they were even\nsacrificing capital to obtain a decisive victory over the continental\nmanufacturers. And the workmen sat silent and stern with folded\nhands, refusing to work for such pay. There was a strike in\nManchester.\n\nOf course it was succeeded by the usual consequences. Many other\nTrades' Unions, connected with different branches of business,\nsupported with money, countenance, and encouragement of every kind,\nthe stand which the Manchester power-loom weavers were making against\ntheir masters. Delegates from Glasgow, from Nottingham, and other\ntowns, were sent to Manchester, to keep up the spirit of resistance;\na committee was formed, and all the requisite officers elected;\nchairman, treasurer, honorary secretary:--among them was John Barton.\n\nThe masters, meanwhile, took their measures. They placarded the walls\nwith advertisements for power-loom weavers. The workmen replied by\na placard in still larger letters, stating their grievances. The\nmasters met daily in town, to mourn over the time (so fast slipping\naway) for the fulfilment of the foreign orders; and to strengthen\neach other in their resolution not to yield. If they gave up now,\nthey might give up always. It would never do. And amongst the\nmost energetic of the masters, the Carsons, father and son, took\ntheir places. It is well known, that there is no religionist so\nzealous as a convert; no masters so stern, and regardless of the\ninterests of their work-people, as those who have risen from such a\nstation themselves. This would account for the elder Mr. Carson's\ndetermination not to be bullied into yielding; not even to be bullied\ninto giving reasons for acting as the masters did. It was the\nemployer's will, and that should be enough for the employed. Harry\nCarson did not trouble himself much about the grounds for his\nconduct. He liked the excitement of the affair. He liked the attitude\nof resistance. He was brave, and he liked the idea of personal\ndanger, with which some of the more cautious tried to intimidate the\nviolent among the masters.\n\nMeanwhile, the power-loom weavers living in the more remote parts\nof Lancashire, and the neighbouring counties, heard of the masters'\nadvertisements for workmen; and in their solitary dwellings grew\nweary of starvation, and resolved to come to Manchester. Foot-sore,\nway-worn, half-starved looking men they were, as they tried to steal\ninto town in the early dawn, before people were astir, or late in the\ndusk of evening. And now began the real wrong-doing of the Trades'\nUnions. As to their decision to work, or not, at such a particular\nrate of wages, that was either wise or unwise; all error of judgment\nat the worst. But they had no right to tyrannise over others, and\ntie them down to their own procrustean bed. Abhorring what they\nconsidered oppression in the masters, why did they oppress others?\nBecause, when men get excited, they know not what they do. Judge,\nthen, with something of the mercy of the Holy One, whom we all love.\n\nIn spite of policemen set to watch over the safety of the poor\ncountry weavers,--in spite of magistrates, and prisons, and severe\npunishments,--the poor depressed men tramping in from Burnley,\nPadiham, and other places, to work at the condemned \"Starvation\nPrices,\" were waylaid, and beaten, and left almost for dead by the\nroad-side. The police broke up every lounging knot of men:--they\nseparated quietly, to reunite half-a-mile further out of town.\n\nOf course the feeling between the masters and workmen did not improve\nunder these circumstances.\n\nCombination is an awful power. It is like the equally mighty agency\nof steam; capable of almost unlimited good or evil. But to obtain\na blessing on its labours, it must work under the direction of a\nhigh and intelligent will; incapable of being misled by passion, or\nexcitement. The will of the operatives had not been guided to the\ncalmness of wisdom.\n\nSo much for generalities. Let us now return to individuals.\n\nA note, respectfully worded, although its tone of determination was\nstrong, had been sent from the power-loom weavers, requesting that a\n\"deputation\" of them might have a meeting with the masters, to state\nthe conditions they must have fulfilled before they would end the\nturn-out. They thought they had attained a sufficiently commanding\nposition to dictate. John Barton was appointed one of the deputation.\n\nThe masters agreed to this meeting, being anxious to end the strife,\nalthough undetermined among themselves how far they should yield, or\nwhether they should yield at all. Some of the old, whose experience\nhad taught them sympathy, were for concession. Others, white-headed\nmen too, had only learnt hardness and obstinacy from the days of the\nyears of their lives, and sneered at the more gentle and yielding.\nThe younger men were one and all for an unflinching resistance to\nclaims urged with so much violence. Of this party Harry Carson was\nthe leader.\n\nBut like all energetic people, the more he had to do the more time\nhe seemed to find. With all his letter-writing, his calling, his\nbeing present at the New Bailey, when investigations of any case\nof violence against knob-sticks [44] were going on, he beset Mary\nmore than ever. She was weary of her life for him. From blandishments\nhe had even gone to threats--threats that whether she would or\nnot she should be his; he showed an indifference that was almost\ninsulting to every thing that might attract attention and injure her\ncharacter.\n\n\n   [Footnote 44: \"Knob-sticks,\" those who consent to work at\n                 lower wages.]\n\n\nAnd still she never saw Jem. She knew he had returned home. She heard\nof him occasionally through his cousin, who roved gaily from house to\nhouse, finding and making friends everywhere. But she never saw him.\nWhat was she to think? Had he given her up? Were a few hasty words,\nspoken in a moment of irritation, to stamp her lot through life? At\ntimes she thought that she could bear this meekly, happy in her own\nconstant power of loving. For of change or of forgetfulness she did\nnot dream. Then at other times her state of impatience was such, that\nit required all her self-restraint to prevent her from going and\nseeking him out, and (as man would do to man, or woman to woman)\nbegging him to forgive her hasty words, and allow her to retract\nthem, and bidding him accept of the love that was filling her whole\nheart. She wished Margaret had not advised her against such a manner\nof proceeding; she believed it was her friend's words that seemed to\nmake such a simple action impossible, in spite of all the internal\nurgings. But a friend's advice is only thus powerful, when it puts\ninto language the secret oracle of our souls. It was the whisperings\nof her womanly nature that caused her to shrink from any unmaidenly\naction, not Margaret's counsel.\n\nAll this time, this ten days or so, of Will's visit to Manchester,\nthere was something going on which interested Mary even now, and\nwhich, in former times, would have exceedingly amused and excited\nher. She saw as clearly as if told in words, that the merry, random,\nboisterous sailor had fallen deeply in love with the quiet, prim,\nsomewhat plain Margaret: she doubted if Margaret was aware of it, and\nyet, as she watched more closely, she began to think some instinct\nmade the blind girl feel whose eyes were so often fixed upon her\npale face; that some inner feeling made the delicate and becoming\nrose-flush steal over her countenance. She did not speak so decidedly\nas before; there was a hesitation in her manner, that seemed to make\nher very attractive; as if something softer, more loveable than\nexcellent sense, were coming in as a motive for speech; her eyes had\nalways been soft, and were in no ways disfigured by her blindness,\nand now seemed to have a new charm, as they quivered under their\nwhite down-cast lids. She must be conscious, thought Mary,--heart\nanswering heart.\n\nWill's love had no blushings, no downcast eyes, no weighing of words;\nit was as open and undisguised as his nature; yet he seemed afraid\nof the answer its acknowledgment might meet with. It was Margaret's\nangelic voice that had entranced him, and which made him think of her\nas a being of some other sphere, that he feared to woo. So he tried\nto propitiate Job in all manner of ways. He went over to Liverpool to\nrummage in his great sea-chest for the flying-fish (no very odorous\npresent by the way). He hesitated over a child's caul for some time,\nwhich was, in his eyes, a far greater treasure than any Exocetus.\nWhat use could it be of to a landsman? Then Margaret's voice rang\nin his ears; and he determined to sacrifice it, his most precious\npossession, to one whom she loved, as she did her grandfather.\n\nIt was rather a relief to him, when, having put it and the\nflying-fish together in a brown paper parcel, and sat upon them\nfor security all the way in the railroad, he found that Job was so\nindifferent to the precious caul, that he might easily claim it\nagain. He hung about Margaret, till he had received many warnings and\nreproaches from his conscience in behalf of his dear aunt Alice's\nclaims upon his time. He went away, and then he bethought him of some\nother little word with Job. And he turned back, and stood talking\nonce more in Margaret's presence, door in hand, only waiting for some\nlittle speech of encouragement to come in and sit down again. But as\nthe invitation was not given, he was forced to leave at last, and go\nand do his duty.\n\nFour days had Jem Wilson watched for Mr. Harry Carson without\nsuccess; his hours of going and returning to his home were so\nirregular, owing to the meetings and consultations among the masters,\nwhich were rendered necessary by the turn-out. On the fifth, without\nany purpose on Jem's part, they met.\n\nIt was the workmen's dinner-hour, the interval between twelve and\none; when the streets of Manchester are comparatively quiet, for\na few shopping ladies and lounging gentlemen count for nothing in\nthat busy, bustling, living place. Jem had been on an errand for his\nmaster, instead of returning to his dinner; and in passing along a\nlane, a road (called, in compliment to the intentions of some future\nbuilder, a street), he encountered Harry Carson, the only person, as\nfar as he saw beside himself, treading the unfrequented path. Along\none side ran a high broad fence, blackened over by coal-tar, and\nspiked and stuck with pointed nails at the top, to prevent any one\nfrom climbing over into the garden beyond. By this fence was the\nfoot-path. The carriage road was such as no carriage, no, not even a\ncart, could possibly have passed along, without Hercules to assist\nin lifting it out of the deep clay ruts. On the other side of the\nway was a dead brick wall; and a field after that, where there was a\nsawpit, and joiner's shed.\n\nJem's heart beat violently when he saw the gay, handsome young man\napproaching, with a light, buoyant step. This, then, was he whom Mary\nloved. It was, perhaps, no wonder; for he seemed to the poor smith\nso elegant, so well-appointed, that he felt his superiority in\nexternals, strangely and painfully, for an instant. Then something\nuprose within him, and told him, that \"a man's a man for a' that,\nfor a' that, and twice as much as a' that.\" And he no longer felt\ntroubled by the outward appearance of his rival.\n\nHarry Carson came on, lightly bounding over the dirty places with\nalmost a lad's buoyancy. To his surprise the dark, sturdy-looking\nartisan stopped him by saying respectfully,\n\n\"May I speak a word wi' you, sir?\"\n\n\"Certainly, my good man,\" looking his astonishment; then finding that\nthe promised speech did not come very quickly, he added, \"But make\nhaste, for I'm in a hurry.\"\n\nJem had cast about for some less abrupt way of broaching the subject\nuppermost in his mind than he now found himself obliged to use. With\na husky voice that trembled as he spoke, he said,\n\n\"I think, sir, yo're keeping company wi' a young woman called Mary\nBarton?\"\n\nA light broke in upon Harry Carson's mind, and he paused before he\ngave the answer for which the other waited.\n\nCould this man be a lover of Mary's? And (strange, stinging thought)\ncould he be beloved by her, and so have caused her obstinate\nrejection of himself? He looked at Jem from head to foot, a black,\ngrimy mechanic, in dirty fustian clothes, strongly built, and awkward\n(according to the dancing-master); then he glanced at himself, and\nrecalled the reflection he had so lately quitted in his bed-room.\nIt was impossible. No woman with eyes could choose the one when the\nother wooed. It was Hyperion to a Satyr. That quotation came aptly;\nhe forgot \"That a man's a man for a' that.\" And yet here was a clue,\nwhich he had often wanted, to her changed conduct towards him. If she\nloved this man. If-- he hated the fellow, and longed to strike him.\nHe would know all.\n\n\"Mary Barton! let me see. Ay, that is the name of the girl. An arrant\nflirt, the little hussy is; but very pretty. Ay, Mary Barton is her\nname.\"\n\nJem bit his lips. Was it then so; that Mary was a flirt, the giddy\ncreature of whom he spoke? He would not believe it, and yet how he\nwished the suggestive words unspoken. That thought must keep now,\nthough. Even if she were, the more reason for there being some one to\nprotect her; poor, faulty darling.\n\n\"She's a good girl, sir, though may be a bit set up with her beauty;\nbut she's her father's only child, sir, and--\" he stopped; he did\nnot like to express suspicion, and yet he was determined he would be\ncertain there was ground for none. What should he say?\n\n\"Well, my fine fellow, and what have I to do with that? It's but loss\nof my time, and yours, too, if you've only stopped me to tell me Mary\nBarton is very pretty; I know that well enough.\"\n\nHe seemed as though he would have gone on, but Jem put his black,\nworking, right hand upon his arm to detain him. The haughty young man\nshook it off, and with his glove pretended to brush away the sooty\ncontamination that might be left upon his light great-coat sleeve.\nThe little action aroused Jem.\n\n\"I will tell you in plain words what I have got to say to you, young\nman. It's been telled me by one as knows, and has seen, that you walk\nwith this same Mary Barton, and are known to be courting her; and her\nas spoke to me about it, thinks as how Mary loves you. That may be,\nor may not. But I'm an old friend of hers, and her father's; and I\njust wished to know if you mean to marry the girl. Spite of what you\nsaid of her lightness, I ha' known her long enough to be sure she'll\nmake a noble wife for any one, let him be what he may; and I mean\nto stand by her like a brother; and if you mean rightly, you'll not\nthink the worse on me for what I've now said; and if--but no, I'll\nnot say what I'll do to the man who wrongs a hair of her head. He\nshall rue it the longest day he lives, that's all. Now, sir, what\nI ask of you is this. If you mean fair and honourable by her, well\nand good; but if not, for your own sake as well as hers, leave her\nalone, and never speak to her more.\" Jem's voice quivered with the\nearnestness with which he spoke, and he eagerly waited for some\nanswer.\n\nHarry Carson, meanwhile, instead of attending very particularly to\nthe purpose the man had in addressing him, was trying to gather from\nhis speech what was the real state of the case. He succeeded so far\nas to comprehend that Jem inclined to believe that Mary loved his\nrival; and consequently, that if the speaker were attached to her\nhimself, he was not a favoured admirer. The idea came into Mr.\nCarson's mind, that perhaps, after all, Mary loved him in spite of\nher frequent and obstinate rejections; and that she had employed this\nperson (whoever he was) to bully him into marrying her. He resolved\nto try and ascertain more correctly the man's relation to her. Either\nhe was a lover, and if so, not a favoured one (in which case Mr.\nCarson could not at all understand the man's motives for interesting\nhimself in securing her marriage); or he was a friend, an accomplice,\nwhom she had employed to bully him. So little faith in goodness have\nthe mean and selfish!\n\n\"Before I make you into my confidant, my good man,\" said Mr. Carson,\nin a contemptuous tone, \"I think it might be as well to inquire your\nright to meddle with our affairs. Neither Mary nor I, as I conceive,\ncalled you in as a mediator.\" He paused; he wanted a distinct answer\nto this last supposition. None came; so he began to imagine he was to\nbe threatened into some engagement, and his angry spirit rose.\n\n\"And so, my fine fellow, you will have the kindness to leave us to\nourselves, and not meddle with what does not concern you. If you were\na brother, or father of hers, the case might have been different. As\nit is, I can only consider you an impertinent meddler.\"\n\nAgain he would have passed on, but Jem stood in a determined way\nbefore him, saying,\n\n\"You say if I had been her brother, or her father, you'd have\nanswered me what I ask. Now, neither father nor brother could love\nher as I have loved her, ay, and as I love her still; if love gives a\nright to satisfaction, it's next to impossible any one breathing can\ncome up to my right. Now, sir, tell me! do you mean fair by Mary or\nnot? I've proved my claim to know, and, by G----, I will know.\"\n\n\"Come, come, no impudence,\" replied Mr. Carson, who, having\ndiscovered what he wanted to know (namely, that Jem was a lover of\nMary's, and that she was not encouraging his suit), wished to pass\non.\n\n\"Father, brother, or rejected lover\" (with an emphasis on the word\nrejected), \"no one has a right to interfere between my little\ngirl and me. No one shall. Confound you, man! get out of my way,\nor I'll make you,\" as Jem still obstructed his path with dogged\ndetermination.\n\n\"I won't, then, till you've given me your word about Mary,\" replied\nthe mechanic, grinding his words out between his teeth, and the livid\npaleness of the anger he could no longer keep down covering his face\ntill he looked ghastly.\n\n\"Won't you?\" (with a taunting laugh), \"then I'll make you.\" The young\nman raised his slight cane, and smote the artisan across the face\nwith a stinging stroke. An instant afterwards he lay stretched in the\nmuddy road, Jem standing over him, panting with rage. What he would\nhave done next in his moment of ungovernable passion, no one knows;\nbut a policeman from the main street, into which this road led, had\nbeen sauntering about for some time, unobserved by either of the\nparties, and expecting some kind of conclusion like the present to\nthe violent discussion going on between the two young men. In a\nminute he had pinioned Jem, who sullenly yielded to the surprise.\n\nMr. Carson was on his feet directly, his face glowing with rage or\nshame.\n\n\"Shall I take him to the lock-ups for assault, sir?\" said the\npoliceman.\n\n\"No, no,\" exclaimed Mr. Carson; \"I struck him first. It was no\nassault on his side; though,\" he continued, hissing out his words\nto Jem, who even hated freedom procured for him, however justly, at\nthe intervention of his rival, \"I will never forgive or forget your\ninsult. Trust me,\" he gasped the words in excess of passion, \"Mary\nshall fare no better for your insolent interference.\" He laughed, as\nif with the consciousness of power.\n\nJem replied with equal excitement--\"And if you dare to injure her in\nthe least, I will await you where no policeman can step in between.\nAnd God shall judge between us two.\"\n\nThe policeman now interfered with persuasions and warnings. He locked\nhis arm in Jem's to lead him away in an opposite direction to that in\nwhich he saw Mr. Carson was going. Jem submitted gloomily, for a few\nsteps, then wrenched himself free. The policeman shouted after him,\n\n\"Take care, my man! there's no girl on earth worth what you'll be\nbringing on yourself if you don't mind.\"\n\nBut Jem was out of hearing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nMEETING BETWEEN MASTERS AND WORKMEN.\n\n\n   \"Not for a moment take the scorner's chair;\n   While seated there, thou know'st not how a word,\n   A tone, a look, may gall thy brother's heart,\n   And make him turn in bitterness against thee.\"\n\n   \"LOVE-TRUTHS.\"\n\n\nThe day arrived on which the masters were to have an interview with\na deputation of the work-people. The meeting was to take place in\na public room, at an hotel; and there, about eleven o'clock, the\nmill-owners, who had received the foreign orders, began to collect.\n\nOf course, the first subject, however full their minds might be of\nanother, was the weather. Having done their duty by all the showers\nand sunshine which had occurred during the past week, they fell to\ntalking about the business which brought them together. There might\nbe about twenty gentlemen in the room, including some by courtesy,\nwho were not immediately concerned in the settlement of the present\nquestion; but who, nevertheless, were sufficiently interested to\nattend. These were divided into little groups, who did not seem\nunanimous by any means. Some were for a slight concession, just\na sugar-plum to quieten the naughty child, a sacrifice to peace\nand quietness. Some were steadily and vehemently opposed to the\ndangerous precedent of yielding one jot or one tittle to the outward\nforce of a turn-out. It was teaching the work-people how to become\nmasters, said they. Did they want the wildest thing heareafter, they\nwould know that the way to obtain their wishes would be to strike\nwork. Besides, one or two of those present had only just returned\nfrom the New Bailey, where one of the turn-outs had been tried for a\ncruel assault on a poor north-country weaver, who had attempted to\nwork at the low price. They were indignant, and justly so, at the\nmerciless manner in which the poor fellow had been treated; and their\nindignation at wrong, took (as it so often does) the extreme form of\nrevenge. They felt as if, rather than yield to the body of men who\nwere resorting to such cruel measures towards their fellow-workmen,\nthey, the masters, would sooner relinquish all the benefits to be\nderived from the fulfilment of the commission, in order that the\nworkmen might suffer keenly. They forgot that the strike was in this\ninstance the consequence of want and need, suffered unjustly, as the\nendurers believed; for, however insane, and without ground of reason,\nsuch was their belief, and such was the cause of their violence. It\nis a great truth, that you cannot extinguish violence by violence.\nYou may put it down for a time; but while you are crowing over your\nimaginary success, see if it does not return with seven devils worse\nthan its former self!\n\nNo one thought of treating the workmen as brethren and friends, and\nopenly, clearly, as appealing to reasonable men, stating the exact\nand full circumstances which led the masters to think it was the wise\npolicy of the time to make sacrifices themselves, and to hope for\nthem from the operatives.\n\nIn going from group to group in the room, you caught such a medley of\nsentences as the following:\n\n\"Poor devils! they're near enough to starving, I'm afraid. Mrs.\nAldred makes two cows' heads into soup every week, and people come\nseveral miles to fetch it; and if these times last we must try and do\nmore. But we must not be bullied into any thing!\"\n\n\"A rise of a shilling or so won't make much difference, and they will\ngo away thinking they've gained their point.\"\n\n\"That's the very thing I object to. They'll think so, and whenever\nthey've a point to gain, no matter how unreasonable, they'll strike\nwork.\"\n\n\"It really injures them more than us.\"\n\n\"I don't see how our interests can be separated.\"\n\n\"The d----d brute had thrown vitriol on the poor fellow's ankles, and\nyou know what a bad part that is to heal. He had to stand still with\nthe pain, and that left him at the mercy of the cruel wretch, who\nbeat him about the head till you'd hardly have known he was a man.\nThey doubt if he'll live.\"\n\n\"If it were only for that, I'll stand out against them, even if it\nwere the cause of my ruin.\"\n\n\"Ay, I for one won't yield one farthing to the cruel brutes; they're\nmore like wild beasts than human beings.\"\n\n(Well! who might have made them different?)\n\n\"I say, Carson, just go and tell Duncombe of this fresh instance of\ntheir abominable conduct. He's wavering, but I think this will decide\nhim.\"\n\nThe door was now opened, and a waiter announced that the men were\nbelow, and asked if it were the pleasure of the gentlemen that they\nshould be shown up.\n\nThey assented, and rapidly took their places round the official\ntable; looking, as like as they could, to the Roman senators who\nawaited the irruption of Brennus and his Gauls.\n\nTramp, tramp, came the heavy clogged feet up the stairs; and in a\nminute five wild, earnest-looking men stood in the room. John Barton,\nfrom some mistake as to time, was not among them. Had they been\nlarger boned men, you would have called them gaunt; as it was, they\nwere little of stature, and their fustian clothes hung loosely upon\ntheir shrunk limbs. In choosing their delegates, too, the operatives\nhad had more regard to their brains, and power of speech, than to\ntheir wardrobes; they might have read the opinions of that worthy\nProfessor Teufelsdruch, in Sartor Resartus, to judge from the\ndilapidated coats and trousers, which yet clothed men of parts and\nof power. It was long since many of them had known the luxury of a\nnew article of dress; and air-gaps were to be seen in their garments.\nSome of the masters were rather affronted at such a ragged detachment\ncoming between the wind and their nobility; but what cared they?\n\nAt the request of a gentleman hastily chosen to officiate as\nchairman, the leader of the delegates read, in a high-pitched,\npsalm-singing voice, a paper, containing the operatives' statement of\nthe case at issue, their complaints, and their demands, which last\nwere not remarkable for moderation.\n\nHe was then desired to withdraw for a few minutes, with his fellow\ndelegates, to another room, while the masters considered what should\nbe their definitive answer.\n\nWhen the men had left the room, a whispered earnest consultation\ntook place, every one re-urging his former arguments. The conceders\ncarried the day, but only by a majority of one. The minority\nhaughtily and audibly expressed their dissent from the measures to be\nadopted, even after the delegates re-entered the room; their words\nand looks did not pass unheeded by the quick-eyed operatives; their\nnames were registered in bitter hearts.\n\nThe masters could not consent to the advance demanded by the workmen.\nThey would agree to give one shilling per week more than they had\npreviously offered. Were the delegates empowered to accept such\noffer?\n\nThey were empowered to accept or decline any offer made that day by\nthe masters.\n\nThen it might be as well for them to consult among themselves as to\nwhat should be their decision. They again withdrew.\n\nIt was not for long. They came back, and positively declined any\ncompromise of their demands.\n\nThen up sprang Mr. Henry Carson, the head and voice of the violent\nparty among the masters, and addressing the chairman, even before\nthe scowling operatives, he proposed some resolutions, which he,\nand those who agreed with him, had been concocting during this last\nabsence of the deputation.\n\nThey were, firstly, withdrawing the proposal just made, and declaring\nall communication between the masters and that particular Trades'\nUnion at an end; secondly, declaring that no master would employ any\nworkman in future, unless he signed a declaration that he did not\nbelong to any Trades' Union, and pledged himself not to assist or\nsubscribe to any society, having for its object interference with\nthe masters' powers; and, thirdly, that the masters should pledge\nthemselves to protect and encourage all workmen willing to accept\nemployment on those conditions, and at the rate of wages first\noffered. Considering that the men who now stood listening with\nlowering brows of defiance were all of them leading members of the\nUnion, such resolutions were in themselves sufficiently provocative\nof animosity: but not content with simply stating them, Harry Carson\nwent on to characterise the conduct of the workmen in no measured\nterms; every word he spoke rendering their looks more livid, their\nglaring eyes more fierce. One among them would have spoken, but\nchecked himself in obedience to the stern glance and pressure on his\narm, received from the leader. Mr. Carson sat down, and a friend\ninstantly got up to second the motion. It was carried, but far from\nunanimously. The chairman announced it to the delegates (who had been\nonce more turned out of the room for a division). They received it\nwith deep brooding silence, but spake never a word, and left the room\nwithout even a bow.\n\nNow there had been some by-play at this meeting, not recorded in the\nManchester newspapers, which gave an account of the more regular part\nof the transaction.\n\nWhile the men had stood grouped near the door, on their first\nentrance, Mr. Harry Carson had taken out his silver pencil, and had\ndrawn an admirable caricature of them--lank, ragged, dispirited, and\nfamine-stricken. Underneath he wrote a hasty quotation from the fat\nknight's well-known speech in Henry IV. He passed it to one of his\nneighbours, who acknowledged the likeness instantly, and by him it\nwas sent round to others, who all smiled and nodded their heads.\nWhen it came back to its owner he tore the back of the letter on\nwhich it was drawn, in two; twisted them up, and flung them into\nthe fire-place; but, careless whether they reached their aim or not,\nhe did not look to see that they fell just short of any consuming\ncinders.\n\nThis proceeding was closely observed by one of the men.\n\nHe watched the masters as they left the hotel (laughing, some of them\nwere, at passing jokes), and when all had gone, he re-entered. He\nwent to the waiter, who recognised him.\n\n\"There's a bit on a picture up yonder, as one o' the gentlemen threw\naway; I've a little lad at home as dearly loves a picture; by your\nleave I'll go up for it.\"\n\nThe waiter, good-natured and sympathetic, accompanied him up-stairs;\nsaw the paper picked up and untwisted, and then being convinced, by\na hasty glance at its contents, that it was only what the man had\ncalled it, \"a bit of a picture,\" he allowed him to bear away his\nprize.\n\nTowards seven o'clock that evening many operatives began to assemble\nin a room in the Weavers' Arms public-house, a room appropriated for\n\"festive occasions,\" as the landlord, in his circular, on opening the\npremises, had described it. But, alas! it was on no festive occasion\nthat they met there on this night. Starved, irritated, despairing\nmen, they were assembling to hear the answer that morning given by\nthe masters to their delegates; after which, as was stated in the\nnotice, a gentleman from London would have the honour of addressing\nthe meeting on the present state of affairs between the employers\nand the employed, or (as he chose to term them) the idle and the\nindustrious classes. The room was not large, but its bareness of\nfurniture made it appear so. Unshaded gas flared down upon the lean\nand unwashed artisans as they entered, their eyes blinking at the\nexcess of light.\n\nThey took their seats on benches, and awaited the deputation. The\nlatter, gloomily and ferociously, delivered the masters' ultimatum,\nadding thereunto not one word of their own; and it sank all the\ndeeper into the sore hearts of the listeners for their forbearance.\n\nThen the \"gentleman from London\" (who had been previously informed of\nthe masters' decision) entered. You would have been puzzled to define\nhis exact position, or what was the state of his mind as regarded\neducation. He looked so self-conscious, so far from earnest, among\nthe group of eager, fierce, absorbed men, among whom he now stood. He\nmight have been a disgraced medical student of the Bob Sawyer class,\nor an unsuccessful actor, or a flashy shopman. The impression he\nwould have given you would have been unfavourable, and yet there was\nmuch about him that could only be characterised as doubtful.\n\nHe smirked in acknowledgment of their uncouth greetings, and sat\ndown; then glancing round, he inquired whether it would not be\nagreeable to the gentlemen present to have pipes and liquor handed\nround; adding, that he would stand treat.\n\nAs the man who has had his taste educated to love reading, falls\ndevouringly upon books after a long abstinence, so these poor\nfellows, whose tastes had been left to educate themselves into a\nliking for tobacco, beer, and similar gratifications, gleamed up at\nthe proposal of the London delegate. Tobacco and drink deaden the\npangs of hunger, and make one forget the miserable home, the desolate\nfuture.\n\nThey were now ready to listen to him with approbation. He felt it;\nand rising like a great orator, with his right arm outstretched, his\nleft in the breast of his waistcoat, he began to declaim, with a\nforced theatrical voice.\n\nAfter a burst of eloquence, in which he blended the deeds of\nthe elder and the younger Brutus, and magnified the resistless\nmight of the \"millions of Manchester,\" the Londoner descended to\nmatter-of-fact business, and in his capacity this way he did not\nbelie the good judgment of those who had sent him as delegate.\nMasses of people, when left to their own free choice, seem to have\ndiscretion in distinguishing men of natural talent; it is a pity\nthey so little regard temper and principles. He rapidly dictated\nresolutions, and suggested measures. He wrote out a stirring\nplacard for the walls. He proposed sending delegates to entreat the\nassistance of other Trades' Unions in other towns. He headed the list\nof subscribing Unions, by a liberal donation from that with which\nhe was especially connected in London; and what was more, and more\nuncommon, he paid down the money in real, clinking, blinking, golden\nsovereigns! The money, alas, was cravingly required; but before\nalleviating any private necessities on the morrow, small sums were\nhanded to each of the delegates, who were in a day or two to set out\non their expeditions to Glasgow, Newcastle, Nottingham, &c. These\nmen were most of them members of the deputation who had that morning\nwaited upon the masters. After he had drawn up some letters, and\nspoken a few more stirring words, the gentleman from London withdrew,\npreviously shaking hands all round; and many speedily followed him\nout of the room, and out of the house.\n\nThe newly-appointed delegates, and one or two others, remained behind\nto talk over their respective missions, and to give and exchange\nopinions in more homely and natural language than they dared to use\nbefore the London orator.\n\n\"He's a rare chap, yon,\" began one, indicating the departed delegate\nby a jerk of his thumb towards the door. \"He's gotten the gift of the\ngab, anyhow!\"\n\n\"Ay! ay! he knows what he's about. See how he poured it into us about\nthat there Brutus. He were pretty hard, too, to kill his own son!\"\n\n\"I could kill mine if he took part wi' the masters; to be sure, he's\nbut a step-son, but that makes no odds,\" said another.\n\nBut now tongues were hushed, and all eyes were directed towards the\nmember of the deputation who had that morning returned to the hotel\nto obtain possession of Harry Carson's clever caricature of the\noperatives.\n\nThe heads clustered together, to gaze at and detect the likenesses.\n\n\"That's John Slater! I'd ha' known him anywhere, by his big nose.\nLord! how like; that's me, by G----, it's the very way I'm obligated\nto pin my waistcoat up, to hide that I've gotten no shirt. That _is_\na shame, and I'll not stand it.\"\n\n\"Well!\" said John Slater, after having acknowledged his nose and his\nlikeness; \"I could laugh at a jest as well as e'er the best on 'em,\nthough it did tell again mysel, if I were not clemming\" (his eyes\nfilled with tears; he was a poor, pinched, sharp-featured man, with\na gentle and melancholy expression of countenance), \"and if I could\nkeep from thinking of them at home, as is clemming; but with their\ncries for food ringing in my ears, and making me afeard of going\nhome, and wonder if I should hear 'em wailing out, if I lay cold and\ndrowned at th' bottom o' th' canal, there,--why, man, I cannot laugh\nat ought. It seems to make me sad that there is any as can make game\non what they've never knowed; as can make such laughable pictures on\nmen, whose very hearts within 'em are so raw and sore as ours were\nand are, God help us.\"\n\nJohn Barton began to speak; they turned to him with great attention.\n\"It makes me more than sad, it makes my heart burn within me, to see\nthat folk can make a jest of earnest men; of chaps who comed to ask\nfor a bit o' fire for th' old granny, as shivers in th' cold; for a\nbit o' bedding, and some warm clothing to the poor wife as lies in\nlabour on th' damp flags; and for victuals for the childer, whose\nlittle voices are getting too faint and weak to cry aloud wi' hunger.\nFor, brothers, is not them the things we ask for when we ask for more\nwage? We donnot want dainties, we want bellyfuls; we donnot want\ngimcrack coats and waistcoats, we want warm clothes, and so that we\nget 'em we'd not quarrel wi' what they're made on. We donnot want\ntheir grand houses, we want a roof to cover us from the rain, and the\nsnow, and the storm; ay, and not alone to cover us, but the helpless\nones that cling to us in the keen wind, and ask us with their eyes\nwhy we brought 'em into th' world to suffer?\" He lowered his deep\nvoice almost to a whisper.\n\n\"I've seen a father who had killed his child rather than let it clem\nbefore his eyes; and he were a tender-hearted man.\"\n\nHe began again in his usual tone. \"We come to th' masters wi' full\nhearts, to ask for them things I named afore. We know that they've\ngotten money, as we've earned for 'em; we know trade is mending, and\nthat they've large orders, for which they'll be well paid; we ask for\nour share o' th' payment; for, say we, if th' masters get our share\nof payment it will only go to keep servants and horses, to more dress\nand pomp. Well and good, if yo choose to be fools we'll not hinder\nyou, so long as you're just; but our share we must and will have;\nwe'll not be cheated. _We_ want it for daily bread, for life itself;\nand not for our own lives neither (for there's many a one here, I\nknow by mysel, as would be glad and thankful to lie down and die out\no' this weary world), but for the lives of them little ones, who\ndon't yet know what life is, and are afeard of death. Well, we come\nbefore th' masters to state what we want, and what we must have,\nafore we'll set shoulder to their work; and they say, 'No.' One would\nthink that would be enough of hard-heartedness, but it isn't. They go\nand make jesting pictures of us! I could laugh at mysel, as well as\npoor John Slater there; but then I must be easy in my mind to laugh.\nNow I only know that I would give the last drop o' my blood to avenge\nus on yon chap, who had so little feeling in him as to make game on\nearnest, suffering men!\"\n\nA low angry murmur was heard among the men, but it did not yet take\nform or words. John continued--\n\n\"You'll wonder, chaps, how I came to miss the time this morning; I'll\njust tell you what I was a-doing. Th' chaplain at the New Bailey sent\nand gived me an order to see Jonas Higginbotham; him as was taken\nup last week for throwing vitriol in a knob-stick's face. Well, I\ncouldn't help but go; and I didn't reckon it would ha' kept me so\nlate. Jonas were like one crazy when I got to him; he said he could\nna get rest night or day for th' face of the poor fellow he had\ndamaged; then he thought on his weak, clemmed look, as he tramped,\nfoot-sore, into town; and Jonas thought, may be, he had left them\nat home as would look for news, and hope and get none, but, haply,\ntidings of his death. Well, Jonas had thought on these things till he\ncould not rest, but walked up and down continually like a wild beast\nin his cage. At last he bethought him on a way to help a bit, and he\ngot th' chaplain to send for me; and he telled me this; and that th'\nman were lying in th' Infirmary, and he bade me go (to-day's the day\nas folk may be admitted into th' Infirmary) and get his silver watch,\nas was his mother's, and sell it as well as I could, and take the\nmoney, and bid the poor knob-stick send it to his friends beyond\nBurnley; and I were to take him Jonas's kind regards, and he humbly\naxed him to forgive him. So I did what Jonas wished. But bless your\nlife, none on us would ever throw vitriol again (at least at a\nknob-stick) if they could see the sight I saw to-day. The man lay,\nhis face all wrapped in cloths, so I didn't see _that_; but not a\nlimb, nor a bit of a limb, could keep from quivering with pain. He\nwould ha' bitten his hand to keep down his moans, but couldn't, his\nface hurt him so if he moved it e'er so little. He could scarce mind\nme when I telled him about Jonas; he did squeeze my hand when I\njingled the money, but when I axed his wife's name he shrieked out,\n'Mary, Mary, shall I never see you again? Mary, my darling, they've\nmade me blind because I wanted to work for you and our own baby; oh,\nMary, Mary!' Then the nurse came, and said he were raving, and that I\nhad made him worse. And I'm afeard it was true; yet I were loth to go\nwithout knowing where to send the money. . . . So that kept me beyond\nmy time, chaps.\"\n\n\"Did yo hear where the wife lived at last?\" asked many anxious\nvoices.\n\n\"No! he went on talking to her, till his words cut my heart like a\nknife. I axed th' nurse to find out who she was, and where she lived.\nBut what I'm more especial naming it now for is this,--for one thing\nI wanted yo all to know why I weren't at my post this morning; for\nanother, I wish to say, that I, for one, ha' seen enough of what\ncomes of attacking knob-sticks, and I'll ha nought to do with it no\nmore.\"\n\nThere were some expressions of disapprobation, but John did not mind\nthem.\n\n\"Nay! I'm no coward,\" he replied, \"and I'm true to th' backbone. What\nI would like, and what I would do, would be to fight the masters.\nThere's one among yo called me a coward. Well! every man has a right\nto his opinion; but since I've thought on th' matter to-day, I've\nthought we han all on us been more like cowards in attacking the poor\nlike ourselves; them as has none to help, but mun choose between\nvitriol and starvation. I say we're more cowardly in doing that than\nin leaving them alone. No! what I would do is this. Have at the\nmasters!\" Again he shouted, \"Have at the masters!\" He spoke lower;\nall listened with hushed breath.\n\n\"It's the masters as has wrought this woe; it's the masters as should\npay for it. Him as called me coward just now, may try if I am one or\nnot. Set me to serve out the masters, and see if there's ought I'll\nstick at.\"\n\n\"It would give th' masters a bit on a fright if one on them were\nbeaten within an inch of his life,\" said one.\n\n\"Ay! or beaten till no life were left in him,\" growled another.\n\nAnd so with words, or looks that told more than words, they built up\na deadly plan. Deeper and darker grew the import of their speeches,\nas they stood hoarsely muttering their meaning out, and glaring, with\neyes that told the terror their own thoughts were to them, upon their\nneighbours. Their clenched fists, their set teeth, their livid looks,\nall told the suffering their minds were voluntarily undergoing in\nthe contemplation of crime, and in familiarising themselves with its\ndetails.\n\nThen came one of those fierce terrible oaths which bind members\nof Trades' Unions to any given purpose. Then, under the flaring\ngaslight, they met together to consult further. With the distrust\nof guilt, each was suspicious of his neighbour; each dreaded the\ntreachery of another. A number of pieces of paper (the identical\nletter on which the caricature had been drawn that very morning) were\ntorn up, and _one was marked_. Then all were folded up again, looking\nexactly alike. They were shuffled together in a hat. The gas was\nextinguished; each drew out a paper. The gas was re-lighted. Then\neach went as far as he could from his fellows, and examined the paper\nhe had drawn without saying a word, and with a countenance as stony\nand immovable as he could make it.\n\nThen, still rigidly silent, they each took up their hats and went\nevery one his own way.\n\nHe who had drawn the marked paper had drawn the lot of the assassin!\nand he had sworn to act according to his drawing! But no one save God\nand his own conscience knew who was the appointed murderer!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nBARTON'S NIGHT-ERRAND.\n\n\n   \"Mournful is't to say Farewell,\n     Though for few brief hours we part;\n   In that absence, who can tell\n     What may come to wring the heart!\"\n\n   ANONYMOUS.\n\n\nThe events recorded in the last chapter took place on a Tuesday. On\nThursday afternoon Mary was surprised, in the midst of some little\nbustle in which she was engaged, by the entrance of Will Wilson.\nHe looked strange, at least it was strange to see any different\nexpression on his face to his usual joyous beaming appearance. He had\na paper parcel in his hand. He came in, and sat down, more quietly\nthan usual.\n\n\"Why, Will! what's the matter with you? You seem quite cut up about\nsomething!\"\n\n\"And I am, Mary! I'm come to say good-bye; and few folk like to say\ngood-bye to them they love.\"\n\n\"Good-bye! Bless me, Will, that's sudden, isn't it?\"\n\nMary left off ironing, and came and stood near the fire-place. She\nhad always liked Will; but now it seemed as if a sudden spring of\nsisterly love had gushed up in her heart, so sorry did she feel to\nhear of his approaching departure.\n\n\"It's very sudden, isn't it?\" said she, repeating her question.\n\n\"Yes! it's very sudden,\" said he, dreamily. \"No, it isn't;\" rousing\nhimself, to think of what he was saying. \"The captain told me in a\nfortnight he would be ready to sail again; but it comes very sudden\non me, I had got so fond of you all.\"\n\nMary understood the particular fondness that was thus generalised.\nShe spoke again.\n\n\"But it's not a fortnight since you came. Not a fortnight since you\nknocked at Jane Wilson's door, and I was there, you remember. Nothing\nlike a fortnight!\"\n\n\"No; I know it's not. But, you see, I got a letter this afternoon\nfrom Jack Harris, to tell me our ship sails on Tuesday next; and it's\nlong since I promised my uncle (my mother's brother, him that lives\nat Kirk-Christ, beyond Ramsay, in the Isle of Man) that I'd go and\nsee him and his, this time of coming ashore. I must go. I'm sorry\nenough; but I mustn't slight poor mother's friends. I must go. Don't\ntry to keep me,\" said he, evidently fearing the strength of his own\nresolution, if hard pressed by entreaty.\n\n\"I'm not a-going, Will. I dare say you're right; only I can't help\nfeeling sorry you're going away. It seems so flat to be left behind.\nWhen do you go?\"\n\n\"To-night. I shan't see you again.\"\n\n\"To-night! and you go to Liverpool! May be you and father will go\ntogether. He's going to Glasgow, by way of Liverpool.\"\n\n\"No! I'm walking; and I don't think your father will be up to\nwalking.\"\n\n\"Well! and why on earth are you walking? You can get by railway for\nthree-and-sixpence.\"\n\n\"Ay, but Mary! (thou mustn't let out what I'm going to tell thee) I\nhaven't got three shillings, no, nor even a sixpence left, at least\nnot here; before I came here I gave my landlady enough to carry me to\nthe island and back, and may be a trifle for presents, and I brought\nall the rest here; and it's all gone but this,\" jingling a few\ncoppers in his hand.\n\n\"Nay, never fret over my walking a matter of thirty mile,\" added he,\nas he saw she looked grave and sorry. \"It's a fine clear night, and\nI shall set off betimes, and get in afore the Manx packet sails.\nWhere's your father going? To Glasgow, did you say? Perhaps he and\nI may have a bit of a trip together then, for, if the Manx boat has\nsailed when I get into Liverpool, I shall go by a Scotch packet.\nWhat's he going to do in Glasgow?--Seek for work? Trade is as bad\nthere as here, folk say.\"\n\n\"No; he knows that,\" answered Mary, sadly. \"I sometimes think he'll\nnever get work again, and that trade will never mend. It's very hard\nto keep up one's heart. I wish I were a boy, I'd go to sea with you.\nIt would be getting away from bad news at any rate; and now, there's\nhardly a creature that crosses the door-step, but has something\nsad and unhappy to tell one. Father is going as a delegate from\nhis Union, to ask help from the Glasgow folk. He's starting this\nevening.\"\n\nMary sighed, for the feeling again came over her that it was very\nflat to be left alone.\n\n\"You say no one crosses the threshold but has something sad to say;\nyou don't mean that Margaret Jennings has any trouble?\" asked the\nyoung sailor, anxiously.\n\n\"No!\" replied Mary, smiling a little, \"she's the only one I know,\nI believe, who seems free from care. Her blindness almost appears\na blessing sometimes; she was so downhearted when she dreaded it,\nand now she seems so calm and happy when it's downright come. No!\nMargaret's happy, I do think.\"\n\n\"I could almost wish it had been otherwise,\" said Will, thoughtfully.\n\"I could have been so glad to comfort her, and cherish her, if she\nhad been in trouble.\"\n\n\"And why can't you cherish her, even though she is happy?\" asked\nMary.\n\n\"Oh! I don't know. She seems so much better than I am! And her voice!\nWhen I hear it, and think of the wishes that are in my heart, it\nseems as much out of place to ask her to be my wife, as it would be\nto ask an angel from heaven.\"\n\nMary could not help laughing outright, in spite of her depression, at\nthe idea of Margaret as an angel; it was so difficult (even to her\ndress-making imagination) to fancy where, and how, the wings would be\nfastened to the brown stuff gown, or the blue and yellow print.\n\nWill laughed, too, a little, out of sympathy with Mary's pretty merry\nlaugh. Then he said--\n\n\"Ay, you may laugh, Mary; it only shows you've never been in love.\"\n\nIn an instant Mary was carnation colour, and the tears sprang to her\nsoft gray eyes; she was suffering so much from the doubts arising\nfrom love! It was unkind of him. He did not notice her change of\nlook and of complexion. He only noticed that she was silent, so he\ncontinued:\n\n\"I thought--I think, that when I come back from this voyage, I will\nspeak. It's my fourth voyage in the same ship, and with the same\ncaptain, and he's promised he'll make me second mate after this trip;\nthen I shall have something to offer Margaret; and her grandfather,\nand aunt Alice, shall live with her, to keep her from being lonesome\nwhile I'm at sea. I'm speaking as if she cared for me, and would\nmarry me; d'ye think she does care at all for me, Mary?\" asked he,\nanxiously.\n\nMary had a very decided opinion of her own on the subject, but she\ndid not feel as if she had any right to give it. So she said--\n\n\"You must ask Margaret, not me, Will; she's never named your name to\nme.\" His countenance fell. \"But I should say that was a good sign\nfrom a girl like her. I've no right to say what I think; but, if I\nwas you, I would not leave her now without speaking.\"\n\n\"No! I cannot speak! I have tried. I've been in to wish them\ngood-bye, and my voice stuck in my throat. I could say nought of what\nI'd planned to say; and I never thought of being so bold as to offer\nher marriage till I'd been my next trip, and been made mate. I could\nnot even offer her this box,\" said he, undoing his paper parcel and\ndisplaying a gaudily ornamented accordion; \"I longed to buy her\nsomething, and I thought, if it were something in the music line, she\nwould may-be fancy it more. So, will you give it to her, Mary, when\nI'm gone? and, if you can slip in something tender,--something, you\nknow, of what I feel,--may-be she would listen to you, Mary.\"\n\nMary promised that she would do all that he asked.\n\n\"I shall be thinking on her many and many a night, when I'm keeping\nmy watch in mid-sea; I wonder if she will ever think on me when the\nwind is whistling, and the gale rising. You'll often speak of me to\nher, Mary? And if I should meet with any mischance, tell her how\ndear, how very dear, she was to me, and bid her, for the sake of one\nwho loved her well, try and comfort my poor aunt Alice. Dear old\naunt! you and Margaret will often go and see her, won't you? She's\nsadly failed since I was last ashore. And so good as she has been!\nWhen I lived with her, a little wee chap, I used to be wakened by the\nneighbours knocking her up; this one was ill, or that body's child\nwas restless; and, for as tired as ever she might be, she would be\nup and dressed in a twinkling, never thinking of the hard day's wash\nafore her next morning. Them were happy times! How pleased I used to\nbe when she would take me into the fields with her to gather herbs!\nI've tasted tea in China since then, but it wasn't half so good as\nthe herb tea she used to make for me o' Sunday nights. And she knew\nsuch a deal about plants and birds, and their ways! She used to tell\nme long stories about her childhood, and we used to plan how we would\ngo sometime, please God (that was always her word), and live near her\nold home beyond Lancaster; in the very cottage where she was born if\nwe could get it. Dear! and how different it is! Here is she still in\na back street o' Manchester, never likely to see her own home again;\nand I, a sailor, off for America next week. I wish she had been able\nto go to Burton once afore she died.\"\n\n\"She would may be have found all sadly changed,\" said Mary, though\nher heart echoed Will's feeling.\n\n\"Ay! ay! I dare say it's best. One thing I do wish though, and I have\noften wished it when out alone on the deep sea, when even the most\nthoughtless can't choose but think on th' past and th' future; and\nthat is, that I'd never grieved her. Oh Mary! many a hasty word comes\nsorely back on the heart, when one thinks one shall never see the\nperson whom one has grieved again!\"\n\nThey both stood thinking. Suddenly Mary started.\n\n\"That's father's step. And his shirt's not ready!\"\n\nShe hurried to her irons, and tried to make up for lost time.\n\nJohn Barton came in. Such a haggard and wildly anxious looking man,\nWill thought he had never seen. He looked at Will, but spoke no word\nof greeting or welcome.\n\n\"I'm come to bid you good bye,\" said the sailor, and would in his\nsociable friendly humour have gone on speaking. But John answered\nabruptly,\n\n\"Good bye to ye, then.\"\n\nThere was that in his manner which left no doubt of his desire to get\nrid of the visitor, and Will accordingly shook hands with Mary, and\nlooked at John, as if doubting how far to offer to shake hands with\nhim. But he met with no answering glance or gesture, so he went his\nway, stopping for an instant at the door to say,\n\n\"You'll think on me on Tuesday, Mary. That's the day we shall hoist\nour blue Peter, Jack Harris says.\"\n\nMary was heartily sorry when the door closed; it seemed like shutting\nout a friendly sunbeam. And her father! what could be the matter with\nhim? He was so restless; not speaking (she wished he would), but\nstarting up and then sitting down, and meddling with her irons; he\nseemed so fierce, too, to judge from his face. She wondered if he\ndisliked Will being there; or if he were vexed to find that she had\nnot got further on with her work. At last she could bear his nervous\nway no longer, it made her equally nervous and fidgetty. She would\nspeak.\n\n\"When are you going, father? I don't know the time o' the trains.\"\n\n\"And why shouldst thou know?\" replied he, gruffly. \"Meddle with thy\nironing, but donnot be asking questions about what doesn't concern\nthee.\"\n\n\"I wanted to get you something to eat first,\" answered she, gently.\n\n\"Thou dost not know that I'm larning to do without food,\" said he.\n\nMary looked at him to see if he spoke jestingly. No! he looked\nsavagely grave.\n\nShe finished her bit of ironing, and began preparing the food she\nwas sure her father needed; for by this time her experience in the\ndegrees of hunger had taught her that his present irritability was\nincreased, if not caused, by want of food.\n\nHe had had a sovereign given him to pay his expenses as delegate to\nGlasgow, and out of this he had given Mary a few shillings in the\nmorning; so she had been able to buy a sufficient meal, and now her\ncare was to cook it so as most to tempt him.\n\n\"If thou'rt doing that for me, Mary, thou may'st spare thy labour. I\ntelled thee I were not for eating.\"\n\n\"Just a little bit, father, before starting,\" coaxed Mary,\nperseveringly.\n\nAt that instant, who should come in but Job Legh. It was not often he\ncame, but when he did pay visits, Mary knew from past experience they\nwere any thing but short. Her father's countenance fell back into\nthe deep gloom from which it was but just emerging at the sound of\nMary's sweet voice, and pretty pleading. He became again restless and\nfidgetty, scarcely giving Job Legh the greeting necessary for a host\nin his own house. Job, however, did not stand upon ceremony. He had\ncome to pay a visit, and was not to be daunted from his purpose. He\nwas interested in John Barton's mission to Glasgow, and wanted to\nhear all about it; so he sat down, and made himself comfortable, in a\nmanner that Mary saw was meant to be stationary.\n\n\"So thou'rt off to Glasgow, art thou?\" he began his catechism.\n\n\"Ay.\"\n\n\"When art starting?\"\n\n\"To-night.\"\n\n\"That I knowed. But by what train?\"\n\nThat was just what Mary wanted to know; but what apparently her\nfather was in no mood to tell. He got up without speaking, and\nwent up-stairs. Mary knew from his step, and his way, how much he\nwas put out, and feared Job would see it, too. But no! Job seemed\nimperturbable. So much the better, and perhaps she could cover her\nfather's rudeness by her own civility to so kind a friend.\n\nSo half listening to her father's movements up-stairs, (passionate,\nviolent, restless motions they were) and half attending to Job Legh,\nshe tried to pay him all due regard.\n\n\"When does thy father start, Mary?\"\n\nThat plaguing question again.\n\n\"Oh! very soon. I'm just getting him a bit of supper. Is Margaret\nvery well?\"\n\n\"Yes, she's well enough. She's meaning to go and keep Alice Wilson\ncompany for an hour or so this evening; as soon as she thinks her\nnephew will have started for Liverpool; for she fancies the old woman\nwill feel a bit lonesome. Th' Union is paying for your father, I\nsuppose?\"\n\n\"Yes, they've given him a sovereign. You're one of th' Union, Job?\"\n\n\"Ay! I'm one, sure enough; but I'm but a sleeping partner in the\nconcern. I were obliged to become a member for peace, else I don't go\nalong with 'em. Yo see they think themselves wise, and me silly, for\ndiffering with them; well! there's no harm in that. But then they\nwon't let me be silly in peace and quietness, but will force me to\nbe as wise as they are; now that's not British liberty, I say. I'm\nforced to be wise according to their notions, else they parsecute me,\nand sarve me out.\"\n\nWhat could her father be doing up-stairs? Tramping and banging about.\nWhy did he not come down? Or why did not Job go? The supper would be\nspoilt.\n\nBut Job had no notion of going.\n\n\"You see my folly is this, Mary. I would take what I could get; I\nthink half a loaf is better than no bread. I would work for low wages\nrather than sit idle and starve. But, comes the Trades' Union, and\nsays, 'Well, if you take the half-loaf, we'll worry you out of your\nlife. Will you be clemmed, or will you be worried?' Now clemming is a\nquiet death, and worrying isn't, so I choose clemming, and come into\nth' Union. But I wish they'd leave me free, if I am a fool.\"\n\nCreak, creak, went the stairs. Her father was coming down at last.\n\nYes, he came down, but more doggedly fierce than before, and made up\nfor his journey, too; with his little bundle on his arm. He went up\nto Job, and, more civilly than Mary expected, wished him good-bye. He\nthen turned to her, and in a short cold manner, bade her farewell.\n\n\"Oh! father, don't go yet. Your supper is all ready. Stay one\nmoment!\"\n\nBut he pushed her away, and was gone. She followed him to the door,\nher eyes blinded by sudden tears; she stood there looking after him.\nHe was so strange, so cold, so hard. Suddenly, at the end of the\ncourt, he turned, and saw her standing there; he came back quickly,\nand took her in his arms.\n\n\"God bless thee, Mary!--God in heaven bless thee, poor child!\" She\nthrew her arms round his neck.\n\n\"Don't go yet, father; I can't bear you to go yet. Come in, and eat\nsome supper; you look so ghastly; dear father, do!\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, faintly and mournfully. \"It's best as it is. I\ncouldn't eat, and it's best to be off. I cannot be still at home.\nI must be moving.\"\n\nSo saying, he unlaced her soft twining arms, and kissing her once\nmore, set off on his fierce errand.\n\nAnd he was out of sight! She did not know why, but she had never\nbefore felt so depressed, so desolate. She turned in to Job, who sat\nthere still. Her father, as soon as he was out of sight, slackened\nhis pace, and fell into that heavy listless step, which told as well\nas words could do, of hopelessness and weakness. It was getting dark,\nbut he loitered on, returning no greeting to any one.\n\nA child's cry caught his ear. His thoughts were running on little\nTom; on the dead and buried child of happier years. He followed the\nsound of the wail, that might have been _his_, and found a poor\nlittle mortal, who had lost his way, and whose grief had choked up\nhis thoughts to the single want, \"Mammy, mammy.\" With tender address,\nJohn Barton soothed the little laddie, and with beautiful patience he\ngathered fragments of meaning from the half spoken words which came\nmingled with sobs from the terrified little heart. So, aided by\ninquiries here and there from a passer-by, he led and carried the\nlittle fellow home, where his mother had been too busy to miss him,\nbut now received him with thankfulness, and with an eloquent Irish\nblessing. When John heard the words of blessing, he shook his head\nmournfully, and turned away to retrace his steps.\n\nLet us leave him.\n\nMary took her sewing after he had gone, and sat on, and sat on,\ntrying to listen to Job, who was more inclined to talk than usual.\nShe had conquered her feeling of impatience towards him so far as to\nbe able to offer him her father's rejected supper; and she even tried\nto eat herself. But her heart failed her. A leaden weight seemed to\nhang over her; a sort of presentiment of evil, or perhaps only an\nexcess of low-spirited feeling in consequence of the two departures\nwhich had taken place that afternoon.\n\nShe wondered how long Job Legh would sit. She did not like putting\ndown her work, and crying before him, and yet she had never in her\nlife longed so much to be alone in order to indulge in a good hearty\nburst of tears.\n\n\"Well, Mary,\" she suddenly caught him saying, \"I thought you'd be\na bit lonely to-night; and as Margaret were going to cheer th' old\nwoman, I said I'd go and keep th' young un company; and a very\npleasant, chatty evening we've had; very. Only I wonder as Margaret\nis not come back.\"\n\n\"But perhaps she is,\" suggested Mary.\n\n\"No, no, I took care o' that. Look ye here!\" and he pulled out the\ngreat house-key. \"She'll have to stand waiting i' th' street, and\nthat I'm sure she wouldn't do, when she knew where to find me.\"\n\n\"Will she come back by hersel?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"Ay. At first I were afraid o' trusting her, and I used to follow her\na bit behind; never letting on, of course. But, bless you! she goes\nalong as steadily as can be; rather slow, to be sure, and her head a\nbit on one side as if she were listening. And it's real beautiful to\nsee her cross the road. She'll wait above a bit to hear that all is\nstill; not that she's so dark as not to see a coach or a cart like\na big black thing, but she can't rightly judge how far off it is by\nsight, so she listens. Hark! that's her!\"\n\nYes; in she came with her usually calm face all tear-stained and\nsorrow-marked.\n\n\"What's the matter, my wench?\" said Job, hastily.\n\n\"Oh! grandfather! Alice Wilson's so bad!\" She could say no more, for\nher breathless agitation. The afternoon, and the parting with Will,\nhad weakened her nerves for any after-shock.\n\n\"What is it? Do tell us, Margaret!\" said Mary, placing her in a\nchair, and loosening her bonnet-strings.\n\n\"I think it's a stroke o' the palsy. Any rate she has lost the use of\none side.\"\n\n\"Was it afore Will had set off?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"No; he were gone before I got there,\" said Margaret; \"and she were\nmuch about as well as she has been this many a day. She spoke a bit,\nbut not much; but that were only natural, for Mrs. Wilson likes to\nhave the talk to hersel, you know. She got up to go across the room,\nand then I heard a drag wi' her leg, and presently a fall, and Mrs.\nWilson came running, and set up such a cry! I stopped wi' Alice,\nwhile she fetched a doctor; but she could not speak, to answer me,\nthough she tried, I think.\"\n\n\"Where was Jem? Why didn't he go for the doctor?\"\n\n\"He were out when I got there, and he never came home while I\nstopped.\"\n\n\"Thou'st never left Mrs. Wilson alone wi' poor Alice?\" asked Job,\nhastily.\n\n\"No, no,\" said Margaret. \"But, oh! grandfather; it's now I feel how\nhard it is to have lost my sight. I should have so loved to nurse\nher; and I did try, until I found I did more harm than good. Oh!\ngrandfather; if I could but see!\"\n\nShe sobbed a little; and they let her give that ease to her heart.\nThen she went on--\n\n\"No! I went round by Mrs. Davenport's, and she were hard at work;\nbut, the minute I told my errand, she were ready and willing to go to\nJane Wilson, and stop up all night with Alice.\"\n\n\"And what does the doctor say?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"Oh! much what all doctors say: he puts a fence on this side, and a\nfence on that, for fear he should be caught tripping in his judgment.\nOne moment he does not think there's much hope--but while there\nis life there is hope; th' next he says he should think she might\nrecover partial, but her age is again her. He's ordered her leeches\nto her head.\"\n\nMargaret, having told her tale, leant back with weariness, both of\nbody and mind. Mary hastened to make her a cup of tea; while Job,\nlately so talkative, sat quiet and mournfully silent.\n\n\"I'll go first thing to-morrow morning, and learn how she is; and\nI'll bring word back before I go to work,\" said Mary.\n\n\"It's a bad job Will's gone,\" said Job.\n\n\"Jane does not think she knows any one,\" replied Margaret. \"It's\nperhaps as well he shouldn't see her now, for they say her face is\nsadly drawn. He'll remember her with her own face better, if he does\nnot see her again.\"\n\nWith a few more sorrowful remarks they separated for the night, and\nMary was left alone in her house, to meditate on the heavy day that\nhad passed over her head. Everything seemed going wrong. Will gone;\nher father gone--and so strangely too! And to a place so mysteriously\ndistant as Glasgow seemed to be to her! She had felt his presence\nas a protection against Harry Carson and his threats; and now she\ndreaded lest he should learn she was alone. Her heart began to\ndespair, too, about Jem. She feared he had ceased to love her; and\nshe--she only loved him more and more for his seeming neglect. And,\nas if all this aggregate of sorrowful thoughts was not enough, here\nwas this new woe, of poor Alice's paralytic stroke.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nMURDER.\n\n\n   \"But in his pulse there was no throb,\n   Nor on his lips one dying sob;\n   Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath\n   Heralded his way to death.\"\n\n   SIEGE OF CORINTH.\n\n   \"My brain runs this way and that way; 'twill not fix\n   On aught but vengeance.\"\n\n   DUKE OF GUISE.\n\n\nI must now go back to an hour or two before Mary and her friends\nparted for the night. It might be about eight o'clock that\nevening, and the three Miss Carsons were sitting in their father's\ndrawing-room. He was asleep in the dining-room, in his own\ncomfortable chair. Mrs. Carson was (as was usual with her, when\nno particular excitement was going on) very poorly, and sitting\nup-stairs in her dressing-room, indulging in the luxury of a\nhead-ache. She was not well, certainly. \"Wind in the head,\" the\nservants called it. But it was but the natural consequence of the\nstate of mental and bodily idleness in which she was placed. Without\neducation enough to value the resources of wealth and leisure, she\nwas so circumstanced as to command both. It would have done her more\ngood than all the æther and sal-volatile she was daily in the habit\nof swallowing, if she might have taken the work of one of her own\nhousemaids for a week; made beds, rubbed tables, shaken carpets, and\ngone out into the fresh morning air, without all the paraphernalia\nof shawl, cloak, boa, fur boots, bonnet, and veil, in which she was\nequipped before setting out for an \"airing,\" in the closely shut-up\ncarriage.\n\nSo the three girls were by themselves in the comfortable, elegant,\nwell-lighted drawing-room; and, like many similarly-situated young\nladies, they did not exactly know what to do to while away the time\nuntil the tea-hour. The elder two had been at a dancing-party the\nnight before, and were listless and sleepy in consequence. One tried\nto read \"Emerson's Essays,\" and fell asleep in the attempt; the other\nwas turning over a parcel of new music, in order to select what she\nliked. Amy, the youngest, was copying some manuscript music. The air\nwas heavy with the fragrance of strongly-scented flowers, which sent\nout their night odours from an adjoining conservatory.\n\nThe clock on the chimney-piece chimed eight. Sophy (the sleeping\nsister) started up at the sound.\n\n\"What o'clock is that?\" she asked.\n\n\"Eight,\" said Amy.\n\n\"Oh dear! how tired I am! Is Harry come in? Tea would rouse one up a\nlittle. Are not you worn out, Helen?\"\n\n\"Yes; I am tired enough. One is good for nothing the day after a\ndance. Yet I don't feel weary at the time; I suppose it is the\nlateness of the hours.\"\n\n\"And yet, how could it be managed otherwise? So many don't dine till\nfive or six, that one cannot begin before eight or nine; and then it\ntakes a long time to get into the spirit of the evening. It is always\nmore pleasant after supper than before.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm too tired to-night to reform the world in the matter of\ndances or balls. What are you copying, Amy?\"\n\n\"Only that little Spanish air you sing--'Quien quiera.'\"\n\n\"What are you copying it for?\" asked Helen.\n\n\"Harry asked me to do it for him this morning at breakfast-time,--for\nMiss Richardson, he said.\"\n\n\"For Jane Richardson!\" said Sophy, as if a new idea were receiving\nstrength in her mind.\n\n\"Do you think Harry means any thing by his attention to her?\" asked\nHelen.\n\n\"Nay, I do not know any thing more than you do; I can only observe\nand conjecture. What do you think, Helen?\"\n\n\"Harry always likes to be of consequence to the belle of the room.\nIf one girl is more admired than another, he likes to flutter about\nher, and seem to be on intimate terms with her. That is his way,\nand I have not noticed any thing beyond that in his manner to Jane\nRichardson.\"\n\n\"But I don't think she knows it's only his way. Just watch her the\nnext time we meet her when Harry is there, and see how she crimsons,\nand looks another way when she feels he is coming up to her. I think\nhe sees it, too, and I think he is pleased with it.\"\n\n\"I dare say Harry would like well enough to turn the head of such a\nlovely girl as Jane Richardson. But I'm not convinced that he is in\nlove, whatever she may be.\"\n\n\"Well, then!\" said Sophy, indignantly, \"though it is our own brother,\nI do think he is behaving very wrongly. The more I think of it the\nmore sure I am that she thinks he means something, and that he\nintends her to think so. And then, when he leaves off paying her\nattention--\"\n\n\"Which will be as soon as a prettier girl makes her appearance,\"\ninterrupted Helen.\n\n\"As soon as he leaves off paying her attention,\" resumed Sophy,\n\"she will have many and many a heart-ache, and then she will harden\nherself into being a flirt, a feminine flirt, as he is a masculine\nflirt. Poor girl!\"\n\n\"I don't like to hear you speak so of Harry,\" said Amy, looking up at\nSophy.\n\n\"And I don't like to have to speak so, Amy, for I love him dearly.\nHe is a good, kind brother, but I do think him vain, and I think he\nhardly knows the misery, the crimes, to which indulged vanity may\nlead him.\"\n\nHelen yawned.\n\n\"Oh! do you think we may ring for tea? Sleeping after dinner always\nmakes me so feverish.\"\n\n\"Yes, surely. Why should not we?\" said the more energetic Sophy,\npulling the bell with some determination.\n\n\"Tea directly, Parker,\" said she, authoritatively, as the man entered\nthe room.\n\nShe was too little in the habit of reading expressions on the faces\nof others to notice Parker's countenance.\n\nYet it was striking. It was blanched to a dead whiteness; the lips\ncompressed as if to keep within some tale of horror; the eyes\ndistended and unnatural. It was a terror-stricken face.\n\nThe girls began to put away their music and books, in preparation for\ntea. The door slowly opened again, and this time it was the nurse who\nentered. I call her nurse, for such had been her office in by-gone\ndays, though now she held rather an anomalous situation in the\nfamily. Seamstress, attendant on the young ladies, keeper of the\nstores; only \"Nurse\" was still her name. She had lived longer with\nthem than any other servant, and to her their manner was far less\nhaughty than to the other domestics. She occasionally came into the\ndrawing-room to look for things belonging to their father or mother,\nso it did not excite any surprise when she advanced into the room.\nThey went on arranging their various articles of employment.\n\nShe wanted them to look up. She wanted them to read something in her\nface--her face so full of woe, of horror. But they went on without\ntaking any notice. She coughed; not a natural cough; but one of those\ncoughs which ask so plainly for remark.\n\n\"Dear nurse, what is the matter?\" asked Amy. \"Are not you well?\"\n\n\"Is mamma ill?\" asked Sophy, quickly.\n\n\"Speak, speak, nurse!\" said they all, as they saw her efforts to\narticulate, choked by the convulsive rising in her throat. They\nclustered round her with eager faces, catching a glimpse of some\nterrible truth to be revealed.\n\n\"My dear young ladies! my dear girls,\" she gasped out at length, and\nthen she burst into tears.\n\n\"Oh! do tell us what it is, nurse,\" said one. \"Any thing is better\nthan this. Speak!\"\n\n\"My children! I don't know how to break it to you. My dears, poor Mr.\nHarry is brought home--\"\n\n\"Brought home--_brought_ home--how?\" Instinctively they sank their\nvoices to a whisper; but a fearful whisper it was. In the same low\ntone, as if afraid lest the walls, the furniture, the inanimate\nthings which told of preparation for life and comfort, should hear,\nshe answered,\n\n\"Dead!\"\n\nAmy clutched her nurse's arm, and fixed her eyes on her as if to know\nif such a tale could be true; and when she read its confirmation in\nthose sad, mournful, unflinching eyes, she sank, without word or\nsound, down in a faint upon the floor. One sister sat down on an\nottoman, and covered her face, to try and realise it. That was Sophy.\nHelen threw herself on the sofa, and burying her head in the pillows,\ntried to stifle the screams and moans which shook her frame.\n\nThe nurse stood silent. She had not told _all_.\n\n\"Tell me,\" said Sophy, looking up, and speaking in a hoarse voice,\nwhich told of the inward pain, \"tell me, nurse! Is he _dead_, did you\nsay? Have you sent for a doctor? Oh! send for one, send for one,\"\ncontinued she, her voice rising to shrillness, and starting to her\nfeet. Helen lifted herself up, and looked, with breathless waiting,\ntowards nurse.\n\n\"My dears, he is dead! But I have sent for a doctor. I have done all\nI could.\"\n\n\"When did he--when did they bring him home?\" asked Sophy.\n\n\"Perhaps ten minutes ago. Before you rang for Parker.\"\n\n\"How did he die? Where did they find him? He looked so well. He\nalways seemed so strong. Oh! are you sure he is dead?\"\n\nShe went towards the door. Nurse laid her hand on her arm.\n\n\"Miss Sophy, I have not told you all. Can you bear to hear it?\nRemember, master is in the next room, and he knows nothing yet. Come,\nyou must help me to tell him. Now be quiet, dear! It was no common\ndeath he died!\" She looked in her face as if trying to convey her\nmeaning by her eyes.\n\nSophy's lips moved, but nurse could hear no sound.\n\n\"He has been shot as he was coming home along Turner Street,\nto-night.\"\n\nSophy went on with the motion of her lips, twitching them almost\nconvulsively.\n\n\"My dear, you must rouse yourself, and remember your father and\nmother have yet to be told. Speak! Miss Sophy!\"\n\nBut she could not; her whole face worked involuntarily. The nurse\nleft the room, and almost immediately brought back some sal-volatile\nand water. Sophy drank it eagerly, and gave one or two deep gasps.\nThen she spoke in a calm unnatural voice.\n\n\"What do you want me to do, nurse? Go to Helen and poor Amy. See,\nthey want help.\"\n\n\"Poor creatures! we must let them alone for a bit. You must go to\nmaster; that's what I want you to do, Miss Sophy. You must break it\nto him, poor old gentleman. Come, he's asleep in the dining-room, and\nthe men are waiting to speak to him.\"\n\nSophy went mechanically to the dining-room door.\n\n\"Oh! I cannot go in. I cannot tell him. What must I say?\"\n\n\"I'll come with you, Miss Sophy. Break it to him by degrees.\"\n\n\"I can't, nurse. My head throbs so, I shall be sure to say the wrong\nthing.\"\n\nHowever, she opened the door. There sat her father, the shaded light\nof the candle-lamp falling upon, and softening his marked features,\nwhile his snowy hair contrasted well with the deep crimson morocco\nof the chair. The newspaper he had been reading had dropped on the\ncarpet by his side. He breathed regularly and deeply.\n\nAt that instant the words of Mrs. Hemans's song came full into\nSophy's mind.\n\n   \"Ye know not what ye do,\n     That call the slumberer back\n   From the realms unseen by you,\n     To life's dim, weary track.\"\n\nBut this life's track would be to the bereaved father something more\nthan dim and weary, hereafter.\n\n\"Papa,\" said she, softly. He did not stir.\n\n\"Papa!\" she exclaimed, somewhat louder.\n\nHe started up, half awake.\n\n\"Tea is ready, is it?\" and he yawned.\n\n\"No! papa, but something very dreadful--very sad, has happened!\"\n\nHe was gaping so loud that he did not catch the words she uttered,\nand did not see the expression of her face.\n\n\"Master Henry is not come back,\" said nurse. Her voice, heard in\nunusual speech to him, arrested his attention, and rubbing his eyes,\nhe looked at the servant.\n\n\"Harry! oh no! he had to attend a meeting of the masters about these\ncursed turn-outs. I don't expect him yet. What are you looking at me\nso strangely for, Sophy?\"\n\n\"Oh, papa, Harry is come back,\" said she, bursting into tears.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" said he, startled into an impatient consciousness\nthat something was wrong. \"One of you says he is not come home, and\nthe other says he is. Now that's nonsense! Tell me at once what's the\nmatter. Did he go on horseback to town? Is he thrown? Speak, child,\ncan't you?\"\n\n\"No! he's not been thrown, papa,\" said Sophy, sadly.\n\n\"But he's badly hurt,\" put in the nurse, desirous to be drawing his\nanxiety to a point.\n\n\"Hurt? Where? How? Have you sent for a doctor?\" said he, hastily\nrising, as if to leave the room.\n\n\"Yes, papa, we've sent for a doctor--but I'm afraid--I believe it's\nof no use.\"\n\nHe looked at her for a moment, and in her face he read the truth. His\nson, his only son, was dead.\n\nHe sank back in his chair, and hid his face in his hands, and bowed\nhis head upon the table. The strong mahogany dining-table shook and\nrattled under his agony.\n\nSophy went and put her arms round his bowed neck.\n\n\"Go! you are not Harry,\" said he; but the action roused him.\n\n\"Where is he? where is the--\" said he, with his strong face set into\nthe lines of anguish, by two minutes of such intense woe.\n\n\"In the servants' hall,\" said nurse. \"Two policemen and another man\nbrought him home. They would be glad to speak to you when you are\nable, sir.\"\n\n\"I am able now,\" replied he. At first when he stood up, he tottered.\nBut steadying himself, he walked, as firmly as a soldier on drill,\nto the door. Then he turned back and poured out a glass of wine from\nthe decanter which yet remained on the table. His eye caught the\nwine-glass which Harry had used but two or three hours before. He\nsighed a long quivering sigh. And then mastering himself again, he\nleft the room.\n\n\"You had better go back to your sisters, Miss Sophy,\" said nurse.\n\nMiss Carson went. She could not face death yet.\n\nThe nurse followed Mr. Carson to the servants' hall. There, on their\ndinner-table, lay the poor dead body. The men who had brought it were\nsitting near the fire, while several of the servants stood round the\ntable, gazing at the remains.\n\n_The remains!_\n\nOne or two were crying; one or two were whispering; awed into a\nstrange stillness of voice and action by the presence of the dead.\nWhen Mr. Carson came in they all drew back and looked at him with the\nreverence due to sorrow.\n\nHe went forward and gazed long and fondly on the calm, dead face;\nthen he bent down and kissed the lips yet crimson with life. The\npolicemen had advanced and stood ready to be questioned. But at first\nthe old man's mind could only take in the idea of death; slowly,\nslowly came the conception of violence, of murder. \"How did he die?\"\nhe groaned forth.\n\nThe policemen looked at each other. Then one began, and stated that\nhaving heard the report of a gun in Turner Street, he had turned down\nthat way (a lonely, unfrequented way Mr. Carson knew, but a short\ncut to his garden-door, of which Harry had a key); that as he (the\npoliceman) came nearer, he had heard footsteps as of a man running\naway; but the evening was so dark (the moon not having yet risen)\nthat he could see no one twenty yards off. That he had even been\nstartled when close to the body by seeing it lying across the path at\nhis feet. That he had sprung his rattle; and when another policeman\ncame up, by the light of the lantern they had discovered who it was\nthat had been killed. That they believed him to be dead when they\nfirst took him up, as he had never moved, spoken, or breathed. That\nintelligence of the murder had been sent to the superintendent, who\nwould probably soon be here. That two or three policemen were still\nabout the place where the murder was committed, seeking out for some\ntrace of the murderer. Having said this, they stopped speaking.\n\nMr. Carson had listened attentively, never taking his eyes off the\ndead body. When they had ended, he said,\n\n\"Where was he shot?\"\n\nThey lifted up some of the thick chestnut curls, and showed a blue\nspot (you could hardly call it a hole, the flesh had closed so much\nover it) in the left temple. A deadly aim! And yet it was so dark a\nnight!\n\n\"He must have been close upon him,\" said one policeman.\n\n\"And have had him between him and the sky,\" added the other.\n\nThere was a little commotion at the door of the room, and there stood\npoor Mrs. Carson, the mother.\n\nShe had heard unusual noises in the house, and had sent down her maid\n(much more a companion to her than her highly-educated daughters) to\ndiscover what was going on. But the maid either forgot, or dreaded,\nto return; and with nervous impatience Mrs. Carson came down herself,\nand had traced the hum and buzz of voices to the servants' hall.\n\nMr. Carson turned round. But he could not leave the dead for any one\nliving.\n\n\"Take her away, nurse. It is no sight for her. Tell Miss Sophy to go\nto her mother.\" His eyes were again fixed on the dead face of his\nson.\n\nPresently Mrs. Carson's hysterical cries were heard all over the\nhouse. Her husband shuddered at the outward expression of the agony\nwhich was rending his heart.\n\nThen the police superintendent came, and after him the doctor. The\nlatter went through all the forms of ascertaining death, without\nuttering a word, and when at the conclusion of the operation of\nopening a vein, from which no blood flowed, he shook his head, all\npresent understood the confirmation of their previous belief. The\nsuperintendent asked to speak to Mr. Carson in private.\n\n\"It was just what I was going to request of you,\" answered he; so he\nled the way into the dining-room, with the wine-glass still on the\ntable.\n\nThe door was carefully shut, and both sat down, each apparently\nwaiting for the other to begin.\n\nAt last Mr. Carson spoke.\n\n\"You probably have heard that I am a rich man.\"\n\nThe superintendent bowed in assent.\n\n\"Well, sir, half--nay, if necessary, the whole of my fortune I will\ngive to have the murderer brought to the gallows.\"\n\n\"Every exertion, you may be sure, sir, shall be used on our part; but\nprobably offering a handsome reward might accelerate the discovery\nof the murderer. But what I wanted particularly to tell you, sir, is\nthat one of my men has already got some clue, and that another (who\naccompanied me here) has within this quarter of an hour found a gun\nin the field which the murderer crossed, and which he probably threw\naway when pursued, as encumbering his flight. I have not the smallest\ndoubt of discovering the murderer.\"\n\n\"What do you call a handsome reward?\" said Mr. Carson.\n\n\"Well, sir, three, or five hundred pounds is a munificent reward:\nmore than will probably be required as a temptation to any\naccomplice.\"\n\n\"Make it a thousand,\" said Mr. Carson, decisively. \"It's the doing of\nthose damned turn-outs.\"\n\n\"I imagine not,\" said the superintendent. \"Some days ago the man I\nwas naming to you before, reported to the inspector when he came on\nhis beat, that he had had to separate your son from a young man, who\nby his dress he believed to be employed in a foundry; that the man\nhad thrown Mr. Carson down, and seemed inclined to proceed to more\nviolence, when the policeman came up and interfered. Indeed, my man\nwished to give him in charge for an assault, but Mr. Carson would not\nallow that to be done.\"\n\n\"Just like him!--noble fellow!\" murmured the father.\n\n\"But after your son had left, the man made use of some pretty strong\nthreats. And it's rather a curious coincidence that this scuffle took\nplace in the very same spot where the murder was committed; in Turner\nStreet.\"\n\nThere was some one knocking at the door of the room. It was Sophy,\nwho beckoned her father out, and then asked him, in an awe-struck\nwhisper, to come up-stairs and speak to her mother.\n\n\"She will not leave Harry, and talks so strangely.\nIndeed--indeed--papa, I think she has lost her senses.\"\n\nAnd the poor girl sobbed bitterly.\n\n\"Where is she?\" asked Mr. Carson.\n\n\"In his room.\"\n\nThey went up stairs rapidly and silently. It was a large, comfortable\nbedroom; too large to be well lighted by the flaring, flickering\nkitchen-candle which had been hastily snatched up, and now stood on\nthe dressing-table.\n\nOn the bed, surrounded by its heavy, pall-like green curtains, lay\nthe dead son. They had carried him up, and laid him down, as tenderly\nas though they feared to waken him; and, indeed, it looked more like\nsleep than death, so very calm and full of repose was the face. You\nsaw, too, the chiselled beauty of the features much more perfectly\nthan when the brilliant colouring of life had distracted your\nattention. There was a peace about him which told that death had come\ntoo instantaneously to give any previous pain.\n\nIn a chair, at the head of the bed, sat the mother,--smiling. She\nheld one of the hands (rapidly stiffening, even in her warm grasp),\nand gently stroked the back of it, with the endearing caress she had\nused to all her children when young.\n\n\"I am glad you are come,\" said she, looking up at her husband, and\nstill smiling. \"Harry is so full of fun, he always has something new\nto amuse us with; and now he pretends he is asleep, and that we can't\nwaken him. Look! he is smiling now; he hears I have found him out.\nLook!\"\n\nAnd, in truth, the lips, in the rest of death, did look as though\nthey wore a smile, and the waving light of the unsnuffed candle\nalmost made them seem to move.\n\n\"Look, Amy,\" said she to her youngest child, who knelt at her feet,\ntrying to soothe her, by kissing her garments.\n\n\"Oh, he was always a rogue! You remember, don't you, love? how full\nof play he was as a baby; hiding his face under my arm, when you\nwanted to play with him. Always a rogue, Harry!\"\n\n\"We must get her away, sir,\" said nurse; \"you know there is much to\nbe done before--\"\n\n\"I understand, nurse,\" said the father, hastily interrupting her\nin dread of the distinct words which would tell of the changes of\nmortality.\n\n\"Come, love,\" said he to his wife. \"I want you to come with me. I\nwant to speak to you down-stairs.\"\n\n\"I'm coming,\" said she, rising; \"perhaps, after all, nurse, he's\nreally tired, and would be glad to sleep. Don't let him get cold,\nthough,--he feels rather chilly,\" continued she, after she had bent\ndown, and kissed the pale lips.\n\nHer husband put his arm round her waist, and they left the room.\nThen the three sisters burst into unrestrained wailings. They were\nstartled into the reality of life and death. And yet, in the midst of\nshrieks and moans, of shivering, and chattering of teeth, Sophy's eye\ncaught the calm beauty of the dead; so calm amidst such violence, and\nshe hushed her emotion.\n\n\"Come,\" said she to her sisters, \"nurse wants us to go; and besides,\nwe ought to be with mamma. Papa told the man he was talking to, when\nI went for him, to wait, and she must not be left.\"\n\nMeanwhile, the superintendent had taken a candle, and was examining\nthe engravings that hung round the dining-room. It was so common to\nhim to be acquainted with crime, that he was far from feeling all his\ninterest absorbed in the present case of violence, although he could\nnot help having much anxiety to detect the murderer. He was busy\nlooking at the only oil-painting in the room (a youth of eighteen\nor so, in a fancy dress), and conjecturing its identity with the\nyoung man so mysteriously dead, when the door opened, and Mr. Carson\nreturned. Stern as he had looked before leaving the room, he looked\nfar sterner now. His face was hardened into deep-purposed wrath.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, sir, for leaving you.\" The superintendent bowed.\nThey sat down, and spoke long together. One by one the policemen were\ncalled in, and questioned.\n\nAll through the night there was bustle and commotion in the house.\nNobody thought of going to bed. It seemed strange to Sophy to hear\nnurse summoned from her mother's side to supper, in the middle of the\nnight, and still stranger that she could go. The necessity of eating\nand drinking seemed out of place in the house of death.\n\nWhen night was passing into morning, the dining-room door opened, and\ntwo persons' steps were heard along the hall. The superintendent was\nleaving at last. Mr. Carson stood on the front door-step, feeling the\nrefreshment of the cooler morning air, and seeing the starlight fade\naway into dawn.\n\n\"You will not forget,\" said he. \"I trust to you.\"\n\nThe policeman bowed.\n\n\"Spare no money. The only purpose for which I now value wealth is\nto have the murderer arrested, and brought to justice. My hope in\nlife now is to see him sentenced to death. Offer any rewards. Name\na thousand pounds in the placards. Come to me at any hour, night or\nday, if that be required. All I ask of you is, to get the murderer\nhanged. Next week, if possible--to-day is Friday. Surely, with the\nclues you already possess, you can muster up evidence sufficient to\nhave him tried next week.\"\n\n\"He may easily request an adjournment of his trial, on the ground of\nthe shortness of the notice,\" said the superintendent.\n\n\"Oppose it, if possible. I will see that the first lawyers are\nemployed. I shall know no rest while he lives.\"\n\n\"Every thing shall be done, sir.\"\n\n\"You will arrange with the coroner. Ten o'clock, if convenient.\"\n\nThe superintendent took leave.\n\nMr. Carson stood on the step, dreading to shut out the light and air,\nand return into the haunted, gloomy house.\n\n\"My son! my son!\" he said, at last. \"But you shall be avenged, my\npoor murdered boy.\"\n\nAy! to avenge his wrongs the murderer had singled out his victim,\nand with one fell action had taken away the life that God had\ngiven. To avenge his child's death, the old man lived on; with the\nsingle purpose in his heart of vengeance on the murderer. True, his\nvengeance was sanctioned by law, but was it the less revenge?\n\nAre we worshippers of Christ? or of Alecto?\n\nOh! Orestes! you would have made a very tolerable Christian of the\nnineteenth century!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nJEM WILSON ARRESTED ON SUSPICION.\n\n\n   \"Deeds to be hid which were not hid,\n   Which, all confused, I could not know,\n   Whether I suffered or I did,\n   For all seemed guilt, remorse, or woe.\"\n\n   COLERIDGE.\n\n\nI left Mary, on that same Thursday night which left its burden of\nwoe at Mr. Carson's threshold, haunted with depressing thoughts. All\nthrough the night she tossed restlessly about, trying to get quit of\nthe ideas that harassed her, and longing for the light when she could\nrise, and find some employment. But just as dawn began to appear, she\nbecame more quiet, and fell into a sound heavy sleep, which lasted\ntill she was sure it was late in the morning by the full light that\nshone in.\n\nShe dressed hastily, and heard the neighbouring church-clock strike\neight. It was far too late to do as she had planned (after inquiring\nhow Alice was, to return and tell Margaret), and she accordingly went\nin to inform the latter of her change of purpose, and the cause of\nit; but on entering the house she found Job sitting alone, looking\nsad enough. She told him what she came for.\n\n\"Margaret, wench! why she's been gone to Wilson's these two hours.\nAy! sure, you did say last night you would go; but she could na rest\nin her bed, so was off betimes this morning.\"\n\nMary could do nothing but feel guilty of her long morning nap, and\nhasten to follow Margaret's steps; for late as it was, she felt she\ncould not settle well to her work, unless she learnt how kind good\nAlice Wilson was going on.\n\nSo, eating her crust-of-bread breakfast, she passed rapidly along the\nstreets. She remembered afterwards the little groups of people she\nhad seen, eagerly hearing, and imparting news; but at the time her\nonly care was to hasten on her way, in dread of a reprimand from Miss\nSimmonds.\n\nShe went into the house at Jane Wilson's, her heart at the instant\ngiving a strange knock, and sending the rosy flush into her face,\nat the thought that Jem might possibly be inside the door. But I do\nassure you, she had not thought of it before. Impatient and loving as\nshe was, her solicitude about Alice on that hurried morning had not\nbeen mingled with any thought of him.\n\nHer heart need not have leaped, her colour need not have rushed so\npainfully to her cheeks, for he was not there. There was the round\ntable, with a cup and saucer, which had evidently been used, and\nthere was Jane Wilson sitting on the other side, crying quietly,\nwhile she ate her breakfast with a sort of unconscious appetite. And\nthere was Mrs. Davenport washing away at a night-cap or so, which, by\ntheir simple, old-world make, Mary knew at a glance were Alice's. But\nnothing--no one else.\n\nAlice was much the same, or rather better of the two, they told her;\nat any rate she could speak, though it was sad rambling talk. Would\nMary like to see her?\n\nOf course she would. Many are interested by seeing their friends\nunder the new aspect of illness; and among the poor there is no\nwholesome fear of injury or excitement to restrain this wish.\n\nSo Mary went up-stairs, accompanied by Mrs. Davenport, wringing the\nsuds off her hands, and speaking in a loud whisper far more audible\nthan her usual voice.\n\n\"I mun be hastening home, but I'll come again to-night, time enough\nto iron her cap; 'twould be a sin and a shame if we let her go dirty\nnow she's ill, when she's been so rare and clean all her life-long.\nBut she's sadly forsaken, poor thing! She'll not know you, Mary; she\nknows none on us.\"\n\nThe room up-stairs held two beds, one superior in the grandeur of\nfour posts and checked curtains to the other, which had been occupied\nby the twins in their brief life-time. The smaller had been Alice's\nbed since she had lived there; but with the natural reverence to one\n\"stricken of God and afflicted,\" she had been installed since her\nparalytic stroke the evening before in the larger and grander bed,\nwhile Jane Wilson had taken her short broken rest on the little\npallet.\n\nMargaret came forwards to meet her friend, whom she half expected,\nand whose step she knew. Mrs. Davenport returned to her washing.\n\nThe two girls did not speak; the presence of Alice awed them into\nsilence. There she lay with the rosy colour, absent from her face\nsince the days of childhood, flushed once more into it by her\nsickness nigh unto death. She lay on the affected side, and with\nher other arm she was constantly sawing the air, not exactly in a\nrestless manner, but in a monotonous, incessant way, very trying to\na watcher. She was talking away, too, almost as constantly, in a low,\nindistinct tone. But her face, her profiled countenance, looked calm\nand smiling, even interested by the ideas that were passing through\nher clouded mind.\n\n\"Listen!\" said Margaret, as she stooped her head down to catch the\nmuttered words more distinctly.\n\n\"What will mother say? The bees are turning homeward for th' last\ntime, and we've a terrible long bit to go yet. See! here's a linnet's\nnest in this gorse-bush. Th' hen-bird is on it. Look at her bright\neyes, she won't stir! Ay! we mun hurry home. Won't mother be pleased\nwith the bonny lot of heather we've got! Make haste, Sally, may be we\nshall have cockles for supper. I saw th' cockle-man's donkey turn up\nour way fra' Arnside.\"\n\nMargaret touched Mary's hand, and the pressure in return told her\nthat they understood each other; that they knew how in this illness\nto the old, world-weary woman, God had sent her a veiled blessing:\nshe was once more in the scenes of her childhood, unchanged and\nbright as in those long departed days; once more with the sister of\nher youth, the playmate of fifty years ago, who had for nearly as\nmany years slept in a grassy grave in the little church-yard beyond\nBurton.\n\nAlice's face changed; she looked sorrowful, almost penitent.\n\n\"Oh, Sally! I wish we'd told her. She thinks we were in church\nall morning, and we've gone on deceiving her. If we'd told her at\nfirst how it was--how sweet th' hawthorn smelt through the open\nchurch-door, and how we were on th' last bench in the aisle, and\nhow it were the first butterfly we'd seen this spring, and how it\nflew into th' very church itself; oh! mother is so gentle, I wish\nwe'd told her. I'll go to her next time she comes in sight, and say,\n'Mother, we were naughty last Sabbath.'\"\n\nShe stopped, and a few tears came stealing down the old withered\ncheek, at the thought of the temptation and deceit of her childhood.\nSurely, many sins could not have darkened that innocent child-like\nspirit since. Mary found a red-spotted pocket-handkerchief, and put\nit into the hand which sought about for something to wipe away the\ntrickling tears. She took it with a gentle murmur.\n\n\"Thank you, mother.\"\n\nMary pulled Margaret away from the bed.\n\n\"Don't you think she's happy, Margaret?\"\n\n\"Ay! that I do, bless her. She feels no pain, and knows nought of her\npresent state. Oh! that I could see, Mary! I try and be patient with\nher afore me, but I'd give aught I have to see her, and see what she\nwants. I am so useless! I mean to stay here as long as Jane Wilson is\nalone; and I would fain be here all to-night, but--\"\n\n\"I'll come,\" said Mary, decidedly.\n\n\"Mrs. Davenport said she'd come again, but she's hard-worked all\nday--\"\n\n\"I'll come,\" repeated Mary.\n\n\"Do!\" said Margaret, \"and I'll be here till you come. May be, Jem and\nyou could take th' night between you, and Jane Wilson might get a bit\nof sound sleep in his bed; for she were up and down the better part\nof last night, and just when she were in a sound sleep this morning,\nbetween two and three, Jem came home, and th' sound o' his voice\nroused her in a minute.\"\n\n\"Where had he been till that time o' night?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"Nay! it were none of my business; and, indeed, I never saw him\ntill he came in here to see Alice. He were in again this morning,\nand seemed sadly downcast. But you'll, may be, manage to comfort\nhim to-night, Mary,\" said Margaret, smiling, while a ray of hope\nglimmered in Mary's heart, and she almost felt glad, for an instant,\nof the occasion which would at last bring them together. Oh! happy\nnight! when would it come? Many hours had yet to pass.\n\nThen she saw Alice, and repented, with a bitter self-reproach. But\nshe could not help having gladness in the depths of her heart, blame\nherself as she would. So she tried not to think, as she hurried along\nto Miss Simmonds', with a dancing step of lightness.\n\nShe was late--that she knew she should be. Miss Simmonds was vexed\nand cross. That also she had anticipated, but she had intended to\nsmooth her raven down by extraordinary diligence and attention. But\nthere was something about the girls she did not understand--had not\nanticipated. They stopped talking when she came in; or rather, I\nshould say, stopped listening, for Sally Leadbitter was the talker to\nwhom they were hearkening with intense attention. At first they eyed\nMary, as if she had acquired some new interest to them, since the day\nbefore. Then they began to whisper; and, absorbed as Mary had been in\nher own thoughts, she could not help becoming aware that it was of\nher they spoke.\n\nAt last Sally Leadbitter asked Mary if she had heard the news?\n\n\"No! What news?\" answered she.\n\nThe girls looked at each other with gloomy mystery. Sally went on.\n\n\"Have you not heard that young Mr. Carson was murdered last night?\"\n\nMary's lips could not utter a negative, but no one who looked at her\npale and terror-stricken face could have doubted that she had not\nheard before of the fearful occurrence.\n\nOh, it is terrible, that sudden information, that one you have known\nhas met with a bloody death! You seem to shrink from the world where\nsuch deeds can be committed, and to grow sick with the idea of the\nviolent and wicked men of earth. Much as Mary had learned to dread\nhim lately, now he was dead (and dead in such a manner) her feeling\nwas that of oppressive sorrow for him.\n\nThe room went round and round, and she felt as though she should\nfaint; but Miss Simmonds came in, bringing a waft of fresher air as\nshe opened the door, to refresh the body, and the certainty of a\nscolding for inattention to brace the sinking mind. She, too, was\nfull of the morning's news.\n\n\"Have you heard any more of this horrid affair, Miss Barton?\" asked\nshe, as she settled to her work.\n\nMary tried to speak; at first she could not, and when she succeeded\nin uttering a sentence, it seemed as though it were not her own voice\nthat spoke.\n\n\"No, ma'am, I never heard of it till this minute.\"\n\n\"Dear! that's strange, for every one is up about it. I hope the\nmurderer will be found out, that I do. Such a handsome young man to\nbe killed as he was. I hope the wretch that did it may be hanged as\nhigh as Haman.\"\n\nOne of the girls reminded them that the assizes came on next week.\n\n\"Ay,\" replied Miss Simmonds, \"and the milk-man told me they will\ncatch the wretch, and have him tried and hung in less than a week.\nServe him right, whoever he is. Such a handsome young man as he was.\"\n\nThen each began to communicate to Miss Simmonds the various reports\nthey had heard.\n\nSuddenly she burst out--\n\n\"Miss Barton! as I live, dropping tears on that new silk gown of\nMrs. Hawkes'! Don't you know they will stain, and make it shabby for\never? Crying like a baby, because a handsome young man meets with\nan untimely end. For shame of yourself, miss. Mind your character\nand your work if you please. Or, if you must cry\" (seeing her\nscolding rather increased the flow of Mary's tears, than otherwise),\n\"take this print to cry over. That won't be marked like this\nbeautiful silk,\" rubbing it, as if she loved it, with a clean\npocket-handkerchief, in order to soften the edges of the hard round\ndrops.\n\nMary took the print, and naturally enough, having had leave given her\nto cry over it, rather checked the inclination to weep.\n\nEvery body was full of the one subject. The girl sent out to match\nsilk, came back with the account gathered at the shop, of the\ncoroner's inquest then sitting; the ladies who called to speak about\ngowns first began about the murder, and mingled details of that, with\ndirections for their dresses. Mary felt as though the haunting horror\nwere a nightmare, a fearful dream, from which awakening would relieve\nher. The picture of the murdered body, far more ghastly than the\nreality, seemed to swim in the air before her eyes. Sally Leadbitter\nlooked and spoke of her, almost accusingly, and made no secret now of\nMary's conduct, more blameable to her fellow-workwomen for its latter\nchangeableness, than for its former giddy flirting.\n\n\"Poor young gentleman,\" said one, as Sally recounted Mary's last\ninterview with Mr. Carson.\n\n\"What a shame!\" exclaimed another, looking indignantly at Mary.\n\n\"That's what I call regular jilting,\" said a third. \"And he lying\ncold and bloody in his coffin now!\"\n\nMary was more thankful than she could express, when Miss Simmonds\nreturned, to put a stop to Sally's communications, and to check the\nremarks of the girls.\n\nShe longed for the peace of Alice's sick room. No more thinking with\ninfinite delight of her anticipated meeting with Jem, she felt too\nmuch shocked for that now; but longing for peace and kindness, for\nthe images of rest and beauty, and sinless times long ago, which the\npoor old woman's rambling presented, she wished to be as near death\nas Alice; and to have struggled through this world, whose sufferings\nshe had early learnt, and whose crimes now seemed pressing close upon\nher. Old texts from the Bible that her mother used to read (or rather\nspell out) aloud, in the days of childhood, came up to her memory.\n\"Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.\"\n\"The tears shall be wiped away from all eyes,\" &c. And it was to that\nworld Alice was hastening! Oh! that she were Alice!\n\nI must return to the Wilsons' house, which was far from being the\nabode of peace that Mary was picturing it to herself. You remember\nthe reward Mr. Carson offered for the apprehension of the murderer of\nhis son? It was in itself a temptation, and to aid its efficacy came\nthe natural sympathy for the aged parents mourning for their child,\nfor the young man cut off in the flower of his days; and besides\nthis, there is always a pleasure in unravelling a mystery, in\ncatching at the gossamer clue which will guide to certainty. This\nfeeling, I am sure, gives much impetus to the police. Their senses\nare ever and always on the qui-vive, and they enjoy the collecting\nand collating evidence, and the life of adventure they experience: a\ncontinual unwinding of Jack Sheppard romances, always interesting to\nthe vulgar and uneducated mind, to which the outward signs and tokens\nof crime are ever exciting.\n\nThere was no lack of clue or evidence at the coroner's inquest that\nmorning. The shot, the finding of the body, the subsequent discovery\nof the gun, were rapidly deposed to; and then the policeman who had\ninterrupted the quarrel between Jem Wilson and the murdered young\nman was brought forward, and gave his evidence, clear, simple, and\nstraightforward. The coroner had no hesitation, the jury had none,\nbut the verdict was cautiously worded. \"Wilful murder against some\nperson unknown.\"\n\nThis very cautiousness, when he deemed the thing so sure as to\nrequire no caution, irritated Mr. Carson. It did not soothe him that\nthe superintendent called the verdict a mere form,--exhibited a\nwarrant empowering him to seize the body of Jem Wilson, committed on\nsuspicion,--declared his intention of employing a well-known officer\nin the Detective Service to ascertain the ownership of the gun, and\nto collect other evidence, especially as regarded the young woman,\nabout whom the policeman deposed that the quarrel had taken place:\nMr. Carson was still excited and irritable; restless in body and\nmind. He made every preparation for the accusation of Jem the\nfollowing morning before the magistrates: he engaged attorneys\nskilled in criminal practice to watch the case and prepare briefs;\nhe wrote to celebrated barristers coming the Northern Circuit, to\nbespeak their services. A speedy conviction, a speedy execution,\nseemed to be the only things that would satisfy his craving thirst\nfor blood. He would have fain been policeman, magistrate, accusing\nspeaker, all; but most of all, the judge, rising with full sentence\nof death on his lips.\n\nThat afternoon, as Jane Wilson had begun to feel the effect of\na night's disturbed rest, evinced in frequent droppings off to\nsleep while she sat by her sister-in-law's bed-side, lulled by the\nincessant crooning of the invalid's feeble voice, she was startled by\na man speaking in the house-place below, who, wearied of knocking at\nthe door, without obtaining any answer, had entered and was calling\nlustily for\n\n\"Missis! missis!\"\n\nWhen Mrs. Wilson caught a glimpse of the intruder through the\nstair-rails, she at once saw he was a stranger, a working-man, it\nmight be a fellow-labourer with her son, for his dress was grimy\nenough for the supposition. He held a gun in his hand.\n\n\"May I make bold to ask if this gun belongs to your son?\"\n\nShe first looked at the man, and then, weary and half asleep,\nnot seeing any reason for refusing to answer the inquiry, she\nmoved forward to examine it, talking while she looked for certain\nold-fashioned ornaments on the stock. \"It looks like his; ay, it's\nhis, sure enough. I could speak to it anywhere by these marks. You\nsee it were his grandfather's, as were gamekeeper to some one up\nin th' north; and they don't make guns so smart now-a-days. But,\nhow comed you by it? He sets great store on it. Is he bound for th'\nshooting gallery? He is not, for sure, now his aunt is so ill, and me\nleft all alone;\" and the immediate cause for her anxiety being thus\nrecalled to her mind, she entered on a long story of Alice's illness,\ninterspersed with recollections of her husband's and her children's\ndeaths.\n\nThe disguised policeman listened for a minute or two, to glean any\nfurther information he could; and then, saying he was in a hurry, he\nturned to go away. She followed him to the door, still telling him\nher troubles, and was never struck, until it was too late to ask the\nreason, with the unaccountableness of his conduct, in carrying the\ngun away with him. Then, as she heavily climbed the stairs, she put\naway the wonder and the thought about his conduct, by determining\nto believe he was some workman with whom her son had made some\narrangement about shooting at the gallery; or mending the old weapon;\nor something or other. She had enough to fret her, without moidering\nherself about old guns. Jem had given it him to bring to her; so it\nwas safe enough; or, if it was not, why she should be glad never to\nset eyes on it again, for she could not abide fire-arms, they were so\napt to shoot people.\n\nSo, comforting herself for her want of thought in not making further\ninquiry, she fell off into another doze, feverish, dream-haunted, and\nunrefreshing.\n\nMeanwhile, the policeman walked off with his prize, with an odd\nmixture of feelings; a little contempt, a little disappointment, and\na good deal of pity. The contempt and the disappointment were caused\nby the widow's easy admission of the gun being her son's property,\nand her manner of identifying it by the ornaments. He liked an\nattempt to baffle him; he was accustomed to it; it gave some exercise\nto his wits and his shrewdness. There would be no fun in fox-hunting,\nif Reynard yielded himself up without any effort to escape. Then,\nagain, his mother's milk was yet in him, policeman, officer of the\nDetective Service though he was; and he felt sorry for the old woman,\nwhose \"softness\" had given such material assistance in identifying\nher son as the murderer. However, he conveyed the gun, and the\nintelligence he had gained, to the superintendent; and the result\nwas, that, in a short time afterwards, three policemen went to the\nworks at which Jem was foreman, and announced their errand to the\nastonished overseer, who directed them to the part of the foundry\nwhere Jem was then superintending a casting.\n\nDark, black were the walls, the ground, the faces around them, as\nthey crossed the yard. But, in the furnace-house a deep and lurid\nred glared over all; the furnace roared with mighty flame. The men,\nlike demons, in their fire-and-soot colouring, stood swart around,\nawaiting the moment when the tons of solid iron should have melted\ndown into fiery liquid, fit to be poured, with still, heavy sound,\ninto the delicate moulding of fine black sand, prepared to receive\nit. The heat was intense, and the red glare grew every instant more\nfierce; the policemen stood awed with the novel sight. Then, black\nfigures, holding strange-shaped bucket shovels, came athwart the\ndeep-red furnace light, and clear and brilliant flowed forth the iron\ninto the appropriate mould. The buzz of voices rose again; there was\ntime to speak, and gasp, and wipe the brows; and then, one by one,\nthe men dispersed to some other branch of their employment.\n\nNo. B. 72 pointed out Jem as the man he had seen engaged in a\nscuffle with Mr. Carson, and then the other two stepped forward and\narrested him, stating of what he was accused, and the grounds of the\naccusation. He offered no resistance, though he seemed surprised; but\ncalling a fellow-workman to him, he briefly requested him to tell his\nmother he had got into trouble, and could not return home at present.\nHe did not wish her to hear more at first.\n\nSo Mrs. Wilson's sleep was next interrupted in almost an exactly\nsimilar way to the last, like a recurring nightmare.\n\n\"Missis! missis!\" some one called out from below.\n\nAgain it was a workman, but this time a blacker-looking one than\nbefore.\n\n\"What don ye want?\" said she, peevishly.\n\n\"Only nothing but--\" stammered the man, a kind-hearted matter-of-fact\nperson, with no invention, but a great deal of sympathy.\n\n\"Well! speak out, can't ye, and ha' done with it?\"\n\n\"Jem's in trouble,\" said he, repeating Jem's very words, as he could\nthink of no others.\n\n\"Trouble!\" said the mother, in a high-pitched voice of distress.\n\"Trouble! God help me, trouble will never end, I think. What d'ye\nmean by trouble? Speak out, man, can't ye? Is he ill? My boy! tell\nme, is he ill?\" in a hurried voice of terror.\n\n\"Na, na, that's not it. He's well enough. All he bade me say was,\n'Tell mother I'm in trouble, and can't come home to-night.'\"\n\n\"Not come home to-night! And what am I to do with Alice? I can't go\non, wearing my life out wi' watching. He might come and help me.\"\n\n\"I tell you he can't,\" said the man.\n\n\"Can't; and he is well, you say? Stuff! It's just that he's getten\nlike other young men, and wants to go a-larking. But I'll give it him\nwhen he comes back.\"\n\nThe man turned to go; he durst not trust himself to speak in Jem's\njustification. But she would not let him off.\n\nShe stood between him and the door, as she said, \"Yo shall not go,\ntill yo've told me what he's after. I can see plain enough you know,\nand I'll know too, before I've done.\"\n\n\"You'll know soon enough, missis!\"\n\n\"I'll know now, I tell ye. What's up that he can't come home and help\nme nurse? Me, as never got a wink o' sleep last night wi' watching.\"\n\n\"Well, if you will have it out,\" said the poor badgered man, \"the\npolice have got hold on him.\"\n\n\"On my Jem!\" said the enraged mother. \"You're a downright liar, and\nthat's what you are. My Jem, as never did harm to any one in his\nlife. You're a liar, that's what you are.\"\n\n\"He's done harm enough now,\" said the man, angry in his turn, \"for\nthere's good evidence he murdered young Carson, as was shot last\nnight.\"\n\nShe staggered forward to strike the man for telling the terrible\ntruth; but the weakness of old age, of motherly agony, overcame her,\nand she sank down on a chair, and covered her face. He could not\nleave her.\n\nWhen next she spoke, it was in an imploring, feeble, child-like\nvoice.\n\n\"Oh, master, say you're only joking. I ax your pardon if I have vexed\nye, but please say you're only joking. You don't know what Jem is to\nme.\"\n\nShe looked humbly, anxiously up at him.\n\n\"I wish I were only joking, missis; but it's true as I say. They've\ntaken him up on charge o' murder. It were his gun as were found\nnear th' place; and one o' the police heard him quarrelling with Mr.\nCarson a few days back, about a girl.\"\n\n\"About a girl!\" broke in the mother, once more indignant, though\ntoo feeble to show it as before. \"My Jem was as steady as--\" she\nhesitated for a comparison wherewith to finish, and then repeated,\n\"as steady as Lucifer, and he were an angel, you know. My Jem was not\none to quarrel about a girl.\"\n\n\"Ay, but it was that, though. They'd got her name quite pat. The man\nhad heard all they said. Mary Barton was her name, whoever she may\nbe.\"\n\n\"Mary Barton! the dirty hussey! to bring my Jem into trouble of this\nkind. I'll give it her well when I see her: that I will. Oh! my poor\nJem!\" rocking herself to and fro. \"And what about the gun? What did\nye say about that?\"\n\n\"His gun were found on th' spot where the murder were done.\"\n\n\"That's a lie for one, then. A man has got the gun now, safe and\nsound; I saw it not an hour ago.\"\n\nThe man shook his head.\n\n\"Yes, he has indeed. A friend o' Jem's, as he'd lent it to.\"\n\n\"Did you know the chap?\" asked the man, who was really anxious for\nJem's exculpation, and caught a gleam of hope from her last speech.\n\n\"No! I can't say as I did. But he were put on as a workman.\"\n\n\"It's may be only one of them policemen, disguised.\"\n\n\"Nay; they'd never go for to do that, and trick me into telling on my\nown son. It would be like seething a kid in its mother's milk; and\nthat th' Bible forbids.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" replied the man.\n\nSoon afterwards he went away, feeling unable to comfort, yet\ndistressed at the sight of sorrow; she would fain have detained him,\nbut go he would. And she was alone.\n\nShe never for an instant believed Jem guilty; she would have doubted\nif the sun were fire, first: but sorrow, desolation, and, at times,\nanger took possession of her mind. She told the unconscious Alice,\nhoping to rouse her to sympathy; and then was disappointed, because,\nstill smiling and calm, she murmured of her mother, and the happy\ndays of infancy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nMARY'S DREAM--AND THE AWAKENING.\n\n\n   \"I saw where stark and cold he lay,\n     Beneath the gallows-tree,\n   And every one did point and say,\n     ''Twas there he died for thee!'\n    *      *      *      *      *      *\n   \"Oh! weeping heart! Oh, bleeding heart!\n     What boots thy pity now?\n   Bid from his eyes that shade depart,\n     That death-damp from his brow!\"\n\n   \"THE BIRTLE TRAGEDY.\"\n\n\nSo there was no more peace in the house of sickness, except to Alice,\nthe dying Alice.\n\nBut Mary knew nothing of the afternoon's occurrences; and gladly did\nshe breathe in the fresh air, as she left Miss Simmonds' house, to\nhasten to the Wilsons'. The very change, from the in-door to the\nout-door atmosphere, seemed to alter the current of her thoughts.\nShe thought less of the dreadful subject which had so haunted her\nall day; she cared less for the upbraiding speeches of her fellow\nwork-women; the old association of comfort and sympathy received from\nAlice gave her the idea that, even now, her bodily presence would\nsoothe and compose those who were in trouble, changed, unconscious,\nand absent though her spirit might be.\n\nThen, again, she reproached herself a little for the feeling of\npleasure she experienced, in thinking that he whom she dreaded could\nnever more beset her path; in the security with which she could pass\neach street corner--each shop, where he used to lie in ambush. Oh!\nbeating heart! was there no other little thought of joy lurking\nwithin, to gladden the very air without? Was she not going to meet,\nto see, to hear Jem; and could they fail at last to understand each\nother's loving hearts!\n\nShe softly lifted the latch, with the privilege of friendship. _He_\nwas not there, but his mother was standing by the fire, stirring some\nlittle mess or other. Never mind! he would come soon: and with an\nunmixed desire to do her grateful duty to all belonging to him, she\nstepped lightly forwards, unheard by the old lady, who was partly\noccupied by the simmering, bubbling sound of her bit of cookery; but\nmore with her own sad thoughts, and wailing, half-uttered murmurings.\n\nMary took off bonnet and shawl with speed, and advancing, made Mrs.\nWilson conscious of her presence, by saying,\n\n\"Let me do that for you. I'm sure you mun be tired.\"\n\nMrs. Wilson slowly turned round, and her eyes gleamed like those of a\npent-up wild beast, as she recognised her visitor.\n\n\"And is it thee that dares set foot in this house, after what has\ncome to pass? Is it not enough to have robbed me of my boy with\nthy arts and thy profligacy, but thou must come here to crow over\nme--me--his mother? Dost thou know where he is, thou bad hussy, with\nthy great blue eyes and yellow hair, to lead men on to ruin? Out upon\nthee, with thy angel's face, thou whited sepulchre! Dost thou know\nwhere Jem is, all through thee?\"\n\n\"No!\" quivered out poor Mary, scarcely conscious that she spoke, so\ndaunted, so terrified was she by the indignant mother's greeting.\n\n\"He's lying in th' New Bailey,\" slowly and distinctly spoke the\nmother, watching the effect of her words, as if believing in their\ninfinite power to pain. \"There he lies, waiting to take his trial for\nmurdering young Mr. Carson.\"\n\nThere was no answer; but such a blanched face, such wild, distended\neyes, such trembling limbs, instinctively seeking support!\n\n\"Did you know Mr. Carson as now lies dead?\" continued the merciless\nwoman. \"Folk say you did, and knew him but too well. And that for the\nsake of such as you, my precious child shot yon chap. But he did not.\nI know he did not. They may hang him, but his mother will speak to\nhis innocence with her last dying breath.\"\n\nShe stopped more from exhaustion than want of words. Mary spoke, but\nin so changed and choked a voice that the old woman almost started.\nIt seemed as if some third person must be in the room, the voice was\nso hoarse and strange.\n\n\"Please, say it again. I don't quite understand you. What has Jem\ndone? Please to tell me.\"\n\n\"I never said he had done it. I said, and I'll swear that he never\ndid do it. I don't care who heard 'em quarrel, or if it is his gun as\nwere found near the body. It's not my own Jem as would go for to kill\nany man, choose how a girl had jilted him. My own good Jem, as was\na blessing sent upon the house where he was born.\" Tears came into\nthe mother's burning eyes as her heart recurred to the days when she\nhad rocked the cradle of her \"first-born;\" and then, rapidly passing\nover events, till the full consciousness of his present situation\ncame upon her, and perhaps annoyed at having shown any softness of\ncharacter in the presence of the Dalilah who had lured him to his\ndanger, she spoke again, and in a sharper tone.\n\n\"I told him, and told him to leave off thinking on thee; but he\nwouldn't be led by me. Thee! wench! thou were not good enough to wipe\nthe dust off his feet. A vile, flirting quean as thou art. It's well\nthy mother does not know (poor body) what a good-for-nothing thou\nart.\"\n\n\"Mother! oh mother!\" said Mary, as if appealing to the merciful dead.\n\"But I was not good enough for him! I know I was not,\" added she, in\na voice of touching humility.\n\nFor through her heart went tolling the ominous, prophetic words he\nhad used when he had last spoken to her--\n\n\"Mary! you'll may be hear of me as a drunkard, and may be as a thief,\nand may be as a murderer. Remember! when all are speaking ill of me,\nyo will have no right to blame me, for it's your cruelty that will\nhave made me what I feel I shall become.\"\n\nAnd she did not blame him, though she doubted not his guilt; she felt\nhow madly she might act if once jealous of him, and how much cause\nhad she not given him for jealousy, miserable guilty wretch that she\nwas! Speak on, desolate mother! Abuse her as you will. Her broken\nspirit feels to have merited all.\n\nBut her last humble, self-abased words had touched Mrs. Wilson's\nheart, sore as it was; and she looked at the snow-pale girl with\nthose piteous eyes, so hopeless of comfort, and she relented in spite\nof herself.\n\n\"Thou seest what comes of light conduct, Mary! It's thy doing that\nsuspicion has lighted on him, who is as innocent as the babe unborn.\nThou'lt have much to answer for if he's hung. Thou'lt have my death\ntoo at thy door!\"\n\nHarsh as these words seem, she spoke them in a milder tone of voice\nthan she had yet used. But the idea of Jem on the gallows, Jem dead,\ntook possession of Mary, and she covered her eyes with her wan hands,\nas if indeed to shut out the fearful sight.\n\nShe murmured some words, which, though spoken low, as if choked up\nfrom the depths of agony, Jane Wilson caught. \"My heart is breaking,\"\nsaid she, feebly. \"My heart is breaking.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said Mrs. Wilson. \"Don't talk in that silly way. My heart\nhas a better right to break than yours, and yet I hold up, you see.\nBut, oh dear! oh dear!\" with a sudden revulsion of feeling, as the\nreality of the danger in which her son was placed pressed upon her.\n\"What am I saying? How could I hold up if thou wert gone, Jem? Though\nI'm as sure as I stand here of thy innocence, if they hang thee, my\nlad, I will lie down and die!\"\n\nShe sobbed aloud with bitter consciousness of the fearful chance\nawaiting her child. She cried more passionately still.\n\nMary roused herself up.\n\n\"Oh, let me stay with you, at any rate, till we know the end. Dearest\nMrs. Wilson, mayn't I stay?\"\n\nThe more obstinately and upbraidingly Mrs. Wilson refused, the more\nMary pleaded, with ever the same soft, entreating cry, \"Let me stay\nwith you.\" Her stunned soul seemed to bound its wishes, for the hour\nat least, to remaining with one who loved and sorrowed for the same\nhuman being that she did.\n\nBut no. Mrs. Wilson was inflexible.\n\n\"I've may be been a bit hard on you, Mary, I'll own that. But\nI cannot abide you yet with me. I cannot but remember it's your\ngiddiness as has wrought this woe. I'll stay wi' Alice, and perhaps\nMrs. Davenport may come help a bit. I cannot put up with you about\nme. Good-night. To-morrow I may look on you different, may be.\nGood-night.\"\n\nAnd Mary turned out of the house, which had been _his_ home, where\n_he_ was loved, and mourned for, into the busy, desolate, crowded\nstreet, where they were crying halfpenny broadsides, giving\nan account of the bloody murder, the coroner's inquest, and a\nraw-head-and-bloody-bones picture of the suspected murderer, James\nWilson.\n\nBut Mary heard not, she heeded not. She staggered on like one in a\ndream. With hung head and tottering steps, she instinctively chose\nthe shortest cut to that home, which was to her, in her present state\nof mind, only the hiding place of four walls, where she might vent\nher agony, unseen and unnoticed by the keen, unkind world without,\nbut where no welcome, no love, no sympathising tears awaited her.\n\nAs she neared that home, within two minutes' walk of it, her\nimpetuous course was arrested by a light touch on her arm, and\nturning hastily, she saw a little Italian boy with his humble\nshow-box,--a white mouse, or some such thing. The setting sun cast\nits red glow on his face, otherwise the olive complexion would have\nbeen very pale; and the glittering tear-drops hung on the long curled\neye-lashes. With his soft voice and pleading looks, he uttered, in\nhis pretty broken English, the words\n\n\"Hungry! so hungry.\"\n\nAnd, as if to aid by gesture the effect of the solitary word, he\npointed to his mouth, with its white quivering lips.\n\nMary answered him impatiently,\n\n\"Oh, lad, hunger is nothing--nothing!\"\n\nAnd she rapidly passed on. But her heart upbraided her the next\nminute with her unrelenting speech, and she hastily entered her door\nand seized the scanty remnant of food which the cupboard contained,\nand retraced her steps to the place where the little hopeless\nstranger had sunk down by his mute companion in loneliness and\nstarvation, and was raining down tears as he spoke in some foreign\ntongue, with low cries for the far distant \"Mamma mia!\"\n\nWith the elasticity of heart belonging to childhood he sprang up as\nhe saw the food the girl brought; she whose face, lovely in its woe,\nhad tempted him first to address her; and, with the graceful courtesy\nof his country, he looked up and smiled while he kissed her hand, and\nthen poured forth his thanks, and shared her bounty with his little\npet companion. She stood an instant, diverted from the thought of her\nown grief by the sight of his infantine gladness; and then bending\ndown and kissing his smooth forehead, she left him, and sought to be\nalone with her agony once more.\n\nShe re-entered the house, locked the door, and tore off her bonnet,\nas if greedy of every moment which took her from the full indulgence\nof painful, despairing thought.\n\nThen she threw herself on the ground, yes, on the hard flags she\nthrew her soft limbs down; and the comb fell out of her hair, and\nthose bright tresses swept the dusty floor, while she pillowed and\nhid her face on her arms, and burst forth into hard, suffocating\nsobs.\n\nOh, earth! thou didst seem but a dreary dwelling-place for thy poor\nchild that night. None to comfort, none to pity! And self-reproach\ngnawing at her heart.\n\nOh, why did she ever listen to the tempter? Why did she ever give ear\nto her own suggestions, and cravings after wealth and grandeur? Why\nhad she thought it a fine thing to have a rich lover?\n\nShe--she had deserved it all; but he was the victim,--he, the\nbeloved. She could not conjecture, she could not even pause to think\nwho had revealed, or how he had discovered her acquaintance with\nHarry Carson. It was but too clear, some way or another, he had\nlearnt all; and what would he think of her? No hope of his love,--oh,\nthat she would give up, and be content; it was his life, his precious\nlife, that was threatened. Then she tried to recall the particulars,\nwhich, when Mrs. Wilson had given them, had fallen but upon a\ndeafened ear,--something about a gun, a quarrel, which she could\nnot remember clearly. Oh, how terrible to think of his crime, his\nblood-guiltiness; he who had hitherto been so good, so noble, and\nnow an assassin! And then she shrank from him in thought; and then,\nwith bitter remorse, clung more closely to his image with passionate\nself-upbraiding. Was it not she who had led him to the pit into which\nhe had fallen? Was she to blame him? She to judge him? Who could\ntell how maddened he might have been by jealousy; how one moment's\nuncontrollable passion might have led him to become a murderer?\nAnd she had blamed him in her heart after his last deprecating,\nimploring, prophetic speech!\n\nThen she burst out crying afresh; and when weary of crying, fell to\nthinking again. The gallows! The gallows! Black it stood against\nthe burning light which dazzled her shut eyes, press on them as she\nwould. Oh! she was going mad; and for awhile she lay outwardly still,\nbut with the pulses careering through her head with wild vehemence.\n\nAnd then came a strange forgetfulness of the present, in thought of\nthe long-past times;--of those days when she hid her face on her\nmother's pitying, loving bosom, and heard tender words of comfort,\nbe her grief or her error what it might;--of those days when she had\nfelt as if her mother's love was too mighty not to last for ever;--of\nthose days when hunger had been to her (as to the little stranger\nshe had that evening relieved) something to be thought about, and\nmourned over;--when Jem and she had played together; he, with\nthe condescension of an older child, and she, with unconscious\nearnestness, believing that he was as much gratified with important\ntrifles as she was;--when her father was a cheery-hearted man, rich\nin the love of his wife, and the companionship of his friend;--when\n(for it still worked round to that), when mother was alive, and _he_\nwas not a murderer.\n\nAnd then Heaven blessed her unaware, and she sank from remembering,\nto wandering, unconnected thought, and thence to sleep. Yes! it was\nsleep, though in that strange posture, on that hard cold bed; and she\ndreamt of the happy times of long ago, and her mother came to her,\nand kissed her as she lay, and once more the dead were alive again\nin that happy world of dreams. All was restored to the gladness of\nchildhood, even to the little kitten which had been her playmate and\nbosom friend then, and which had been long forgotten in her waking\nhours. All the loved ones were there!\n\nShe suddenly wakened! Clear and wide awake! Some noise had startled\nher from sleep. She sat up, and put her hair (still wet with tears)\nback from her flushed cheeks, and listened. At first she could only\nhear her beating heart. All was still without, for it was after\nmidnight, such hours of agony had passed away; but the moon shone\nclearly in at the unshuttered window, making the room almost as light\nas day, in its cold ghastly radiance. There was a low knock at the\ndoor! A strange feeling crept over Mary's heart, as if something\nspiritual were near; as if the dead, so lately present in her dreams,\nwere yet gliding and hovering round her, with their dim, dread forms.\nAnd yet, why dread? Had they not loved her?--and who loved her now?\nWas she not lonely enough to welcome the spirits of the dead, who had\nloved her while here? If her mother had conscious being, her love for\nher child endured. So she quieted her fears, and listened--listened\nstill.\n\n\"Mary! Mary! open the door!\" as a little movement on her part seemed\nto tell the being outside of her wakeful, watchful state. They\nwere the accents of her mother's voice; the very south-country\npronunciation, that Mary so well remembered; and which she had\nsometimes tried to imitate when alone, with the fond mimicry of\naffection.\n\nSo, without fear, without hesitation, she rose and unbarred the door.\nThere, against the moonlight, stood a form, so closely resembling her\ndead mother, that Mary never doubted the identity, but exclaiming\n(as if she were a terrified child, secure of safety when near the\nprotecting care of its parent)--\n\n\"Oh! mother! mother! You are come at last!\"\n\nShe threw herself, or rather fell, into the trembling arms of her\nlong-lost, unrecognised aunt Esther.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\nESTHER'S MOTIVE IN SEEKING MARY.\n\n\n   \"My rest is gone,\n     My heart is sore,\n   Peace find I never,\n     And never more.\"\n\n   MARGARET'S SONG IN \"FAUST.\"\n\n\nI must go back a little to explain the motives which caused Esther to\nseek an interview with her niece.\n\nThe murder had been committed early on Thursday night, and between\nthen and the dawn of the following day there was ample time for the\nnews to spread far and wide among all those whose duty, or whose\nwant, or whose errors, caused them to be abroad in the streets of\nManchester.\n\nAmong those who listened to the tale of violence was Esther.\n\nA craving desire to know more took possession of her mind. Far away\nas she was from Turner Street, she immediately set off to the scene\nof the murder, which was faintly lighted by the gray dawn as she\nreached the spot. It was so quiet and still that she could hardly\nbelieve it to be the place. The only vestige of any scuffle or\nviolence was a trail on the dust, as if somebody had been lying\nthere, and then been raised by extraneous force. The little birds\nwere beginning to hop and twitter in the leafless hedge, making\nthe only sound that was near and distinct. She crossed into the\nfield where she guessed the murderer to have stood; it was easy of\naccess, for the worn, stunted hawthorn-hedge had many gaps in it.\nThe night-smell of bruised grass came up from under her feet, as she\nwent towards the saw-pit and carpenter's shed, which, as I have said\nbefore, were in a corner of the field near the road, and where one of\nher informants had told her it was supposed by the police that the\nmurderer had lurked while waiting for his victim. There was no sign,\nhowever, that any one had been about the place. If the grass had\nbeen bruised or bent where he had trod, it had had enough of the\nelasticity of life to raise itself under the dewy influences of\nnight. She hushed her breath with involuntary awe, but nothing else\ntold of the violent deed by which a fellow-creature had passed away.\nShe stood still for a minute, imagining to herself the position of\nthe parties, guided by the only circumstance which afforded any\nevidence, the trailing mark on the dust in the road.\n\nSuddenly (it was before the sun had risen above the horizon) she\nbecame aware of something white in the hedge. All other colours\nwore the same murky hue, though the forms of objects were perfectly\ndistinct. What was it? It could not be a flower;--that, the time of\nyear made clear. A frozen lump of snow, lingering late in one of the\ngnarled tufts of the hedge? She stepped forward to examine. It proved\nto be a little piece of stiff writing-paper compressed into a round\nshape. She understood it instantly; it was the paper that had served\nas wadding for the murderer's gun. Then she had been standing just\nwhere the murderer must have been but a few hours before; probably\n(as the rumour had spread through the town, reaching her ears) one of\nthe poor maddened turn-outs, who hung about everywhere, with black,\nfierce looks, as if contemplating some deed of violence. Her sympathy\nwas all with them, for she had known what they suffered; and besides\nthis there was her own individual dislike of Mr. Carson, and dread\nof him for Mary's sake. Yet, poor Mary! Death was a terrible, though\nsure, remedy for the evil Esther had dreaded for her; and how would\nshe stand the shock, loving as her aunt believed her to do? Poor\nMary! who would comfort her? Esther's thoughts began to picture her\nsorrow, her despair, when the news of her lover's death should reach\nher; and she longed to tell her there might have been a keener grief\nyet had he lived.\n\nBright, beautiful came the slanting rays of the morning sun. It was\ntime for such as she to hide themselves, with the other obscene\nthings of night, from the glorious light of day, which was only for\nthe happy. So she turned her steps towards town, still holding the\npaper. But in getting over the hedge it encumbered her to hold it in\nher clasped hand, and she threw it down. She passed on a few steps,\nher thoughts still of Mary, till the idea crossed her mind, could it\n(blank as it appeared to be) give any clue to the murderer? As I said\nbefore, her sympathies were all on that side, so she turned back and\npicked it up; and then feeling as if in some measure an accessory,\nshe hid it unexamined in her hand, and hastily passed out of the\nstreet at the opposite end to that by which she had entered it.\n\nAnd what do you think she felt, when, having walked some distance\nfrom the spot, she dared to open the crushed paper, and saw written\non it Mary Barton's name, and not only that, but the street in which\nshe lived! True, a letter or two was torn off, but, nevertheless,\nthere was the name clear to be recognised. And oh! what terrible\nthought flashed into her mind; or was it only fancy? But it looked\nvery like the writing which she had once known well--the writing of\nJem Wilson, who, when she lived at her brother-in-law's, and he was a\nnear neighbour, had often been employed by her to write her letters\nto people, to whom she was ashamed of sending her own misspelt\nscrawl. She remembered the wonderful flourishes she had so much\nadmired in those days, while she sat by dictating, and Jem, in all\nthe pride of newly-acquired penmanship, used to dazzle her eyes by\nextraordinary graces and twirls.\n\nIf it were his!\n\nOh! perhaps it was merely that her head was running so on Mary, that\nshe was associating every trifle with her. As if only one person\nwrote in that flourishing, meandering style!\n\nIt was enough to fill her mind to think from what she might have\nsaved Mary by securing the paper. She would look at it just once\nmore, and see if some very dense and stupid policeman could have\nmistaken the name, or if Mary would certainly have been dragged into\nnotice in the affair.\n\nNo! no one could have mistaken the \"ry Barton,\" and it _was_ Jem's\nhandwriting!\n\nOh! if it was so, she understood it all, and she had been the cause!\nWith her violent and unregulated nature, rendered morbid by the\ncourse of life she led, and her consciousness of her degradation, she\ncursed herself for the interference which she believed had led to\nthis; for the information and the warning she had given to Jem, which\nhad roused him to this murderous action. How could she, the abandoned\nand polluted outcast, ever have dared to hope for a blessing, even on\nher efforts to do good? The black curse of Heaven rested on all her\ndoings, were they for good or for evil.\n\nPoor, diseased mind! and there were none to minister to thee!\n\nSo she wandered about, too restless to take her usual heavy morning's\nsleep, up and down the streets, greedily listening to every word of\nthe passers by, and loitering near each group of talkers, anxious\nto scrape together every morsel of information, or conjecture, or\nsuspicion, though without possessing any definite purpose in all\nthis. And ever and always she clenched the scrap of paper which might\nbetray so much, until her nails had deeply indented the palm of her\nhand; so fearful was she in her nervous dread, lest unawares she\nshould let it drop.\n\nTowards the middle of the day she could no longer evade the body's\ncraving want of rest and refreshment; but the rest was taken in a\nspirit vault, and the refreshment was a glass of gin.\n\nThen she started up from the stupor she had taken for repose; and\nsuddenly driven before the gusty impulses of her mind, she pushed her\nway to the place where at that very time the police were bringing\nthe information they had gathered with regard to the all-engrossing\nmurder. She listened with painful acuteness of comprehension to\ndropped words and unconnected sentences, the meaning of which became\nclearer, and yet more clear to her. Jem was suspected. Jem was\nascertained to be the murderer.\n\nShe saw him (although he, absorbed in deep sad thought, saw her not),\nshe saw him brought hand-cuffed and guarded out of the coach. She saw\nhim enter the station,--she gasped for breath till he came out, still\nhand-cuffed, and still guarded, to be conveyed to the New Bailey.\n\nHe was the only one who had spoken to her with hope, that she might\nyet win her way back to virtue. His words had lingered in her heart\nwith a sort of call to Heaven, like distant Sabbath bells, although\nin her despair she had turned away from his voice. He was the only\none who had spoken to her kindly. The murder, shocking though it was,\nwas an absent, abstract thing, on which her thoughts could not, and\nwould not dwell; all that was present in her mind was Jem's danger,\nand his kindness.\n\nThen Mary came to remembrance. Esther wondered till she was sick of\nwondering, in what way she was taking the affair. In some manner it\nwould be a terrible blow for the poor, motherless girl; with her\ndreadful father, too, who was to Esther a sort of accusing angel.\n\nShe set off towards the court where Mary lived, to pick up what she\ncould there of information. But she was ashamed to enter in where\nonce she had been innocent, and hung about the neighbouring streets,\nnot daring to question, so she learnt but little; nothing in fact but\nthe knowledge of John Barton's absence from home.\n\nShe went up a dark entry to rest her weary limbs on a door-step and\nthink. Her elbows on her knees, her face hidden in her hands, she\ntried to gather together and arrange her thoughts. But still every\nnow and then she opened her hand to see if the paper were yet there.\n\nShe got up at last. She had formed a plan, and had a course of action\nto look forward to that would satisfy one craving desire at least.\nThe time was long gone by when there was much wisdom or consistency\nin her projects.\n\nIt was getting late, and that was so much the better. She went to a\npawn-shop, and took off her finery in a back room. She was known by\nthe people, and had a character for honesty, so she had no very great\ndifficulty in inducing them to let her have a suit of outer clothes,\nbefitting the wife of a working-man, a black silk bonnet, a printed\ngown, a plaid shawl, dirty and rather worn to be sure, but which had\na sort of sanctity to the eyes of the street-walker as being the\nappropriate garb of that happy class to which she could never, never\nmore belong.\n\nShe looked at herself in the little glass which hung against the\nwall, and sadly shaking her head, thought how easy were the duties\nof that Eden of innocence from which she was shut out; how she would\nwork, and toil, and starve, and die, if necessary, for a husband, a\nhome,--for children,--but that thought she could not bear; a little\nform rose up, stern in its innocence, from the witches' cauldron of\nher imagination, and she rushed into action again.\n\nYou know now how she came to stand by the threshold of Mary's door,\nwaiting, trembling, until the latch was lifted, and her niece, with\nwords that spoke of such desolation among the living, fell into her\narms.\n\nShe had felt as if some holy spell would prevent her (even as the\nunholy Lady Geraldine was prevented, in the abode of Christabel)\nfrom crossing the threshold of that home of her early innocence; and\nshe had meant to wait for an invitation. But Mary's helpless action\ndid away with all reluctant feeling, and she bore or dragged her\nto a seat, and looked on her bewildered eyes, as, puzzled with the\nlikeness, which was not identity, she gazed on her aunt's features.\n\nIn pursuance of her plan, Esther meant to assume the manners and\ncharacter, as she had done the dress, of a mechanic's wife; but then,\nto account for her long absence, and her long silence towards all\nthat ought to have been dear to her, it was necessary that she should\nput on an indifference far distant from her heart, which was loving\nand yearning, in spite of all its faults. And, perhaps, she overacted\nher part, for certainly Mary felt a kind of repugnance to the changed\nand altered aunt, who so suddenly re-appeared on the scene; and it\nwould have cut Esther to the very core, could she have known how her\nlittle darling of former days was feeling towards her.\n\n\"You don't remember me I see, Mary!\" she began. \"It's a long while\nsince I left you all, to be sure; and I, many a time, thought of\ncoming to see you, and--and your father. But I live so far off, and\nam always so busy, I cannot do just what I wish. You recollect aunt\nEsther, don't you, Mary?\"\n\n\"Are you aunt Hetty?\" asked Mary, faintly, still looking at the face\nwhich was so different from the old recollections of her aunt's fresh\ndazzling beauty.\n\n\"Yes! I am aunt Hetty. Oh! it's so long since I heard that name,\"\nsighing forth the thoughts it suggested; then recovering herself,\nand striving after the hard character she wished to assume, she\ncontinued: \"And to-day I heard a friend of yours, and of mine too,\nlong ago, was in trouble, and I guessed you would be in sorrow, so\nI thought I would just step this far and see you.\"\n\nMary's tears flowed afresh, but she had no desire to open her heart\nto her strangely-found aunt, who had, by her own confession, kept\naloof from and neglected them for so many years. Yet she tried to\nfeel grateful for kindness (however late) from any one, and wished to\nbe civil. Moreover, she had a strong disinclination to speak on the\nterrible subject uppermost in her mind. So, after a pause she said,\n\n\"Thank you. I dare say you mean very kind. Have you had a long walk?\nI'm so sorry,\" said she, rising, with a sudden thought, which was as\nsuddenly checked by recollection, \"but I've nothing to eat in the\nhouse, and I'm sure you must be hungry, after your walk.\"\n\nFor Mary concluded that certainly her aunt's residence must be\nfar away on the other side of the town, out of sight or hearing.\nBut, after all, she did not think much about her; her heart was so\naching-full of other things, that all besides seemed like a dream.\nShe received feelings and impressions from her conversation with her\naunt, but did not, could not, put them together, or think or argue\nabout them.\n\nAnd Esther! How scanty had been her food for days and weeks, her\nthinly-covered bones and pale lips might tell, but her words should\nnever reveal! So, with a little unreal laugh, she replied,\n\n\"Oh! Mary, my dear! don't talk about eating. We've the best of every\nthing, and plenty of it, for my husband is in good work. I'd such a\nsupper before I came out. I couldn't touch a morsel if you had it.\"\n\nHer words shot a strange pang through Mary's heart. She had always\nremembered her aunt's loving and unselfish disposition; how was it\nchanged, if, living in plenty, she had never thought it worth while\nto ask after her relations, who were all but starving! She shut up\nher heart instinctively against her aunt.\n\nAnd all the time poor Esther was swallowing her sobs, and over-acting\nher part, and controlling herself more than she had done for many a\nlong day, in order that her niece might not be shocked and revolted,\nby the knowledge of what her aunt had become:--a prostitute; an\noutcast.\n\nFor she longed to open her wretched, wretched heart, so hopeless, so\nabandoned by all living things, to one who had loved her once; and\nyet she refrained, from dread of the averted eye, the altered voice,\nthe internal loathing, which she feared such disclosure might create.\nShe would go straight to the subject of the day. She could not tarry\nlong, for she felt unable to support the character she had assumed\nfor any length of time.\n\nThey sat by the little round table, facing each other. The candle was\nplaced right between them, and Esther moved it in order to have a\nclearer view of Mary's face, so that she might read her emotions, and\nascertain her interests. Then she began:\n\n\"It's a bad business, I'm afraid, this of Mr. Carson's murder.\"\n\nMary winced a little.\n\n\"I hear Jem Wilson is taken up for it.\"\n\nMary covered her eyes with her hands, as if to shade them from the\nlight, and Esther herself, less accustomed to self-command, was\ngetting too much agitated for calm observation of another.\n\n\"I was taking a walk near Turner Street, and I went to see the spot,\"\ncontinued Esther, \"and, as luck would have it, I spied this bit of\npaper in the hedge,\" producing the precious piece still folded in her\nhand. \"It has been used as wadding for the gun, I reckon; indeed,\nthat's clear enough, from the shape it's crammed into. I was sorry\nfor the murderer, whoever he might be (I didn't then know of Jem's\nbeing suspected), and I thought I would never leave a thing about\nas might help, if ever so little, to convict him; the police are so\n'cute about straws. So I carried it a little way, and then I opened\nit and saw your name, Mary.\"\n\nMary took her hands away from her eyes, and looked with surprise at\nher aunt's face, as she uttered these words. She _was_ kind after\nall, for was she not saving her from being summoned, and from being\nquestioned and examined; a thing to be dreaded above all others: as\nshe felt sure that her unwilling answers, frame them how she might,\nwould add to the suspicions against Jem; her aunt was indeed kind, to\nthink of what would spare her this.\n\nEsther went on, without noticing Mary's look. The very action of\nspeaking was so painful to her, and so much interrupted by the hard,\nraking little cough, which had been her constant annoyance for\nmonths, that she was too much engrossed by the physical difficulty of\nutterance, to be a very close observer.\n\n\"There could be no mistake if they had found it. Look at your name,\ntogether with the very name of this court! And in Jem's hand-writing\ntoo, or I'm much mistaken. Look, Mary!\"\n\nAnd now she did watch her.\n\nMary took the paper and flattened it; then suddenly stood stiff up,\nwith irrepressible movement, as if petrified by some horror abruptly\ndisclosed; her face, strung and rigid; her lips compressed tight,\nto keep down some rising exclamation. She dropped on her seat, as\nsuddenly as if the braced muscles had in an instant given way. But\nshe spoke no word.\n\n\"It is his hand-writing--isn't it?\" asked Esther, though Mary's\nmanner was almost confirmation enough.\n\n\"You will not tell. You never will tell,\" demanded Mary, in a tone so\nsternly earnest, as almost to be threatening.\n\n\"Nay, Mary,\" said Esther, rather reproachfully, \"I am not so bad as\nthat. Oh! Mary, you cannot think I would do that, whatever I may be.\"\n\nThe tears sprang to her eyes at the idea that she was suspected of\nbeing one who would help to inform against an old friend.\n\nMary caught her sad and upbraiding look.\n\n\"No! I know you would not tell, aunt. I don't know what I say, I am\nso shocked. But say you will not tell. Do.\"\n\n\"No, indeed I will not tell, come what may.\"\n\nMary sat still, looking at the writing, and turning the paper round\nwith careful examination, trying to hope, but her very fears belying\nher hopes.\n\n\"I thought you cared for the young man that's murdered,\" observed\nEsther, half aloud; but feeling that she could not mistake this\nstrange interest in the suspected murderer, implied by Mary's\neagerness to screen him from any thing which might strengthen\nsuspicion against him. She had come, desirous to know the extent of\nMary's grief for Mr. Carson, and glad of the excuse afforded her\nby the important scrap of paper. Her remark about its being Jem's\nhand-writing, she had, with this view of ascertaining Mary's state of\nfeeling, felt to be most imprudent the instant after she uttered it;\nbut Mary's anxiety that she should not tell was too great, and too\ndecided, to leave a doubt as to her interest for Jem. She grew more\nand more bewildered, and her dizzy head refused to reason. Mary\nnever spoke. She held the bit of paper firmly, determined to retain\npossession of it, come what might; and anxious, and impatient, for\nher aunt to go. As she sat, her face bore a likeness to Esther's dead\nchild.\n\n\"You are so like my little girl, Mary!\" said Esther, weary of the one\nsubject on which she could get no satisfaction, and recurring, with\nfull heart, to the thought of the dead.\n\nMary looked up. Her aunt had children, then. That was all the idea\nshe received. No faint imagination of the love and the woe of that\npoor creature crossed her mind, or she would have taken her, all\nguilty and erring, to her bosom, and tried to bind up the broken\nheart. No! it was not to be. Her aunt had children, then; and she was\non the point of putting some question about them, but before it could\nbe spoken another thought turned it aside, and she went back to her\ntask of unravelling the mystery of the paper, and the hand-writing.\nOh! how she wished her aunt would go.\n\nAs if, according to the believers in mesmerism, the intenseness\nof her wish gave her power over another, although the wish was\nunexpressed, Esther felt herself unwelcome, and that her absence was\ndesired.\n\nShe felt this some time before she could summon up resolution to go.\nShe was so much disappointed in this longed-for, dreaded interview\nwith Mary; she had wished to impose upon her with her tale of married\nrespectability, and yet she had yearned and craved for sympathy in\nher real lot. And she had imposed upon her well. She should perhaps\nbe glad of it afterwards; but her desolation of hope seemed for the\ntime redoubled. And she must leave the old dwelling-place, whose very\nwalls, and flags, dingy and sordid as they were, had a charm for her.\nMust leave the abode of poverty, for the more terrible abodes of\nvice. She must--she would go.\n\n\"Well, good-night, Mary. That bit of paper is safe enough with you, I\nsee. But you made me promise I would not tell about it, and you must\npromise me to destroy it before you sleep.\"\n\n\"I promise,\" said Mary, hoarsely, but firmly. \"Then you are going?\"\n\n\"Yes. Not if you wish me to stay. Not if I could be of any comfort to\nyou, Mary;\" catching at some glimmering hope.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Mary, anxious to be alone. \"Your husband will be\nwondering where you are. Some day you must tell me all about\nyourself. I forget what your name is?\"\n\n\"Fergusson,\" said Esther, sadly.\n\n\"Mrs. Fergusson,\" repeated Mary, half unconsciously. \"And where did\nyou say you lived?\"\n\n\"I never did say,\" muttered Esther; then aloud, \"In Angel's Meadow,\n145, Nicholas Street.\"\n\n\"145, Nicholas Street, Angel Meadow. I shall remember.\"\n\nAs Esther drew her shawl around her, and prepared to depart, a\nthought crossed Mary's mind that she had been cold and hard in her\nmanner towards one, who had certainly meant to act kindly in bringing\nher the paper (that dread, terrible piece of paper) and thus saving\nher from--she could not rightly think how much, or how little she\nwas spared. So, desirous of making up for her previous indifferent\nmanner, she advanced to kiss her aunt before her departure.\n\nBut, to her surprise, her aunt pushed her off with a frantic kind of\ngesture, and saying the words,\n\n\"Not me. You must never kiss me. You!\"\n\nShe rushed into the outer darkness of the street, and there wept long\nand bitterly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\nMARY'S EFFORTS TO PROVE AN ALIBI.\n\n\n   \"There was a listening fear in her regard,\n   As if calamity had but begun;\n   As if the vanward clouds of evil days\n   Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear\n   Was, with its stored thunder, labouring up.\"\n\n   KEATS' \"HYPERION.\"\n\n\nNo sooner was Mary alone than she fastened the door, and put the\nshutters up against the window, which had all this time remained\nshaded only by the curtains hastily drawn together on Esther's\nentrance, and the lighting of the candle.\n\nShe did all this with the same compressed lips, and the same stony\nlook that her face had assumed on the first examination of the paper.\nThen she sat down for an instant to think; and rising directly, went,\nwith a step rendered firm by inward resolution of purpose, up the\nstairs;--passed her own door, two steps, into her father's room. What\ndid she want there?\n\nI must tell you; I must put into words the dreadful secret which she\nbelieved that bit of paper had revealed to her.\n\nHer father was the murderer!\n\nThat corner of stiff, shining, thick writing-paper, she recognised as\npart of the sheet on which she had copied Samuel Bamford's beautiful\nlines so many months ago--copied (as you perhaps remember) on the\nblank part of a valentine sent to her by Jem Wilson, in those days\nwhen she did not treasure and hoard up every thing he had touched, as\nshe would do now.\n\nThat copy had been given to her father, for whom it was made, and\nshe had occasionally seen him reading it over, not a fortnight\nago she was sure. But she resolved to ascertain if the other part\nstill remained in his possession. He might, it was just possible he\n_might_, have given it away to some friend; and if so, that person\nwas the guilty one, for she could swear to the paper anywhere.\n\nFirst of all she pulled out every article from the little old chest\nof drawers. Amongst them were some things which had belonged to her\nmother, but she had no time now to examine and try and remember them.\nAll the reverence she could pay them was to carry them and lay them\non the bed carefully, while the other things were tossed impatiently\nout upon the floor.\n\nThe copy of Bamford's lines was not there. Oh! perhaps he might have\ngiven it away; but then must it not have been to Jem? It was his gun.\n\nAnd she set to with redoubled vigour to examine the deal-box which\nserved as chair, and which had once contained her father's Sunday\nclothes, in the days when he could afford to have Sunday clothes.\n\nHe had redeemed his better coat from the pawn-shop before he left,\nthat she had noticed. Here was his old one. What rustled under her\nhand in the pocket?\n\nThe paper! \"Oh! Father!\"\n\nYes, it fitted; jagged end to jagged end, letter to letter; and even\nthe part which Esther had considered blank had its tallying mark with\nthe larger piece, its tails of _y_s and _g_s. And then, as if that\nwere not damning evidence enough, she felt again, and found some\nbullets or shot (I don't know which you would call them) in that\nsame pocket, along with a small paper parcel of gunpowder. As she\nwas going to replace the jacket, having abstracted the paper, and\nbullets, &c., she saw a woollen gun-case made of that sort of striped\nhorse-cloth you must have seen a thousand times appropriated to such\na purpose. The sight of it made her examine still further, but there\nwas nothing else that could afford any evidence, so she locked the\nbox, and sat down on the floor to contemplate the articles; now with\na sickening despair, now with a kind of wondering curiosity, how\nher father had managed to evade observation. After all it was easy\nenough. He had evidently got possession of some gun (was it really\nJem's; was he an accomplice? No! she did not believe it; he never,\nnever would deliberately plan a murder with another, however he might\nbe wrought up to it by passionate feeling at the time. Least of all\nwould he accuse her to her father, without previously warning her; it\nwas out of his nature).\n\nThen having obtained possession of the gun, her father had loaded it\nat home, and might have carried it away with him some time when the\nneighbours were not noticing, and she was out, or asleep; and then he\nmight have hidden it somewhere to be in readiness when he should want\nit. She was sure he had no such thing with him when he went away the\nlast time.\n\nShe felt it was of no use to conjecture his motives. His actions\nhad become so wild and irregular of late, that she could not reason\nupon them. Besides, was it not enough to know that he was guilty of\nthis terrible offence? Her love for her father seemed to return with\npainful force, mixed up as it was with horror at his crime. That\ndear father, who was once so kind, so warm-hearted, so ready to help\neither man or beast in distress, to murder! But, in the desert of\nmisery with which these thoughts surrounded her, the arid depths of\nwhose gloom she dared not venture to contemplate, a little spring of\ncomfort was gushing up at her feet, unnoticed at first, but soon to\ngive her strength and hope.\n\nAnd _that_ was the necessity for exertion on her part which this\ndiscovery enforced.\n\nOh! I do think that the necessity for exertion, for some kind of\naction (bodily or mental) in time of distress, is a most infinite\nblessing, although the first efforts at such seasons are painful.\nSomething to be done implies that there is yet hope of some good\nthing to be accomplished, or some additional evil that may be\navoided; and by degrees the hope absorbs much of the sorrow.\n\nIt is the woes that cannot in any earthly way be escaped that admit\nleast earthly comforting. Of all trite, worn-out, hollow mockeries\nof comfort that were ever uttered by people who will not take the\ntrouble of sympathising with others, the one I dislike the most\nis the exhortation not to grieve over an event, \"for it cannot be\nhelped.\" Do you think if I could help it, I would sit still with\nfolded hands, content to mourn? Do you not believe that as long as\nhope remained I would be up and doing? I mourn because what has\noccurred cannot be helped. The reason you give me for not grieving,\nis the very and sole reason of my grief. Give me nobler and higher\nreasons for enduring meekly what my Father sees fit to send, and I\nwill try earnestly and faithfully to be patient; but mock me not, or\nany other mourner, with the speech, \"Do not grieve, for it cannot be\nhelped. It is past remedy.\"\n\nBut some remedy to Mary's sorrow came with thinking. If her father\nwas guilty, Jem was innocent. If innocent, there was a possibility of\nsaving him. He must be saved. And she must do it; for was not she the\nsole depository of the terrible secret? Her father was not suspected;\nand never should be, if by any foresight or any exertions of her own\nshe could prevent it.\n\nShe did not yet know how Jem was to be saved, while her father\nwas also to be considered innocent. It would require much thought\nand much prudence. But with the call upon her exertions, and her\nvarious qualities of judgment and discretion, came the answering\nconsciousness of innate power to meet the emergency. Every step now,\nnay, the employment of every minute, was of consequence; for you\nmust remember she had learnt at Miss Simmonds' the probability that\nthe murderer would be brought to trial the next week. And you must\nremember, too, that never was so young a girl so friendless, or so\npenniless, as Mary was at this time. But the lion accompanied Una\nthrough the wilderness and the danger; and so will a high, resolved\npurpose of right-doing ever guard and accompany the helpless.\n\nIt struck two; deep, mirk, night.\n\nIt was of no use bewildering herself with plans this weary, endless\nnight. Nothing could be done before morning: and, at first in her\nimpatience, she began to long for day; but then she felt in how unfit\na state her body was for any plan of exertion, and she resolutely\nmade up her mind to husband her physical strength.\n\nFirst of all she must burn the tell-tale paper. The powder, bullets,\nand gun-case, she tied into a bundle, and hid in the sacking of\nthe bed for the present, although there was no likelihood of their\naffording evidence against any one. Then she carried the paper down\nstairs, and burnt it on the hearth, powdering the very ashes with her\nfingers, and dispersing the fragments of fluttering black films among\nthe cinders of the grate. Then she breathed again.\n\nHer head ached with dizzying violence; she must get quit of the pain\nor it would incapacitate her for thinking and planning. She looked\nfor food, but there was nothing but a little raw oatmeal in the\nhouse: still, although it almost choked her, she ate some of this,\nknowing from experience, how often headaches were caused by long\nfasting. Then she sought for some water to bathe her throbbing\ntemples, and quench her feverish thirst. There was none in the house,\nso she took the jug and went out to the pump at the other end of\nthe court, whose echoes resounded her light footsteps in the quiet\nstillness of the night. The hard, square outlines of the houses cut\nsharply against the cold bright sky, from which myriads of stars\nwere shining down in eternal repose. There was little sympathy in\nthe outward scene, with the internal trouble. All was so still, so\nmotionless, so hard! Very different to this lovely night in the\ncountry in which I am now writing, where the distant horizon is soft\nand undulating in the moonlight, and the nearer trees sway gently to\nand fro in the night-wind with something of almost human motion; and\nthe rustling air makes music among their branches, as if speaking\nsoothingly to the weary ones who lie awake in heaviness of heart. The\nsights and sounds of such a night lull pain and grief to rest.\n\nBut Mary re-entered her home after she had filled her pitcher, with\na still stronger sense of anxiety, and a still clearer conviction of\nhow much rested upon her unassisted and friendless self, alone with\nher terrible knowledge, in the hard, cold, populous world.\n\nShe bathed her forehead, and quenched her thirst, and then, with wise\ndeliberation of purpose, went upstairs, and undressed herself, as if\nfor a long night's slumber, although so few hours intervened before\nday-dawn. She believed she never could sleep, but she lay down, and\nshut her eyes; and before many minutes she was in as deep and sound a\nslumber as if there was no sin nor sorrow in the world.\n\nShe awakened, as it was natural, much refreshed in body; but with a\nconsciousness of some great impending calamity. She sat up in bed\nto recollect, and when she did remember, she sank down again with\nall the helplessness of despair. But it was only the weakness of an\ninstant; for were not the very minutes precious, for deliberation if\nnot for action?\n\nBefore she had finished the necessary morning business of dressing,\nand setting her house in some kind of order, she had disentangled her\nravelled ideas, and arranged some kind of a plan for action. If Jem\nwas innocent (and now, of his guilt, even his slightest participation\nin, or knowledge of, the murder, she acquitted him with all her\nheart and soul), he must have been somewhere else when the crime was\ncommitted; probably with some others, who might bear witness to the\nfact, if she only knew where to find them. Every thing rested on her.\nShe had heard of an alibi, and believed it might mean the deliverance\nshe wished to accomplish; but she was not quite sure, and determined\nto apply to Job, as one of the few among her acquaintance gifted with\nthe knowledge of hard words, for to her, all terms of law, or natural\nhistory, were alike many-syllabled mysteries.\n\nNo time was to be lost. She went straight to Job Legh's house, and\nfound the old man and his grand-daughter sitting at breakfast; as she\nopened the door she heard their voices speaking in a grave, hushed,\nsubdued tone, as if something grieved their hearts. They stopped\ntalking on her entrance, and then she knew they had been conversing\nabout the murder; about Jem's probable guilt; and (it flashed upon\nher for the first time) on the new light they would have obtained\nregarding herself: for until now they had never heard of her giddy\nflirting with Mr. Carson; not in all her confidential talk with\nMargaret had she ever spoken of him. And now Margaret would hear her\nconduct talked of by all, as that of a bold, bad girl; and even if\nshe did not believe every thing that was said, she could hardly help\nfeeling wounded, and disappointed in Mary.\n\nSo it was in a timid voice that Mary wished her usual good-morrow,\nand her heart sank within her a little, when Job, with a form of\ncivility, bade her welcome in that dwelling, where, until now, she\nhad been too well assured to require to be asked to sit down.\n\nShe took a chair. Margaret continued silent.\n\n\"I'm come to speak to you about this--about Jem Wilson.\"\n\n\"It's a bad business, I'm afeared,\" replied Job, sadly.\n\n\"Ay, it's bad enough anyhow. But Jem's innocent. Indeed he is; I'm as\nsure as sure can be.\"\n\n\"How can you know, wench? Facts bear strong again him, poor fellow,\nthough he'd a deal to put him up, and aggravate him, they say. Ay,\npoor lad, he's done for himself, I'm afeared.\"\n\n\"Job!\" said Mary, rising from her chair in her eagerness, \"you must\nnot say he did it. He didn't; I'm sure and certain he didn't. Oh! why\ndo you shake your head? Who is to believe me,--who is to think him\ninnocent, if you, who know'd him so well, stick to it he's guilty?\"\n\n\"I'm loth enough to do it, lass,\" replied Job; \"but I think he's\nbeen ill used, and--jilted (that's plain truth, Mary, hard as it may\nseem), and his blood has been up--many a man has done the like afore,\nfrom like causes.\"\n\n\"Oh, God! Then you won't help me, Job, to prove him innocent? Oh!\nJob, Job; believe me, Jem never did harm to no one.\"\n\n\"Not afore;--and mind, wench! I don't over-blame him for this.\" Job\nrelapsed into silence.\n\nMary thought a moment.\n\n\"Well, Job, you'll not refuse me this, I know. I won't mind what you\nthink, if you'll help me as if he was innocent. Now suppose I know--I\nknew he was innocent,--it's only supposing, Job,--what must I do to\nprove it? Tell me, Job! Isn't it called an _alibi_, the getting folk\nto swear to where he really was at the time?\"\n\n\"Best way, if you know'd him innocent, would be to find out the real\nmurderer. Some one did it, that's clear enough. If it wasn't Jem, who\nwas it?\"\n\n\"How can I tell?\" answered Mary, in an agony of terror, lest Job's\nquestion was prompted by any suspicion of the truth.\n\nBut he was far enough from any such thought. Indeed, he had no doubt\nin his own mind that Jem had, in some passionate moment, urged on by\nslighted love and jealousy, been the murderer. And he was strongly\ninclined to believe, that Mary was aware of this, only that, too\nlate repentant of her light conduct which had led to such fatal\nconsequences, she was now most anxious to save her old play-fellow,\nher early friend, from the doom awaiting the shedder of blood.\n\n\"If Jem's not done it, I don't see as any on us can tell who did. We\nmight find out something if we'd time; but they say he's to be tried\non Tuesday. It's no use hiding it, Mary; things looks strong against\nhim.\"\n\n\"I know they do! I know they do! But, oh! Job! isn't an _alibi_ a\nproving where he really was at th' time of the murder; and how must\nI set about an _alibi_?\"\n\n\"An _alibi_ is that, sure enough.\" He thought a little. \"You mun ask\nhis mother his doings, and his whereabouts that night; the knowledge\nof that will guide you a bit.\"\n\nFor he was anxious that on another should fall the task of\nenlightening Mary on the hopelessness of the case, and he felt that\nher own sense would be more convinced by inquiry and examination than\nany mere assertion of his.\n\nMargaret had sat silent and grave all this time. To tell the truth,\nshe was surprised and disappointed by the disclosure of Mary's\nconduct, with regard to Mr. Henry Carson. Gentle, reserved, and\nprudent herself, never exposed to the trial of being admired for her\npersonal appearance, and unsusceptible enough to be in doubt even\nyet, whether the fluttering, tender, infinitely-joyous feeling she\nwas for the first time experiencing, at sight, or sound, or thought\nof Will Wilson, was love or not,--Margaret had no sympathy with the\ntemptations to which loveliness, vanity, ambition, or the desire of\nbeing admired, exposes so many; no sympathy with flirting girls, in\nshort. Then, she had no idea of the strength of the conflict between\nwill and principle in some who were differently constituted from\nherself. With her, to be convinced that an action was wrong, was\ntantamount to a determination not to do so again; and she had little\nor no difficulty in carrying out her determination. So she could not\nunderstand how it was that Mary had acted wrongly, and had felt too\nmuch ashamed, in spite of all internal sophistry, to speak of her\nactions. Margaret considered herself deceived; felt aggrieved; and,\nat the time of which I am now telling you, was strongly inclined to\ngive Mary up altogether, as a girl devoid of the modest proprieties\nof her sex, and capable of gross duplicity, in speaking of one\nlover as she had done of Jem, while she was encouraging another in\nattentions, at best of a very doubtful character.\n\nBut now Margaret was drawn into the conversation. Suddenly it flashed\nacross Mary's mind, that the night of the murder was the very night,\nor rather the same early morning, that Margaret had been with Alice.\nShe turned sharp round, with--\n\n\"Oh! Margaret, you can tell me; you were there when he came back that\nnight; were you not? No! you were not; but you were there not many\nhours after. Did not you hear where he'd been? He was away the night\nbefore, too, when Alice was first taken; when you were there for your\ntea. Oh! where was he, Margaret?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" she answered. \"Stay! I do remember something about\nhis keeping Will company, in his walk to Liverpool. I can't justly\nsay what it was, so much happened that night.\"\n\n\"I'll go to his mother's,\" said Mary, resolutely.\n\nThey neither of them spoke, either to advise or dissuade. Mary felt\nshe had no sympathy from them, and braced up her soul to act without\nsuch loving aid of friendship. She knew that their advice would be\nwillingly given at her demand, and that was all she really required\nfor Jem's sake. Still her courage failed a little as she walked to\nJane Wilson's, alone in the world with her secret.\n\nJane Wilson's eyes were swelled with crying; and it was sad to\nsee the ravages which intense anxiety and sorrow had made on her\nappearance in four-and-twenty hours. All night long she and Mrs.\nDavenport had crooned over their sorrows, always recurring, like the\nburden of an old song, to the dreadest sorrow of all, which was now\nimpending over Mrs. Wilson. She had grown--I hardly know what word to\nuse--but, something like proud of her martyrdom; she had grown to hug\nher grief; to feel an excitement in her agony of anxiety about her\nboy.\n\n\"So, Mary, you're here! Oh! Mary, lass! He's to be tried on Tuesday.\"\n\nShe fell to sobbing, in the convulsive breath-catching manner which\ntells so of much previous weeping.\n\n\"Oh! Mrs. Wilson, don't take on so! We'll get him off, you'll see.\nDon't fret; they can't prove him guilty!\"\n\n\"But I tell thee they will,\" interrupted Mrs. Wilson, half-irritated\nat the light way, as she considered it, in which Mary spoke; and a\nlittle displeased that another could hope when she had almost brought\nherself to find pleasure in despair.\n\n\"It may suit thee well,\" continued she, \"to make light o' the misery\nthou hast caused; but I shall lay his death at thy door, as long as\nI live, and die I know he will; and all for what he never did--no, he\nnever did; my own blessed boy!\"\n\nShe was too weak to be angry long; her wrath sank away to feeble\nsobbing and worn-out moans.\n\nMary was most anxious to soothe her from any violence of either grief\nor anger; she did so want her to be clear in her recollection; and,\nbesides, her tenderness was great towards Jem's mother. So she spoke\nin a low gentle tone the loving sentences, which sound so broken\nand powerless in repetition, and which yet have so much power when\naccompanied with caressing looks and actions, fresh from the heart;\nand the old woman insensibly gave herself up to the influence of\nthose sweet, loving blue eyes, those tears of sympathy, those words\nof love and hope, and was lulled into a less morbid state of mind.\n\n\"And now, dear Mrs. Wilson, can you remember where he said he was\ngoing on Thursday night? He was out when Alice was taken ill; and he\ndid not come home till early in the morning, or, to speak true, in\nthe night: did he?\"\n\n\"Ay! he went out near upon five; he went out with Will; he said he\nwere going to set [45] him a part of the way, for Will were hot upon\nwalking to Liverpool, and wouldn't hearken to Jem's offer of lending\nhim five shilling for his fare. So the two lads set off together. I\nmind it all now; but, thou seest, Alice's illness, and this business\nof poor Jem's, drove it out of my head; they went off together, to\nwalk to Liverpool; that's to say, Jem were to go a part o' th' way.\nBut, who knows\" (falling back into the old desponding tone) \"if he\nreally went? He might be led off on the road. Oh! Mary, wench!\nthey'll hang him for what he's never done.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 45: \"To set,\" to accompany.]\n\n\n\"No, they won't--they shan't! I see my way a bit now. We mun get Will\nto help; there'll be time. He can swear that Jem were with him. Where\nis Jem?\"\n\n\"Folk said he were taken to Kirkdale, i' th' prison-van, this\nmorning; without my seeing him, poor chap! Oh! wench! but they've\nhurried on the business at a cruel rate.\"\n\n\"Ay! they've not let grass grow under their feet, in hunting out the\nman that did it,\" said Mary, sorrowfully and bitterly. \"But keep up\nyour heart. They got on the wrong scent when they took to suspecting\nJem. Don't be afeard. You'll see it will end right for Jem.\"\n\n\"I should mind it less if I could do aught,\" said Jane Wilson; \"but\nI'm such a poor weak old body, and my head's so gone, and I'm so\ndazed-like, what with Alice and all, that I think and think, and can\ndo nought to help my child. I might ha' gone and seen him last night,\nthey tell me now, and then I missed it. Oh! Mary, I missed it; and I\nmay never see the lad again.\"\n\nShe looked so piteously in Mary's face with her miserable eyes, that\nMary felt her heart giving way, and, dreading the weakening of her\npowers, which the burst of crying she longed for would occasion,\nhastily changed the subject to Alice; and Jane, in her heart, feeling\nthat there was no sorrow like a mother's sorrow, replied,\n\n\"She keeps on much the same, thank you. She's happy, for she knows\nnought of what's going on; but th' doctor says she grows weaker and\nweaker. Thou'lt may be like to see her?\"\n\nMary went up-stairs: partly because it is the etiquette in humble\nlife to offer to friends a last opportunity of seeing the dying\nor the dead, while the same etiquette forbids a refusal of the\ninvitation; and partly because she longed to breathe, for an instant,\nthe atmosphere of holy calm, which seemed ever to surround the pious\ngood old woman. Alice lay, as before, without pain, or at least any\noutward expression of it; but totally unconscious of all present\ncircumstances, and absorbed in recollections of the days of her\ngirlhood, which were vivid enough to take the place of realities to\nher. Still she talked of green fields, and still she spoke to the\nlong-dead mother and sister, low-lying in their graves this many a\nyear, as if they were with her and about her, in the pleasant places\nwhere her youth had passed.\n\nBut the voice was fainter, the motions were more languid; she was\nevidently passing away; but _how_ happily!\n\nMary stood for a time in silence, watching and listening. Then she\nbent down and reverently kissed Alice's cheek; and drawing Jane\nWilson away from the bed, as if the spirit of her who lay there were\nyet cognisant of present realities, she whispered a few words of hope\nto the poor mother, and kissing her over and over again in a warm,\nloving manner, she bade her good-bye, went a few steps, and then once\nmore came back to bid her keep up her heart.\n\nAnd when she had fairly left the house, Jane Wilson felt as if a\nsun-beam had ceased shining into the room.\n\nYet oh! how sorely Mary's heart ached; for more and more the fell\ncertainty came on her that her father was the murderer! She struggled\nhard not to dwell on this conviction; to think alone on the means of\nproving Jem's innocence; that was her first duty, and that should be\ndone.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\nTHE SUB-POENA.\n\n\n   \"And must it then depend on this poor eye\n   And this unsteady hand, whether the bark,\n   That bears my all of treasured hope and love,\n   Shall find a passage through these frowning rocks\n   To some fair port where peace and safety smile,--\n   Or whether it shall blindly dash against them,\n   And miserably sink? Heaven be my help;\n   And clear my eye, and nerve my trembling hand!\"\n\n   \"THE CONSTANT WOMAN.\"\n\n\nHer heart beating, her head full of ideas, which required time and\nsolitude to be reduced into order, Mary hurried home. She was like\none who finds a jewel of which he cannot all at once ascertain the\nvalue, but who hides his treasure until some quiet hour when he may\nponder over the capabilities its possession unfolds. She was like one\nwho discovers the silken clue which guides to some bower of bliss,\nand secure of the power within his grasp, has to wait for a time\nbefore he may tread the labyrinth.\n\nBut no jewel, no bower of bliss was ever so precious to miser or\nlover as was the belief which now pervaded Mary's mind, that Jem's\ninnocence might be proved, without involving any suspicion of that\nother--that dear one, so dear, although so criminal--on whose part in\nthis cruel business she dared not dwell even in thought. For if she\ndid, there arose the awful question,--if all went against Jem the\ninnocent, if judge and jury gave the verdict forth which had the\nlooming gallows in the rear, what ought she to do, possessed of her\nterrible knowledge? Surely not to inculpate her father--and yet--and\nyet--she almost prayed for the blessed unconsciousness of death or\nmadness, rather than that awful question should have to be answered\nby her.\n\nBut now a way seemed opening, opening yet more clear. She was\nthankful she had thought of the _alibi_, and yet more thankful to\nhave so easily obtained the clue to Jem's whereabouts that miserable\nnight. The bright light that her new hope threw over all seemed also\nto make her thankful for the early time appointed for the trial. It\nwould be easy to catch Will Wilson on his return from the Isle of\nMan, which he had planned should be on the Monday; and on the Tuesday\nall would be made clear--all that she dared to wish to be made clear.\n\nShe had still to collect her thoughts and freshen her memory enough\nto arrange how to meet with Will--for to the chances of a letter she\nwould not trust; to find out his lodgings when in Liverpool; to try\nand remember the name of the ship in which he was to sail: and the\nmore she considered these points the more difficulty she found there\nwould be in ascertaining these minor but important facts. For you are\naware that Alice, whose memory was clear and strong on all points in\nwhich her heart was interested, was lying in a manner senseless: that\nJane Wilson was (to use her own word, so expressive to a Lancashire\near) \"dazed,\" that is to say, bewildered, lost in the confusion of\nterrifying and distressing thoughts; incapable of concentrating her\nmind; and at the best of times Will's proceedings were a matter of\nlittle importance to her (or so she pretended), she was so jealous of\naught which distracted attention from her pearl of price, her only\nson Jem. So Mary felt hopeless of obtaining any intelligence of the\nsailor's arrangements from her.\n\nThen, should she apply to Jem himself? No! she knew him too well.\nShe felt how thoroughly he must ere now have had it in his power to\nexculpate himself at another's expense. And his tacit refusal so to\ndo had assured her of what she had never doubted, that the murderer\nwas safe from any impeachment of his. But then neither would he\nconsent, she feared, to any steps which might tend to prove himself\ninnocent. At any rate, she could not consult him. He was removed to\nKirkdale, and time pressed. Already it was Saturday at noon. And even\nif she could have gone to him, I believe she would not. She longed to\ndo all herself; to be his liberator, his deliverer; to win him life,\nthough she might never regain his lost love, by her own exertions.\nAnd oh! how could she see him to discuss a subject in which both\nknew who was the blood-stained man; and yet whose name might not be\nbreathed by either, so dearly with all his faults, his sins, was he\nloved by both.\n\nAll at once, when she had ceased to try and remember, the name of\nWill's ship flashed across her mind.\n\nThe _John Cropper_.\n\nHe had named it, she had been sure, all along. He had named it in his\nconversation with her that last, that fatal Thursday evening. She\nrepeated it over and over again, through a nervous dread of again\nforgetting it. The _John Cropper_.\n\nAnd then, as if she were rousing herself out of some strange stupor,\nshe bethought her of Margaret. Who so likely as Margaret to treasure\nevery little particular respecting Will, now Alice was dead to all\nthe stirring purposes of life?\n\nShe had gone thus far in her process of thought, when a neighbour\nstepped in; she with whom they had usually deposited the house-key,\nwhen both Mary and her father were absent from home, and who\nconsequently took upon herself to answer all inquiries, and receive\nall messages which any friends might make, or leave, on finding the\nhouse shut up.\n\n\"Here's somewhat for you, Mary! A policeman left it.\"\n\nA bit of parchment.\n\nMany people have a dread of those mysterious pieces of parchment.\nI am one. Mary was another. Her heart misgave her as she took it,\nand looked at the unusual appearance of the writing, which, though\nlegible enough, conveyed no idea to her, or rather her mind shut\nitself up against receiving any idea, which after all was rather a\nproof she had some suspicion of the meaning that awaited her.\n\n\"What is it?\" asked she, in a voice from which all the pith and\nmarrow of strength seemed extracted.\n\n\"Nay! how should I know? Policeman said he'd call again towards\nevening, and see if you'd getten it. He were loth to leave it, though\nI telled him who I was, and all about my keeping th' key, and taking\nmessages.\"\n\n\"What is it about?\" asked Mary again, in the same hoarse, feeble\nvoice, and turning it over in her fingers, as if she dreaded to\ninform herself of its meaning.\n\n\"Well! yo can read word of writing and I cannot, so it's queer I\nshould have to tell you. But my master says it's a summons for yo to\nbear witness again Jem Wilson, at th' trial at Liverpool Assize.\"\n\n\"God pity me!\" said Mary, faintly, as white as a sheet.\n\n\"Nay, wench, never take on so. What yo can say will go little way\neither to help or to hinder, for folk say he's certain to be hung;\nand sure enough it was t'other one as was your sweetheart.\"\n\nBut Mary was beyond any pang this speech would have given at another\ntime. Her thoughts were all busy picturing to herself the terrible\noccasion of their next meeting--not as lovers meet should they meet!\n\n\"Well!\" said the neighbour, seeing no use in remaining with one who\nnoticed her words or her presence so little; \"thou'lt tell policeman\nthou'st getten his precious bit of paper. He seemed to think I should\nbe keeping it for mysel; he's th' first as has ever misdoubted me\nabout giving messages, or notes. Good day.\"\n\nShe left the house, but Mary did not know it. She sat still with the\nparchment in her hand.\n\nAll at once she started up. She would take it to Job Legh and ask him\nto tell her the true meaning, for it could not be _that_.\n\nSo she went, and choked out her words of inquiry.\n\n\"It's a sub-poena,\" he replied, turning the parchment over with the\nair of a connoisseur; for Job loved hard words, and lawyer-like\nforms, and even esteemed himself slightly qualified for a lawyer,\nfrom the smattering of knowledge he had picked up from an odd volume\nof Blackstone that he had once purchased at a book-stall.\n\n\"A sub-poena--what is that?\" gasped Mary, still in suspense.\n\nJob was struck with her voice, her changed, miserable voice, and\npeered at her countenance from over his spectacles.\n\n\"A sub-poena is neither more nor less than this, my dear. It's a\nsummonsing you to attend, and answer such questions as may be asked\nof you regarding the trial of James Wilson, for the murder of Henry\nCarson; that's the long and short of it, only more elegantly put, for\nthe benefit of them who knows how to value the gift of language. I've\nbeen a witness before-time myself; there's nothing much to be afeared\non; if they are impudent, why, just you be impudent, and give 'em tit\nfor tat.\"\n\n\"Nothing much to be afeared on!\" echoed Mary, but in such a different\ntone.\n\n\"Ay, poor wench, I see how it is. It'll go hard with thee a bit, I\ndare say; but keep up thy heart. Yo cannot have much to tell 'em,\nthat can go either one way or th' other. Nay! may be thou may do\nhim a bit o' good, for when they set eyes on thee, they'll see fast\nenough how he came to be so led away by jealousy; for thou'rt a\npretty creature, Mary, and one look at thy face will let 'em into th'\nsecret of a young man's madness, and make 'em more ready to pass it\nover.\"\n\n\"Oh! Job, and won't you ever believe me when I tell you he's\ninnocent? Indeed, and indeed I can prove it; he was with Will all\nthat night; he was, indeed, Job!\"\n\n\"My wench! whose word hast thou for that?\" said Job, pityingly.\n\n\"Why! his mother told me, and I'll get Will to bear witness to it.\nBut, oh! Job\" (bursting into tears), \"it is hard if you won't believe\nme. How shall I clear him to strangers, when those who know him, and\nought to love him, are so set against his being innocent?\"\n\n\"God knows, I'm not against his being innocent,\" said Job, solemnly.\n\"I'd give half my remaining days on earth,--I'd give them all, Mary\n(and but for the love I bear to my poor blind girl, they'd be no\ngreat gift), if I could save him. You've thought me hard, Mary, but\nI'm not hard at bottom, and I'll help you if I can; that I will,\nright or wrong,\" he added; but in a low voice, and coughed the\nuncertain words away the moment afterwards.\n\n\"Oh, Job! if you will help me,\" exclaimed Mary, brightening up\n(though it was but a wintry gleam after all), \"tell me what to say,\nwhen they question me; I shall be so gloppened, [46] I shan't know\nwhat to answer.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 46: \"Gloppened,\" terrified.]\n\n\n\"Thou canst do nought better than tell the truth. Truth's best at\nall times, they say; and for sure it is when folk have to do with\nlawyers; for they're 'cute and cunning enough to get it out sooner or\nlater, and it makes folk look like Tom Noddies, when truth follows\nfalsehood, against their will.\"\n\n\"But I don't know the truth; I mean--I can't say rightly what I mean;\nbut I'm sure, if I were pent up, and stared at by hundreds of folk,\nand asked ever so simple a question, I should be for answering\nit wrong; if they asked me if I had seen you on a Saturday, or a\nTuesday, or any day, I should have clean forgotten all about it, and\nsay the very thing I should not.\"\n\n\"Well, well, don't go for to get such notions into your head; they're\nwhat they call 'narvous,' and talking on 'em does no good. Here's\nMargaret! bless the wench! Look, Mary, how well she guides hersel.\"\n\nJob fell to watching his grand-daughter, as with balancing, measured\nsteps, timed almost as if to music, she made her way across the\nstreet.\n\nMary shrank as if from a cold blast--shrank from Margaret! The blind\ngirl, with her reserve, her silence, seemed to be a severe judge;\nshe, listening, would be such a check to the trusting earnestness of\nconfidence, which was beginning to unlock the sympathy of Job. Mary\nknew herself to blame; felt her errors in every fibre of her heart;\nbut yet she would rather have had them spoken about, even in terms of\nseverest censure, than have been treated in the icy manner in which\nMargaret had received her that morning.\n\n\"Here's Mary,\" said Job, almost as if he wished to propitiate his\ngrand-daughter, \"come to take a bit of dinner with us, for I'll\nwarrant she's never thought of cooking any for herself to-day; and\nshe looks as wan and pale as a ghost.\"\n\nIt was calling out the feeling of hospitality, so strong and warm in\nmost of those who have little to offer, but whose heart goes eagerly\nand kindly with that little. Margaret came towards Mary with a\nwelcoming gesture, and a kinder manner by far than she had used in\nthe morning.\n\n\"Nay, Mary, thou know'st thou'st getten nought at home,\" urged Job.\n\nAnd Mary, faint and weary, and with a heart too aching-full of other\nmatters to be pertinacious in this, withdrew her refusal.\n\nThey ate their dinner quietly; for to all it was an effort to speak,\nand after one or two attempts they had subsided into silence.\n\nWhen the meal was ended Job began again on the subject they all had\nat heart.\n\n\"Yon poor lad at Kirkdale will want a lawyer to see they don't put on\nhim, but do him justice. Hast thought of that?\"\n\nMary had not, and felt sure his mother had not.\n\nMargaret confirmed this last supposition.\n\n\"I've but just been there, and poor Jane is like one dateless; so\nmany griefs come on her at once. One time she seems to make sure\nhe'll be hung; and if I took her in that way, she flew out (poor\nbody!) and said, that in spite of what folk said, there were them as\ncould, and would prove him guiltless. So I never knew where to have\nher. The only thing she was constant in, was declaring him innocent.\"\n\n\"Mother-like!\" said Job.\n\n\"She meant Will, when she spoke of them that could prove him\ninnocent. He was with Will on Thursday night, walking a part of the\nway with him to Liverpool; now the thing is to lay hold on Will and\nget him to prove this.\" So spoke Mary, calm, from the earnestness of\nher purpose.\n\n\"Don't build too much on it, my dear,\" said Job.\n\n\"I do build on it,\" replied Mary, \"because I know it's the truth, and\nI mean to try and prove it, come what may. Nothing you can say will\ndaunt me, Job, so don't you go and try. You may help, but you cannot\nhinder me doing what I'm resolved on.\"\n\nThey respected her firmness of determination, and Job almost gave\nin to her belief, when he saw how steadfastly she was acting upon\nit. Oh! surest way of conversion to our faith, whatever it may\nbe,--regarding either small things, or great,--when it is beheld as\nthe actuating principle, from which we never swerve! When it is seen\nthat, instead of over-much profession, it is worked into the life,\nand moves every action!\n\nMary gained courage as she instinctively felt she had made way with\none at least of her companions.\n\n\"Now I'm clear about this much,\" she continued, \"he was with Will\nwhen the--shot was fired (she could not bring herself to say, when\nthe murder was committed, when she remembered _who_ it was that, she\nhad every reason to believe, was the taker-away of life). Will can\nprove this. I must find Will. He wasn't to sail till Tuesday. There's\ntime enough. He was to come back from his uncle's, in the Isle of\nMan, on Monday. I must meet him in Liverpool, on that day, and tell\nhim what has happened, and how poor Jem is in trouble, and that he\nmust prove an _alibi_, come Tuesday. All this I can and will do,\nthough perhaps I don't clearly know how, just at present. But surely\nGod will help me. When I know I'm doing right, I will have no fear,\nbut put my trust in Him; for I'm acting for the innocent and good,\nand not for my own self, who have done so wrong. I have no fear when\nI think of Jem, who is so good.\"\n\nShe stopped, oppressed with the fulness of her heart. Margaret began\nto love her again; to see in her the same sweet, faulty, impulsive,\nlovable creature she had known in the former Mary Barton, but with\nmore of dignity, self-reliance, and purpose.\n\nMary spoke again.\n\n\"Now I know the name of Will's vessel--the _John Cropper_; and I\nknow that she is bound to America. That is something to know. But\nI forget, if I ever heard, where he lodges in Liverpool. He spoke of\nhis landlady, as a good, trustworthy woman; but if he named her name,\nit has slipped my memory. Can you help me, Margaret?\"\n\nShe appealed to her friend calmly and openly, as if perfectly aware\nof, and recognising the unspoken tie which bound her and Will\ntogether; she asked her in the same manner in which she would have\nasked a wife where her husband dwelt. And Margaret replied in the\nlike calm tone, two spots of crimson on her cheeks alone bearing\nwitness to any internal agitation.\n\n\"He lodges at a Mrs. Jones's, Milk-House Yard, out of Nicholas\nStreet. He has lodged there ever since he began to go to sea; she is\na very decent kind of woman, I believe.\"\n\n\"Well, Mary! I'll give you my prayers,\" said Job. \"It's not often\nI pray regular, though I often speak a word to God, when I'm either\nvery happy or very sorry; I've catched myself thanking Him at odd\nhours when I've found a rare insect, or had a fine day for an\nout; but I cannot help it, no more than I can talking to a friend.\nBut this time I'll pray regular for Jem, and for you. And so will\nMargaret, I'll be bound. Still, wench! what think yo of a lawyer? I\nknow one, Mr. Cheshire, who's rather given to th' insect line--and a\ngood kind o' chap. He and I have swopped specimens many's the time,\nwhen either of us had a duplicate. He'll do me a kind turn, I'm sure.\nI'll just take my hat, and pay him a visit.\"\n\nNo sooner said, than done.\n\nMargaret and Mary were left alone. And this seemed to bring back the\nfeeling of awkwardness, not to say estrangement.\n\nBut Mary, excited to an unusual pitch of courage, was the first to\nbreak silence.\n\n\"Oh, Margaret!\" said she, \"I see--I feel how wrong you think I have\nacted; you cannot think me worse than I think myself, now my eyes are\nopened.\" Here her sobs came choking up her voice.\n\n\"Nay,\" Margaret began, \"I have no right to--\"\n\n\"Yes, Margaret, you have a right to judge; you cannot help it; only\nin your judgment remember mercy, as the Bible says. You, who have\nbeen always good, cannot tell how easy it is at first to go a little\nwrong, and then how hard it is to go back. Oh! I little thought when\nI was first pleased with Mr. Carson's speeches, how it would all end;\nperhaps in the death of him I love better than life.\"\n\nShe burst into a passion of tears. The feelings pent up through the\nday would have vent. But checking herself with a strong effort, and\nlooking up at Margaret as piteously as if those calm, stony eyes\ncould see her imploring face, she added,\n\n\"I must not cry; I must not give way; there will be time enough\nfor that hereafter, if--I only wanted you to speak kindly to me,\nMargaret, for I am very, very wretched; more wretched than any\none can ever know; more wretched, I sometimes fancy, than I have\ndeserved,--but that's wrong, isn't it, Margaret? Oh! I have done\nwrong, and I am punished; you cannot tell how much.\"\n\nWho could resist her voice, her tones of misery, of humility? Who\nwould refuse the kindness for which she begged so penitently? Not\nMargaret. The old friendly manner came back. With it, may be, more of\ntenderness.\n\n\"Oh! Margaret, do you think he can be saved; do you think they can\nfind him guilty if Will comes forward as a witness? Won't that be a\ngood _alibi_?\"\n\nMargaret did not answer for a moment.\n\n\"Oh, speak! Margaret,\" said Mary, with anxious impatience.\n\n\"I know nought about law, or _alibis_,\" replied Margaret, meekly;\n\"but, Mary, as grandfather says, aren't you building too much on\nwhat Jane Wilson has told you about his going with Will? Poor soul,\nshe's gone dateless, I think, with care, and watching, and over-much\ntrouble; and who can wonder? Or Jem may have told her he was going,\nby way of a blind.\"\n\n\"You don't know Jem,\" said Mary, starting from her seat in a hurried\nmanner, \"or you would not say so.\"\n\n\"I hope I may be wrong; but think, Mary, how much there is against\nhim. The shot was fired with his gun; he it was as threatened Mr.\nCarson not many days before; he was absent from home at that very\ntime, as we know, and, as I'm much afeared, some one will be called\non to prove; and there's no one else to share suspicion with him.\"\n\nMary heaved a deep sigh.\n\n\"But, Margaret, he did not do it,\" Mary again asserted.\n\nMargaret looked unconvinced.\n\n\"I can do no good, I see, by saying so, for none on you believe me,\nand I won't say so again till I can prove it. Monday morning I'll go\nto Liverpool. I shall be at hand for the trial. Oh dear! dear! And I\nwill find Will; and then, Margaret, I think you'll be sorry for being\nso stubborn about Jem.\"\n\n\"Don't fly off, dear Mary; I'd give a deal to be wrong. And now I'm\ngoing to be plain spoken. You'll want money. Them lawyers is no\nbetter than a spunge for sucking up money; let alone your hunting out\nWill, and your keep in Liverpool, and what not. You must take some of\nthe mint I've got laid by in the old tea-pot. You have no right to\nrefuse, for I offer it to Jem, not to you; it's for his purposes\nyou're to use it.\"\n\n\"I know--I see. Thank you, Margaret; you're a kind one, at any\nrate. I take it for Jem; and I'll do my very best with it for him.\nNot all, though; don't think I'll take all. They'll pay me for my\nkeep. I'll take this,\" accepting a sovereign from the hoard which\nMargaret produced out of its accustomed place in the cupboard. \"Your\ngrandfather will pay the lawyer. I'll have nought to do with him,\"\nshuddering as she remembered Job's words, about lawyers' skill in\nalways discovering the truth, sooner or later; and knowing what was\nthe secret she had to hide.\n\n\"Bless you! don't make such ado about it,\" said Margaret, cutting\nshort Mary's thanks. \"I sometimes think there's two sides to the\ncommandment; and that we may say, 'Let others do unto you, as you\nwould do unto them,' for pride often prevents our giving others a\ngreat deal of pleasure, in not letting them be kind, when their\nhearts are longing to help; and when we ourselves should wish to do\njust the same, if we were in their place. Oh! how often I've been\nhurt, by being coldly told by persons not to trouble myself about\ntheir care, or sorrow, when I saw them in great grief, and wanted to\nbe of comfort. Our Lord Jesus was not above letting folk minister to\nHim, for He knew how happy it makes one to do aught for another. It's\nthe happiest work on earth.\"\n\nMary had been too much engrossed by watching what was passing in the\nstreet to attend very closely to that which Margaret was saying. From\nher seat she could see out of the window pretty plainly, and she\ncaught sight of a gentleman walking alongside of Job, evidently in\nearnest conversation with him, and looking keen and penetrating\nenough to be a lawyer. Job was laying down something to be attended\nto she could see, by his up-lifted fore-finger, and his whole\ngesture; then he pointed and nodded across the street to his own\nhouse, as if inducing his companion to come in. Mary dreaded lest he\nshould, and she be subjected to a closer cross-examination than she\nhad hitherto undergone, as to why she was so certain that Jem was\ninnocent. She feared he was coming; he stepped a little towards the\nspot. No! it was only to make way for a child, tottering along, whom\nMary had overlooked. Now Job took him by the button, so earnestly\nfamiliar had he grown. The gentleman looked \"fidging fain\" to be\ngone, but submitted in a manner that made Mary like him in spite\nof his profession. Then came a volley of last words, answered by\nbriefest nods, and monosyllables; and then the stranger went off with\nredoubled quickness of pace, and Job crossed the street with a little\nsatisfied air of importance on his kindly face.\n\n\"Well! Mary,\" said he on entering, \"I've seen the lawyer, not Mr.\nCheshire though; trials for murder, it seems, are not his line o'\nbusiness. But he gived me a note to another 'torney; a fine fellow\nenough, only too much of a talker; I could hardly get a word in, he\ncut me so short. However, I've just been going over the principal\npoints again to him; may be you saw us? I wanted him just to come\nover and speak to you himsel, Mary, but he was pressed for time; and\nhe said your evidence would not be much either here or there. He's\ngoing to the 'sizes first train on Monday morning, and will see Jem,\nand hear the ins and outs from him, and he's gived me his address,\nMary, and you and Will are to call on him (Will 'special) on Monday\nat two o'clock. Thou'rt taking it in, Mary; thou'rt to call on him in\nLiverpool at two, Monday afternoon?\"\n\nJob had reason to doubt if she fully understood him; for all this\nminuteness of detail, these satisfactory arrangements, as he\nconsidered them, only seemed to bring the circumstances in which she\nwas placed more vividly home to Mary. They convinced her that it was\nreal, and not all a dream, as she had sunk into fancying it for a\nfew minutes, while sitting in the old accustomed place, her body\nenjoying the rest, and her frame sustained by food, and listening to\nMargaret's calm voice. The gentleman she had just beheld would see\nand question Jem in a few hours, and what would be the result?\n\nMonday: that was the day after to-morrow, and on Tuesday, life and\ndeath would be tremendous realities to her lover; or else death would\nbe an awful certainty to her father.\n\nNo wonder Job went over his main points again:--\n\n\"Monday; at two o'clock, mind; and here's his card. 'Mr. Bridgenorth,\n41, Renshaw Street, Liverpool.' He'll be lodging there.\"\n\nJob ceased talking, and the silence roused Mary up to thank him.\n\n\"You're very kind, Job; very. You and Margaret won't desert me, come\nwhat will.\"\n\n\"Pooh! pooh! wench; don't lose heart, just as I'm beginning to get\nit. He seems to think a deal on Will's evidence. You're sure, girls,\nyou're under no mistake about Will?\"\n\n\"I'm sure,\" said Mary, \"he went straight from here, purposing to go\nsee his uncle at the Isle of Man, and be back Sunday night, ready for\nthe ship sailing on Tuesday.\"\n\n\"So am I,\" said Margaret. \"And the ship's name was the _John\nCropper_, and he lodged where I told Mary before. Have you got it\ndown, Mary?\" Mary wrote it on the back of Mr. Bridgenorth's card.\n\n\"He was not over-willing to go,\" said she, as she wrote, \"for he knew\nlittle about his uncle, and said he didn't care if he never knowed\nmore. But he said kinsfolk was kinsfolk, and promises was promises,\nso he'd go for a day or so, and then it would be over.\"\n\nMargaret had to go and practise some singing in town; so, though loth\nto depart and be alone, Mary bade her friends good-bye.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\nWITH THE DYING.\n\n\n   \"O sad and solemn is the trembling watch\n   Of those who sit and count the heavy hours,\n   Beside the fevered sleep of one they love!\n   O awful is it in the hushed mid night,\n   While gazing on the pallid, moveless form,\n   To start and ask, 'Is it now sleep--or death?'\"\n\n   ANONYMOUS.\n\n\nMary could not be patient in her loneliness; so much painful thought\nweighed on her mind; the very house was haunted with memories and\nforeshadowings.\n\nHaving performed all duties to Jem, as far as her weak powers,\nyet loving heart could act; and a black veil being drawn over her\nfather's past, present, and future life, beyond which she could not\npenetrate to judge of any filial service she ought to render; her\nmind unconsciously sought after some course of action in which\nshe might engage. Any thing, any thing, rather than leisure for\nreflection.\n\nAnd then came up the old feeling which first bound Ruth to Naomi; the\nlove they both held towards one object; and Mary felt that her cares\nwould be most lightened by being of use, or of comfort to his mother.\nSo she once more locked up the house, and set off towards Ancoats;\nrushing along with down-cast head, for fear lest any one should\nrecognise her and arrest her progress.\n\nJane Wilson sat quietly in her chair as Mary entered; so quietly, as\nto strike one by the contrast it presented to her usual bustling and\nnervous manner.\n\nShe looked very pale and wan; but the quietness was the thing that\nstruck Mary most. She did not rise as Mary came in, but sat still and\nsaid something in so gentle, so feeble a voice, that Mary did not\ncatch it.\n\nMrs. Davenport, who was there, plucked Mary by the gown, and\nwhispered,\n\n\"Never heed her; she's worn out, and best let alone. I'll tell you\nall about it, up-stairs.\"\n\nBut Mary, touched by the anxious look with which Mrs. Wilson gazed\nat her, as if awaiting the answer to some question, went forward to\nlisten to the speech she was again repeating.\n\n\"What is this? will you tell me?\"\n\nThen Mary looked and saw another ominous slip of parchment in the\nmother's hand, which she was rolling up and down in a tremulous\nmanner between her fingers.\n\nMary's heart sickened within her, and she could not speak.\n\n\"What is it?\" she repeated. \"Will you tell me?\" She still looked at\nMary, with the same child-like gaze of wonder and patient entreaty.\n\nWhat could she answer?\n\n\"I telled ye not to heed her,\" said Mrs. Davenport, a little angrily.\n\"She knows well enough what it is,--too well, belike. I was not\nin when they sarved it; but Mrs. Heming (her as lives next door)\nwas, and she spelled out the meaning, and made it all clear to Mrs.\nWilson. It's a summons to be a witness on Jem's trial--Mrs. Heming\nthinks, to swear to the gun; for, yo see, there's nobbut [47] her\nas can testify to its being his, and she let on so easily to the\npoliceman that it was his, that there's no getting off her word now.\nPoor body; she takes it very hard, I dare say!\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 47: \"Nobbut,\" none-but.\n                 \"No man sigh evere God _no but_ the oon bigetun\n                 sone.\"--_Wiclif's Version._]\n\n\nMrs. Wilson had waited patiently while this whispered speech was\nbeing uttered, imagining, perhaps, that it would end in some\nexplanation addressed to her. But when both were silent, though\ntheir eyes, without speech or language, told their hearts' pity, she\nspoke again in the same unaltered gentle voice (so different from\nthe irritable impatience she had been ever apt to show to every\none except her husband,--he who had wedded her, broken-down and\ninjured)--in a voice so different, I say, from the old, hasty manner,\nshe spoke now the same anxious words,\n\n\"What is this? Will you tell me?\"\n\n\"Yo'd better give it me at once, Mrs. Wilson, and let me put it out\nof your sight.--Speak to her, Mary, wench, and ask for a sight on it;\nI've tried, and better-tried to get it from her, and she takes no\nheed of words, and I'm loth to pull it by force out of her hands.\"\n\nMary drew the little \"cricket\" [48] out from under the dresser, and\nsat down at Mrs. Wilson's knee, and, coaxing one of her tremulous,\never-moving hands into hers, began to rub it soothingly; there was a\nlittle resistance--a very little, but that was all; and presently, in\nthe nervous movement of the imprisoned hand, the parchment fell to\nthe ground.\n\n\n   [Footnote 48 \"Cricket,\" a stool.]\n\n\nMary calmly and openly picked it up without any attempt at\nconcealment, and quietly placing it in sight of the anxious eyes\nthat followed it with a kind of spell-bound dread, went on with her\nsoothing caresses.\n\n\"She has had no sleep for many nights,\" said the girl to Mrs.\nDavenport, \"and all this woe and sorrow,--it's no wonder.\"\n\n\"No, indeed!\" Mrs. Davenport answered.\n\n\"We must get her fairly to bed; we must get her undressed, and all;\nand trust to God, in His mercy, to send her to sleep, or else,--\"\n\nFor, you see, they spoke before her as if she were not there; her\nheart was so far away.\n\nAccordingly they almost lifted her from the chair in which she sat\nmotionless, and taking her up as gently as a mother carries her\nsleeping baby, they undressed her poor, worn form, and laid her in\nthe little bed up-stairs. They had once thought of placing her in\nJem's bed, to be out of sight or sound of any disturbance of Alice's,\nbut then again they remembered the shock she might receive in\nawakening in so unusual a place, and also that Mary, who intended\nto keep vigil that night in the house of mourning, would find it\ndifficult to divide her attention in the possible cases that might\nensue.\n\nSo they laid her, as I said before, on that little pallet-bed; and,\nas they were slowly withdrawing from the bed-side, hoping and praying\nthat she might sleep, and forget for a time her heavy burden, she\nlooked wistfully after Mary, and whispered,\n\n\"You haven't told me what it is. What is it?\"\n\nAnd gazing in her face for the expected answer, her eye-lids slowly\nclosed, and she fell into a deep, heavy sleep, almost as profound a\nrest as death.\n\nMrs. Davenport went her way, and Mary was alone,--for I cannot call\nthose who sleep allies against the agony of thought which solitude\nsometimes brings up.\n\nShe dreaded the night before her. Alice might die; the doctor had\nthat day declared her case hopeless, and not far from death; and\nat times the terror, so natural to the young, not of death, but of\nthe remains of the dead, came over Mary; and she bent and listened\nanxiously for the long-drawn, pausing breath of the sleeping Alice.\n\nOr Mrs. Wilson might awake in a state which Mary dreaded to\nanticipate, and anticipated while she dreaded;--in a state of\ncomplete delirium. Already her senses had been severely stunned by\nthe full explanation of what was required of her,--of what she had\nto prove against her son, her Jem, her only child,--which Mary could\nnot doubt the officious Mrs. Heming had given; and what if in dreams\n(that land into which no sympathy or love can penetrate with another,\neither to share its bliss or its agony,--that land whose scenes are\nunspeakable terrors, are hidden mysteries, are priceless treasures to\none alone,--that land where alone I may see, while yet I tarry here,\nthe sweet looks of my dead child),--what if, in the horrors of her\ndreams, her brain should go still more astray, and she should waken\ncrazy with her visions, and the terrible reality that begot them?\n\nHow much worse is anticipation sometimes than reality! How Mary\ndreaded that night, and how calmly it passed by! Even more so than if\nMary had not had such claims upon her care!\n\nAnxiety about them deadened her own peculiar anxieties. She thought\nof the sleepers whom she was watching, till overpowered herself by\nthe want of rest, she fell off into short slumbers in which the night\nwore imperceptibly away. To be sure Alice spoke, and sang, during her\nwaking moments, like the child she deemed herself; but so happily\nwith the dearly-loved ones around her, with the scent of the heather,\nand the song of the wild bird hovering about her in imagination--with\nold scraps of ballads, or old snatches of primitive versions of the\nPsalms (such as are sung in country churches half draperied over with\nivy, and where the running brook, or the murmuring wind among the\ntrees makes fit accompaniment to the chorus of human voices uttering\npraise and thanksgiving to their God)--that the speech and the song\ngave comfort and good cheer to the listener's heart, and the gray\ndawn began to dim the light of the rush-candle, before Mary thought\nit possible that day was already trembling on the horizon.\n\nThen she got up from the chair where she had been dozing, and went,\nhalf-asleep, to the window to assure herself that morning was at\nhand. The streets were unusually quiet with a Sabbath stillness. No\nfactory bells that morning; no early workmen going to their labours;\nno slip-shod girls cleaning the windows of the little shops which\nbroke the monotony of the street; instead, you might see here and\nthere some operative sallying forth for a breath of country air, or\nsome father leading out his wee toddling bairns for the unwonted\npleasure of a walk with \"Daddy,\" in the clear frosty morning. Men\nwith more leisure on week-days would perhaps have walked quicker than\nthey did through the fresh sharp air of this Sunday morning; but to\nthem there was a pleasure, an absolute refreshment in the dawdling\ngait they, one and all of them, had.\n\nTo be sure, there were one or two passengers on that morning whose\nobjects were less innocent and less praiseworthy than those of the\npeople I have already mentioned, and whose animal state of mind and\nbody clashed jarringly on the peacefulness of the day; but upon them\nI will not dwell: as you and I, and almost every one, I think, may\nsend up our individual cry of self-reproach that we have not done all\nthat we could for the stray and wandering ones of our brethren.\n\nWhen Mary turned from the window, she went to the bed of each\nsleeper, to look and listen. Alice looked perfectly quiet and happy\nin her slumber, and her face seemed to have become much more youthful\nduring her painless approach to death.\n\nMrs. Wilson's countenance was stamped with the anxiety of the last\nfew days, although she, too, appeared sleeping soundly; but as Mary\ngazed on her, trying to trace a likeness to her son in her face,\nshe awoke and looked up into Mary's eyes, while the expression of\nconsciousness came back into her own.\n\nBoth were silent for a minute or two. Mary's eyes had fallen beneath\nthat penetrating gaze, in which the agony of memory seemed every\nmoment to find fuller vent.\n\n\"Is it a dream?\" the mother asked at last in a low voice.\n\n\"No!\" replied Mary, in the same tone.\n\nMrs. Wilson hid her face in the pillow.\n\nShe was fully conscious of every thing this morning; it was evident\nthat the stunning effect of the subpoena, which had affected her so\nmuch last night in her weak, worn-out state, had passed away. Mary\noffered no opposition when she indicated by languid gesture and\naction that she wished to rise. A sleepless bed is a haunted place.\n\nWhen she was dressed with Mary's help, she stood by Alice for a\nminute or two, looking at the slumberer.\n\n\"How happy she is!\" said she, quietly and sadly.\n\nAll the time that Mary was getting breakfast ready, and performing\nevery other little domestic office she could think of, to add to\nthe comfort of Jem's mother, Mrs. Wilson sat still in the arm-chair,\nwatching her silently. Her old irritation of temper and manner seemed\nto have suddenly disappeared, or perhaps she was too depressed in\nbody and mind to show it.\n\nMary told her all that had been done with regard to Mr. Bridgenorth;\nall her own plans for seeking out Will; all her hopes; and concealed\nas well as she could all the doubts and fears that would arise\nunbidden. To this Mrs. Wilson listened without much remark, but with\ndeep interest and perfect comprehension. When Mary ceased she sighed\nand said, \"Oh wench! I am his mother, and yet I do so little, I can\ndo so little! That's what frets me! I seem like a child as sees its\nmammy ill, and moans and cries its little heart out, yet does nought\nto help. I think my sense has left me all at once, and I can't even\nfind strength to cry like the little child.\"\n\nHereupon she broke into a feeble wail of self-reproach, that her\noutward show of misery was not greater; as if any cries, or tears, or\nloud-spoken words could have told of such pangs at the heart as that\nlook, and that thin, piping, altered voice!\n\nBut think of Mary and what she was enduring! Picture to yourself (for\nI cannot tell you) the armies of thoughts that met and clashed in her\nbrain; and then imagine the effort it cost her to be calm, and quiet,\nand even, in a faint way, cheerful and smiling at times.\n\nAfter a while she began to stir about in her own mind for some means\nof sparing the poor mother the trial of appearing as a witness in\nthe matter of the gun. She had made no allusion to her summons this\nmorning, and Mary almost thought she must have forgotten it; and\nsurely some means might be found to prevent that additional sorrow.\nShe must see Job about it; nay, if necessary, she must see Mr.\nBridgenorth, with all his truth-compelling powers; for, indeed, she\nhad so struggled and triumphed (though a sadly-bleeding victor at\nheart) over herself these two last days, had so concealed agony,\nand hidden her inward woe and bewilderment, that she began to take\nconfidence, and to have faith in her own powers of meeting any one\nwith a passably fair show, whatever might be rending her life beneath\nthe cloak of her deception.\n\nAccordingly, as soon as Mrs. Davenport came in after morning church,\nto ask after the two lone women, and she had heard the report Mary\nhad to give (so much better as regarded Mrs. Wilson than what they\nhad feared the night before it would have been)--as soon as this\nkind-hearted, grateful woman came in, Mary, telling her her purpose,\nwent off to fetch the doctor who attended Alice.\n\nHe was shaking himself after his morning's round, and happy in the\nanticipation of his Sunday's dinner; but he was a good-tempered man,\nwho found it difficult to keep down his jovial easiness even by the\nbed of sickness or death. He had mischosen his profession; for it was\nhis delight to see every one around him in full enjoyment of life.\n\nHowever, he subdued his face to the proper expression of sympathy,\nbefitting a doctor listening to a patient, or a patient's friend (and\nMary's sad, pale, anxious face might be taken for either the one or\nthe other).\n\n\"Well, my girl! and what brings you here?\" said he, as he entered his\nsurgery. \"Not on your own account, I hope.\"\n\n\"I wanted you to come and see Alice Wilson,--and then I thought you\nwould may be take a look at Mrs. Wilson.\"\n\nHe bustled on his hat and coat, and followed Mary instantly.\n\nAfter shaking his head over Alice (as if it was a mournful thing for\none so pure and good, so true, although so humble a Christian, to\nbe nearing her desired haven), and muttering the accustomed words\nintended to destroy hope, and prepare anticipation, he went in\ncompliance with Mary's look to ask the usual questions of Mrs.\nWilson, who sat passively in her arm-chair.\n\nShe answered his questions, and submitted to his examination.\n\n\"How do you think her?\" asked Mary, eagerly.\n\n\"Why--a,\" began he, perceiving that he was desired to take one side\nin his answer, and unable to find out whether his listener was\nanxious for a favourable verdict or otherwise; but thinking it most\nprobable that she would desire the former, he continued,\n\n\"She is weak, certainly; the natural result of such a shock as the\narrest of her son would be,--for I understand this James Wilson, who\nmurdered Mr. Carson, was her son. Sad thing to have such a reprobate\nin the family.\"\n\n\"You say '_who murdered_,' sir!\" said Mary, indignantly. \"He is only\ntaken up on suspicion, and many have no doubt of his innocence--those\nwho know him, sir.\"\n\n\"Ah, well, well! doctors have seldom time to read newspapers, and I\ndare say I'm not very correct in my story. I dare say he's innocent;\nI'm sure I had no right to say otherwise,--only words slip out.--No!\nindeed, young woman, I see no cause for apprehension about this poor\ncreature in the next room;--weak--certainly; but a day or two's good\nnursing will set her up, and I'm sure you're a good nurse, my dear,\nfrom your pretty, kind-hearted face,--I'll send a couple of pills and\na draught, but don't alarm yourself,--there's no occasion, I assure\nyou.\"\n\n\"But you don't think her fit to go to Liverpool?\" asked Mary, still\nin the anxious tone of one who wishes earnestly for some particular\ndecision.\n\n\"To Liverpool--yes,\" replied he. \"A short journey like that could\nnot fatigue, and might distract her thoughts. Let her go by all\nmeans,--it would be the very thing for her.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir!\" burst out Mary, almost sobbing; \"I did so hope you would\nsay she was too ill to go.\"\n\n\"Whew--\" said he, with a prolonged whistle, trying to understand the\ncase, but being, as he said, no reader of newspapers, utterly unaware\nof the peculiar reasons there might be for so apparently unfeeling\na wish,--\"Why did you not tell me so sooner? It might certainly do\nher harm in her weak state; there is always some risk attending\njourneys--draughts, and what not. To her, they might prove very\ninjurious,--very. I disapprove of journeys, or excitement, in all\ncases where the patient is in the low, fluttered state in which Mrs.\nWilson is. If you take _my_ advice, you will certainly put a stop to\nall thoughts of going to Liverpool.\" He really had completely changed\nhis opinion, though quite unconsciously; so desirous was he to comply\nwith the wishes of others.\n\n\"Oh, sir, thank you! And will you give me a certificate of her being\nunable to go, if the lawyer says we must have one? The lawyer, you\nknow,\" continued she, seeing him look puzzled, \"who is to defend\nJem,--it was as a witness against him--\"\n\n\"My dear girl!\" said he, almost angrily, \"why did you not state the\ncase fully at first? one minute would have done it,--and my dinner\nwaiting all this time. To be sure she can't go,--it would be madness\nto think of it; if her evidence could have done good, it would have\nbeen a different thing. Come to me for the certificate any time;\nthat is to say, if the lawyer advises you. I second the lawyer; take\ncounsel with both the learned professions--ha, ha, ha,--\"\n\nAnd laughing at his own joke, he departed, leaving Mary accusing\nherself of stupidity in having imagined that every one was as well\nacquainted with the facts concerning the trial as she was herself;\nfor indeed she had never doubted that the doctor would have been\naware of the purpose of poor Mrs. Wilson's journey to Liverpool.\n\nPresently she went to Job (the ever-ready Mrs. Davenport keeping\nwatch over the two old women), and told him her fears, her plans, and\nher proceedings.\n\nTo her surprise he shook his head doubtfully.\n\n\"It may have an awkward look, if we keep her back. Lawyers is up to\ntricks.\"\n\n\"But it's no trick,\" said Mary. \"She is so poorly, she was last\nnight, at least; and to-day she's so faded and weak.\"\n\n\"Poor soul! I dare say. I only mean for Jem's sake; as so much is\nknown, it won't do now to hang back. But I'll ask Mr. Bridgenorth.\nI'll e'en take your doctor's advice. Yo tarry at home, and I'll come\nto yo in an hour's time. Go thy ways, wench.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\nMRS. WILSON'S DETERMINATION.\n\n\n   \"Something there was, what, none presumed to say,\n   Clouds lightly passing on a smiling day,--\n   Whispers and hints which went from ear to ear,\n   And mixed reports no judge on earth could clear.\"\n\n   CRABBE.\n\n   \"Curious conjectures he may always make,\n   And either side of dubious questions take.\"\n\n   IB.\n\n\nMary went home. Oh! how her head did ache, and how dizzy her brain\nwas growing! But there would be time enough she felt for giving way,\nhereafter.\n\nSo she sat quiet and still by an effort; sitting near the window, and\nlooking out of it, but seeing nothing, when all at once she caught\nsight of something which roused her up, and made her draw back.\n\nBut it was too late. She had been seen.\n\nSally Leadbitter flaunted into the little dingy room, making it gaudy\nwith the Sunday excess of colouring in her dress.\n\nShe was really curious to see Mary; her connexion with a murderer\nseemed to have made her into a sort of _lusus naturæ_, and was\nalmost, by some, expected to have made a change in her personal\nappearance, so earnestly did they stare at her. But Mary had been too\nmuch absorbed this last day or two to notice this.\n\nNow Sally had a grand view, and looked her over and over (a very\ndifferent thing from looking her through and through), and almost\nlearnt her off by heart;--\"her every-day gown (Hoyle's print you\nknow, that lilac thing with the high body) she was so fond of; a\nlittle black silk handkerchief just knotted round her neck, like a\nboy; her hair all taken back from her face, as if she wanted to keep\nher head cool--she would always keep that hair of hers so long; and\nher hands twitching continually about.\"\n\nSuch particulars would make Sally into a Gazette Extraordinary the\nnext morning at the work-room, and were worth coming for, even if\nlittle else could be extracted from Mary.\n\n\"Why, Mary!\" she began. \"Where have you hidden yourself? You never\nshowed your face all yesterday at Miss Simmonds'. You don't fancy\nwe think any the worse of you for what's come and gone. Some on us,\nindeed, were a bit sorry for the poor young man, as lies stiff and\ncold for your sake, Mary; but we shall ne'er cast it up against you.\nMiss Simmonds, too, will be mighty put out if you don't come, for\nthere's a deal of mourning, agait.\"\n\n\"I can't,\" Mary said, in a low voice. \"I don't mean ever to come\nagain.\"\n\n\"Why, Mary!\" said Sally, in unfeigned surprise. \"To be sure you'll\nhave to be in Liverpool, Tuesday, and may be Wednesday; but after\nthat you'll surely come, and tell us all about it. Miss Simmonds\nknows you'll have to be off those two days. But between you and me,\nshe's a bit of a gossip, and will like hearing all how and about the\ntrial, well enough to let you off very easy for your being absent a\nday or two. Besides, Betsy Morgan was saying yesterday, she shouldn't\nwonder but you'd prove quite an attraction to customers. Many a one\nwould come and have their gowns made by Miss Simmonds just to catch a\nglimpse at you, at after the trial's over. Really, Mary, you'll turn\nout quite a heroine.\"\n\nThe little fingers twitched worse than ever; the large soft eyes\nlooked up pleadingly into Sally's face; but she went on in the same\nstrain, not from any unkind or cruel feeling towards Mary, but solely\nbecause she was incapable of comprehending her suffering.\n\nShe had been shocked, of course, at Mr. Carson's death, though at\nthe same time the excitement was rather pleasant than otherwise; and\ndearly now would she have enjoyed the conspicuous notice which Mary\nwas sure to receive.\n\n\"How shall you like being cross-examined, Mary?\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" answered Mary, when she found she must answer.\n\n\"La! what impudent fellows those lawyers are! And their clerks, too,\nnot a bit better. I shouldn't wonder\" (in a comforting tone, and\nreally believing she was giving comfort) \"if you picked up a new\nsweetheart in Liverpool. What gown are you going in, Mary?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know and don't care,\" exclaimed Mary, sick and weary of\nher visitor.\n\n\"Well, then! take my advice, and go in that blue merino. It's old\nto be sure, and a bit worn at elbows, but folk won't notice that,\nand th' colour suits you. Now mind, Mary. And I'll lend you my black\nwatered scarf,\" added she, really good-naturedly, according to her\nsense of things, and withal, a little bit pleased at the idea of her\npet article of dress figuring away on the person of a witness at a\ntrial for murder.\n\n\"I'll bring it to-morrow before you start.\"\n\n\"No, don't!\" said Mary; \"thank you, but I don't want it.\"\n\n\"Why, what can you wear? I know all your clothes as well as I do my\nown, and what is there you can wear? Not your old plaid shawl, I do\nhope? You would not fancy this I have on, more nor the scarf, would\nyou?\" said she, brightening up at the thought, and willing to lend\nit, or any thing else.\n\n\"Oh Sally! don't go on talking a-that-ns; how can I think on dress at\nsuch a time? When it's a matter of life and death to Jem?\"\n\n\"Bless the girl! It's Jem, is it? Well now, I thought there was some\nsweetheart in the back-ground, when you flew off so with Mr. Carson.\nThen what in the name of goodness made him shoot Mr. Harry? After you\nhad given up going with him, I mean? Was he afraid you'd be on\nagain?\"\n\n\"How dare you say he shot Mr. Harry?\" asked Mary, firing up from the\nstate of languid indifference into which she had sunk while Sally had\nbeen settling about her dress. \"But it's no matter what you think\nas did not know him. What grieves me is, that people should go on\nthinking him guilty as did know him,\" she said, sinking back into her\nformer depressed tone and manner.\n\n\"And don't you think he did it?\" asked Sally.\n\nMary paused; she was going on too fast with one so curious and\nso unscrupulous. Besides she remembered how even she herself had,\nat first, believed him guilty; and she felt it was not for her to\ncast stones at those who, on similar evidence, inclined to the same\nbelief. None had given him much benefit of a doubt. None had faith in\nhis innocence. None but his mother; and there the heart loved more\nthan the head reasoned, and her yearning affection had never for an\ninstant entertained the idea that her Jem was a murderer. But Mary\ndisliked the whole conversation; the subject, the manner in which it\nwas treated, were all painful, and she had a repugnance to the person\nwith whom she spoke.\n\nShe was thankful, therefore, when Job Legh's voice was heard at the\ndoor, as he stood with the latch in his hand, talking to a neighbour,\nand when Sally jumped up in vexation and said, \"There's that old\nfogey coming in here, as I'm alive! Did your father set him to\nlook after you while he was away? or what brings the old chap\nhere? However, I'm off; I never could abide either him or his prim\ngrand-daughter. Goodbye, Mary.\"\n\nSo far in a whisper, then louder,\n\n\"If you think better of my offer about the scarf, Mary, just step in\nto-morrow before nine, and you're quite welcome to it.\"\n\nShe and Job passed each other at the door, with mutual looks of\ndislike, which neither took any pains to conceal.\n\n\"Yon's a bold, bad girl,\" said Job to Mary.\n\n\"She's very good-natured,\" replied Mary, too honourable to abuse a\nvisitor who had only that instant crossed her threshold, and gladly\ndwelling on the good quality most apparent in Sally's character.\n\n\"Ay, ay! good-natured, generous, jolly, full of fun; there are a\nnumber of other names for the good qualities the devil leaves his\nchilder, as baits to catch gudgeons with. D'ye think folk could be\nled astray by one who was every way bad? Howe'er, that's not what I\ncame to talk about. I've seen Mr. Bridgenorth, and he is in a manner\nof the same mind as me; he thinks it would have an awkward look, and\nmight tell against the poor lad on his trial; still if she's ill\nshe's ill, and it can't be helped.\"\n\n\"I don't know if she's so bad as all that,\" said Mary, who began to\ndread her part in doing any thing which might tell against her poor\nlover.\n\n\"Will you come and see her, Job? The doctor seemed to say as I liked,\nnot as he thought.\"\n\n\"That's because he had no great thought on the subject, either one\nway or t'other,\" replied Job, whose contempt for medical men pretty\nnearly equalled his respect for lawyers. \"But I'll go and welcome. I\nhan not seen th' oud ladies since their sorrows, and it's but manners\nto go and ax after them. Come along.\"\n\nThe room at Mrs. Wilson's had that still, changeless look you\nmust have often observed in the house of sickness or mourning. No\nparticular employment going on; people watching and waiting rather\nthan acting, unless in the more sudden and violent attacks; what\nlittle movement is going on, so noiseless and hushed; the furniture\nall arranged and stationary, with a view to the comfort of the\nafflicted; the window-blinds drawn down to keep out the disturbing\nvariety of a sun-beam; the same saddened, serious look on the faces\nof the in-dwellers; you fall back into the same train of thought with\nall these associations, and forget the street, the outer world, in\nthe contemplation of the one stationary, absorbing interest within.\n\nMrs. Wilson sat quietly in her chair, with just the same look Mary\nhad left on her face; Mrs. Davenport went about with creaking shoes,\nwhich made all the more noise from her careful and lengthened tread,\nannoying the ears of those who were well, in this instance, far\nmore than the dulled senses of the sick and the sorrowful. Alice's\nvoice still was going on cheerfully in the upper room with incessant\ntalking and little laughs to herself, or perhaps in sympathy with her\nunseen companions; \"unseen,\" I say, in preference to \"fancied,\" for\nwho knows whether God does not permit the forms of those who were\ndearest when living, to hover round the bed of the dying?\n\nJob spoke, and Mrs. Wilson answered.\n\nSo quietly, that it was unnatural under the circumstances. It made\na deeper impression on the old man than any token of mere bodily\nillness could have done. If she had raved in delirium, or moaned in\nfever, he could have spoken after his wont, and given his opinion,\nhis advice, and his consolation; now he was awed into silence.\n\nAt length he pulled Mary aside into a corner of the house-place where\nMrs. Wilson was sitting, and began to talk to her.\n\n\"Yo're right, Mary! She's no ways fit to go to Liverpool, poor soul.\nNow I've seen her, I only wonder the doctor could ha' been unsettled\nin his mind at th' first. Choose how it goes wi' poor Jem, she cannot\ngo. One way or another it will soon be over, and best to leave her in\nthe state she is till then.\"\n\n\"I was sure you would think so,\" said Mary.\n\nBut they were reckoning without their host. They esteemed her senses\ngone, while, in fact, they were only inert, and could not convey\nimpressions rapidly to the over-burdened, troubled brain. They had\nnot noticed that her eyes had followed them (mechanically it seemed\nat first) as they had moved away to the corner of the room; that her\nface, hitherto so changeless, had begun to work with one or two of\nthe old symptoms of impatience.\n\nBut when they were silent she stood up, and startled them almost as\nif a dead person had spoken, by saying clearly and decidedly--\"I go\nto Liverpool. I hear you and your plans; and I tell you I shall go\nto Liverpool. If my words are to kill my son, they have already gone\nforth out of my mouth, and nought can bring them back. But I will\nhave faith. Alice (up above) has often telled me I wanted faith, and\nnow I will have it. They cannot--they will not kill my child, my only\nchild. I will not be afeared. Yet, oh! I am so sick with terror. But\nif he is to die, think ye not that I will see him again; ay! see him\nat his trial? When all are hating him, he shall have his poor mother\nnear him, to give him all the comfort, eyes, and looks, and tears,\nand a heart that is dead to all but him, can give; his poor old\nmother, who knows how free he is from sin--in the sight of man at\nleast. They'll let me go to him, maybe, the very minute it's over;\nand I know many Scripture texts (though you would not think it), that\nmay keep up his heart. I missed seeing him ere he went to yon prison,\nbut nought shall keep me away again one minute when I can see his\nface; for maybe the minutes are numbered, and the count but small.\nI know I can be a comfort to him, poor lad. You would not think\nit, now, but he'd alway speak as kind and soft to me as if he were\ncourting me, like. He loved me above a bit; and am I to leave him now\nto dree all the cruel slander they'll put upon him? I can pray for\nhim at each hard word they say against him, if I can do nought else;\nand he'll know what his mother is doing for him, poor lad, by the\nlook on my face.\"\n\nStill they made some look, or gesture of opposition to her wishes.\nShe turned sharp round on Mary, the old object of her pettish\nattacks, and said,\n\n\"Now, wench! once for all! I tell yo this. _He_ could never guide me;\nand he'd sense enough not to try. What he could na do, don't you try.\nI shall go to Liverpool to-morrow, and find my lad, and stay with\nhim through thick and thin; and if he dies, why, perhaps, God of\nHis mercy will take me too. The grave is a sure cure for an aching\nheart.\"\n\nShe sank back in her chair, quite exhausted by the sudden effort\nshe had made; but if they even offered to speak, she cut them short\n(whatever the subject might be), with the repetition of the same\nwords, \"I shall go to Liverpool.\"\n\nNo more could be said, the doctor's opinion had been so undecided;\nMr. Bridgenorth had given his legal voice in favour of her going, and\nMary was obliged to relinquish the idea of persuading her to remain\nat home, if indeed under all the circumstances it could be thought\ndesirable.\n\n\"Best way will be,\" said Job, \"for me to hunt out Will, early\nto-morrow morning, and yo, Mary, come at after with Jane Wilson. I\nknow a decent woman where yo two can have a bed, and where we may\nmeet together when I've found Will, afore going to Mr. Bridgenorth's\nat two o'clock; for, I can tell him, I'll not trust none of his\nclerks for hunting up Will, if Jem's life is to depend on it.\"\n\nNow Mary disliked this plan inexpressibly; her dislike was partly\ngrounded on reason, and partly on feeling. She could not bear the\nidea of deputing to any one the active measures necessary to be taken\nin order to save Jem. She felt as if they were her duty, her right.\nShe durst not trust to any one the completion of her plan; they might\nnot have energy, or perseverance, or desperation enough to follow out\nthe slightest chance; and her love would endow her with all these\nqualities, independently of the terrible alternative which awaited\nher in case all failed and Jem was condemned. No one could have her\nmotives; and consequently no one could have her sharpened brain, her\ndespairing determination. Besides (only that was purely selfish), she\ncould not endure the suspense of remaining quiet, and only knowing\nthe result when all was accomplished.\n\nSo with vehemence and impatience she rebutted every reason Job\nadduced for his plan; and of course, thus opposed, by what appeared\nto him wilfulness, he became more resolute, and angry words were\nexchanged, and a feeling of estrangement rose up between them, for a\ntime, as they walked homewards.\n\nBut then came in Margaret with her gentleness, like an angel of\npeace, so calm and reasonable, that both felt ashamed of their\nirritation, and tacitly left the decision to her (only, by the way,\nI think Mary could never have submitted if it had gone against her,\npenitent and tearful as was her manner now to Job, the good old man\nwho was helping her to work for Jem, although they differed as to the\nmanner).\n\n\"Mary had better go,\" said Margaret to her grandfather, in a low\ntone, \"I know what she's feeling, and it will be a comfort to her\nsoon, may be, to think she did all she could herself. She would\nperhaps fancy it might have been different; do, grandfather, let\nher.\"\n\nMargaret had still, you see, little or no belief in Jem's innocence;\nand besides, she thought if Mary saw Will, and heard herself from him\nthat Jem had not been with him that Thursday night, it would in a\nmeasure break the force of the blow which was impending.\n\n\"Let me lock up house, grandfather, for a couple of days, and go and\nstay with Alice. It's but little one like me can do, I know\" (she\nadded softly); \"but, by the blessing o' God, I'll do it and welcome;\nand here comes one kindly use o' money, I can hire them as will do\nfor her what I cannot. Mrs. Davenport is a willing body, and one who\nknows sorrow and sickness, and I can pay her for her time, and keep\nher there pretty near altogether. So let that be settled. And you\ntake Mrs. Wilson, dear grandad, and let Mary go find Will, and you\ncan all meet together at after, and I'm sure I wish you luck.\"\n\nJob consented with only a few dissenting grunts; but on the whole,\nwith a very good grace for an old man who had been so positive only a\nfew minutes before.\n\nMary was thankful for Margaret's interference. She did not speak, but\nthrew her arms round Margaret's neck, and put up her rosy-red mouth\nto be kissed; and even Job was attracted by the pretty, child-like\ngesture; and when she drew near him, afterwards, like a little\ncreature sidling up to some person whom it feels to have offended, he\nbent down and blessed her, as if she had been a child of his own.\n\nTo Mary the old man's blessing came like words of power.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\nTHE JOURNEY TO LIVERPOOL.\n\n\n   \"Like a bark upon the sea,\n     Life is floating over death;\n   Above, below, encircling thee,\n     Danger lurks in every breath.\n\n   Parted art thou from the grave\n     Only by a plank most frail;\n   Tossed upon the restless wave,\n     Sport of every fickle gale.\n\n   Let the skies be e'er so clear,\n     And so calm and still the sea,\n   Shipwreck yet has he to fear,\n     Who life's voyager will be.\"\n\n   RÜCKERT.\n\n\nThe early trains for Liverpool, on Monday morning, were crowded by\nattorneys, attorneys' clerks, plaintiffs, defendants, and witnesses,\nall going to the Assizes. They were a motley assembly, each with\nsome cause for anxiety stirring at his heart; though, after all,\nthat is saying little or nothing, for we are all of us in the same\npredicament through life; each with a fear and a hope from childhood\nto death. Among the passengers there was Mary Barton, dressed in the\nblue gown and obnoxious plaid shawl.\n\nCommon as railroads are now in all places as a means of transit, and\nespecially in Manchester, Mary had never been on one before; and she\nfelt bewildered by the hurry, the noise of people, and bells, and\nhorns; the whiz and the scream of the arriving trains.\n\nThe very journey itself seemed to her a matter of wonder. She had a\nback seat, and looked towards the factory-chimneys, and the cloud\nof smoke which hovers over Manchester, with a feeling akin to the\n\"Heimweh.\" She was losing sight of the familiar objects of her\nchildhood for the first time; and unpleasant as those objects are to\nmost, she yearned after them with some of the same sentiment which\ngives pathos to the thoughts of the emigrant.\n\nThe cloud-shadows which give beauty to Chat-Moss, the picturesque old\nhouses of Newton, what were they to Mary, whose heart was full of\nmany things? Yet she seemed to look at them earnestly as they glided\npast; but she neither saw nor heard.\n\nShe neither saw nor heard till some well-known names fell upon her\near.\n\nTwo lawyers' clerks were discussing the cases to come on that\nAssizes; of course, \"the murder-case,\" as it had come to be termed,\nheld a conspicuous place in their conversation.\n\nThey had no doubt of the result.\n\n\"Juries are always very unwilling to convict on circumstantial\nevidence, it is true,\" said one, \"but here there can hardly be any\ndoubt.\"\n\n\"If it had not been so clear a case,\" replied the other, \"I should\nhave said they were injudicious in hurrying on the trial so much.\nStill, more evidence might have been collected.\"\n\n\"They tell me,\" said the first speaker,--\"the people in Gardener's\noffice I mean,--that it was really feared the old gentleman would\nhave gone out of his mind, if the trial had been delayed. He was with\nMr. Gardener as many as seven times on Saturday, and called him up\nat night to suggest that some letter should be written, or something\ndone to secure the verdict.\"\n\n\"Poor old man,\" answered his companion, \"who can wonder?--an only\nson,--such a death,--the disagreeable circumstances attending it; I\nhad not time to read the _Guardian_ on Saturday, but I understand it\nwas some dispute about a factory girl.\"\n\n\"Yes, some such person. Of course she'll be examined, and Williams\nwill do it in style. I shall slip out from our court to hear him if\nI can hit the nick of time.\"\n\n\"And if you can get a place, you mean, for depend upon it the court\nwill be crowded.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, the ladies (sweet souls) will come in shoals to hear a trial\nfor murder, and see the murderer, and watch the judge put on his\nblack cap.\"\n\n\"And then go home and groan over the Spanish ladies who take delight\nin bull-fights--'such unfeminine creatures!'\"\n\nThen they went on to other subjects.\n\nIt was but another drop to Mary's cup; but she was nearly in that\nstate which Crabbe describes,\n\n   \"For when so full the cup of sorrows flows\n   Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflows.\"\n\nAnd now they were in the tunnel!--and now they were in Liverpool;\nand she must rouse herself from the torpor of mind and body which\nwas creeping over her; the result of much anxiety and fatigue, and\nseveral sleepless nights.\n\nShe asked a policeman the way to Milk House Yard, and following his\ndirections with the _savoir faire_ of a town-bred girl, she reached a\nlittle court leading out of a busy, thronged street, not far from the\nDocks.\n\nWhen she entered the quiet little yard she stopped to regain her\nbreath, and to gather strength, for her limbs trembled, and her heart\nbeat violently.\n\nAll the unfavourable contingencies she had, until now, forbidden\nherself to dwell upon, came forward to her mind. The possibility,\nthe bare possibility, of Jem being an accomplice in the murder; the\nstill greater possibility that he had not fulfilled his intention of\ngoing part of the way with Will, but had been led off by some little\naccidental occurrence from his original intention; and that he had\nspent the evening with those, whom it was now too late to bring\nforward as witnesses.\n\nBut sooner or later she must know the truth; so taking courage she\nknocked at the door of a house.\n\n\"Is this Mrs. Jones's?\" she inquired.\n\n\"Next door but one,\" was the curt answer.\n\nAnd even this extra minute was a reprieve.\n\nMrs. Jones was busy washing, and would have spoken angrily to the\nperson who knocked so gently at the door, if anger had been in her\nnature; but she was a soft, helpless kind of woman, and only sighed\nover the many interruptions she had had to her business that unlucky\nMonday morning.\n\nBut the feeling which would have been anger in a more impatient\ntemper, took the form of prejudice against the disturber, whoever he\nor she might be.\n\nMary's fluttered and excited appearance strengthened this prejudice\nin Mrs. Jones's mind, as she stood, stripping the soap-suds off her\narms, while she eyed her visitor, and waited to be told what her\nbusiness was.\n\nBut no words would come. Mary's voice seemed choked up in her throat.\n\n\"Pray what do you want, young woman?\" coldly asked Mrs. Jones at\nlast.\n\n\"I want--Oh! is Will Wilson here?\"\n\n\"No, he is not,\" replied Mrs. Jones, inclining to shut the door in\nher face.\n\n\"Is he not come back from the Isle of Man?\" asked Mary, sickening.\n\n\"He never went; he stayed in Manchester too long; as perhaps you\nknow, already.\"\n\nAnd again the door seemed closing.\n\nBut Mary bent forwards with suppliant action (as some young tree\nbends, when blown by the rough, autumnal wind), and gasped out,\n\n\"Tell me--tell me--where is he?\"\n\nMrs. Jones suspected some love affair, and, perhaps, one of not the\nmost creditable kind; but the distress of the pale young creature\nbefore her was so obvious and so pitiable, that were she ever so\nsinful, Mrs. Jones could no longer uphold her short, reserved manner.\n\n\"He's gone this very morning, my poor girl. Step in, and I'll tell\nyou about it.\"\n\n\"Gone!\" cried Mary. \"How gone? I must see him,--it's a matter of life\nand death: he can save the innocent from being hanged,--he cannot be\ngone,--how gone?\"\n\n\"Sailed, my dear! sailed in the _John Cropper_ this very blessed\nmorning.\"\n\n\"Sailed!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\nIN THE LIVERPOOL DOCKS.\n\n\n   \"Yon is our quay!\n   Hark to the clamour in that miry road,\n   Bounded and narrowed by yon vessel's load;\n   The lumbering wealth she empties round the place,\n   Package and parcel, hogshead, chest and case:\n   While the loud seaman and the angry hind,\n   Mingling in business, bellow to the wind.\"\n\n   CRABBE.\n\n\nMary staggered into the house. Mrs. Jones placed her tenderly in a\nchair, and there stood bewildered by her side.\n\n\"Oh, father! father!\" muttered she, \"what have you done?--What must I\ndo? must the innocent die?--or he--whom I fear--I fear--oh! what am I\nsaying?\" said she, looking round affrighted, and seemingly reassured\nby Mrs. Jones's countenance, \"I am so helpless, so weak,--but a poor\ngirl after all. How can I tell what is right? Father! you have always\nbeen so kind to me,--and you to be--never mind--never mind, all will\ncome right in the grave.\"\n\n\"Save us, and bless us!\" exclaimed Mrs. Jones, \"if I don't think\nshe's gone out of her wits!\"\n\n\"No, I'm not!\" said Mary, catching at the words, and with a strong\neffort controlling the mind she felt to be wandering, while the red\nblood flushed to scarlet the heretofore white cheek, \"I'm not out of\nmy senses; there is so much to be done--so much--and no one but me to\ndo it, you know,--though I can't rightly tell what it is,\" looking up\nwith bewilderment into Mrs. Jones's face. \"I must not go mad whatever\ncomes--at least not yet. No!\" (bracing herself up) \"something may yet\nbe done, and I must do it. Sailed! did you say? The _John Cropper_?\nSailed?\"\n\n\"Ay! she went out of dock last night, to be ready for the morning's\ntide.\"\n\n\"I thought she was not to sail till to-morrow,\" murmured Mary.\n\n\"So did Will (he's lodged here long, so we all call him 'Will'),\"\nreplied Mrs. Jones. \"The mate had told him so, I believe, and he\nnever knew different till he got to Liverpool on Friday morning; but\nas soon as he heard, he gave up going to the Isle o' Man, and just\nran over to Rhyl with the mate, one John Harris, as has friends a bit\nbeyond Abergele; you may have heard him speak on him, for they are\ngreat chums, though I've my own opinion of Harris.\"\n\n\"And he's sailed?\" repeated Mary, trying by repetition to realise the\nfact to herself.\n\n\"Ay, he went on board last night to be ready for the morning's tide,\nas I said afore, and my boy went to see the ship go down the river,\nand came back all agog with the sight. Here, Charley, Charley!\" She\ncalled out loudly for her son: but Charley was one of those boys who\nare never \"far to seek,\" as the Lancashire people say, when any thing\nis going on; a mysterious conversation, an unusual event, a fire, or\na riot, any thing, in short; such boys are the little omnipresent\npeople of this world.\n\nCharley had, in fact, been spectator and auditor all this time;\nthough for a little while he had been engaged in \"dollying\" and a few\nother mischievous feats in the washing line, which had prevented his\nattention from being fully given to his mother's conversation with\nthe strange girl who had entered.\n\n\"Oh, Charley! there you are! Did you not see the _John Cropper_ sail\ndown the river this morning? Tell the young woman about it, for I\nthink she hardly credits me.\"\n\n\"I saw her tugged down the river by a steam-boat, which comes to same\nthing,\" replied he.\n\n\"Oh! if I had but come last night!\" moaned Mary. \"But I never thought\nof it. I never thought but what he knew right when he said he would\nbe back from the Isle of Man on Monday morning, and not afore--and\nnow some one must die for my negligence!\"\n\n\"Die!\" exclaimed the lad. \"How?\"\n\n\"Oh! Will would have proved an _alibi_,--but he's gone,--and what am\nI to do?\"\n\n\"Don't give it up yet,\" cried the energetic boy, interested at once\nin the case; \"let's have a try for him. We are but where we were if\nwe fail.\"\n\nMary roused herself. The sympathetic \"we\" gave her heart and hope.\n\"But what can be done? You say he's sailed; what can be done?\" But\nshe spoke louder, and in a more life-like tone.\n\n\"No! I did not say he'd sailed; mother said that, and women know\nnought about such matters. You see\" (proud of his office of\ninstructor, and insensibly influenced, as all about her were, by\nMary's sweet, earnest, lovely countenance) \"there's sand-banks at the\nmouth of the river, and ships can't get over them but at high-water;\nespecially ships of heavy burden, like the _John Cropper_. Now, she\nwas tugged down the river at low water, or pretty near, and will have\nto lie some time before the water will be high enough to float her\nover the banks. So hold up your head,--you've a chance yet, though\nmay be but a poor one.\"\n\n\"But what must I do?\" asked Mary, to whom all this explanation had\nbeen a vague mystery.\n\n\"Do!\" said the boy, impatiently, \"why, have not I told you? Only\nwomen (begging your pardon) are so stupid at understanding about any\nthing belonging to the sea;--you must get a boat, and make all haste,\nand sail after him,--after the _John Cropper_. You may overtake her,\nor you may not. It's just a chance; but she's heavy laden, and that's\nin your favour. She'll draw many feet of water.\"\n\nMary had humbly and eagerly (oh, how eagerly!) listened to this young\nSir Oracle's speech; but try as she would, she could only understand\nthat she must make haste, and sail--somewhere--\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" (and her little acknowledgment of inferiority\nin this speech pleased the lad, and made him her still more zealous\nfriend). \"I beg your pardon,\" said she, \"but I don't know where to\nget a boat. Are there boat-stands?\"\n\nThe lad laughed outright.\n\n\"You're not long in Liverpool, I guess. Boat-stands! No; go down to\nthe pier,--any pier will do, and hire a boat,--you'll be at no loss\nwhen once you are there. Only make haste.\"\n\n\"Oh, you need not tell me that, if I but knew how,\" said Mary,\ntrembling with eagerness. \"But you say right,--I never was here\nbefore, and I don't know my way to the place you speak on; only tell\nme, and I'll not lose a minute.\"\n\n\"Mother!\" said the wilful lad, \"I'm going to show her the way to the\npier; I'll be back in an hour,--or so,--\" he added in a lower tone.\n\nAnd before the gentle Mrs. Jones could collect her scattered wits\nsufficiently to understand half of the hastily formed plan, her son\nwas scudding down the street, closely followed by Mary's half-running\nsteps.\n\nPresently he slackened his pace sufficiently to enable him to enter\ninto conversation with Mary, for once escaped from the reach of his\nmother's recalling voice, he thought he might venture to indulge his\ncuriosity.\n\n\"Ahem!--What's your name? It's so awkward to be calling you young\nwoman.\"\n\n\"My name is Mary,--Mary Barton,\" answered she, anxious to propitiate\none who seemed so willing to exert himself in her behalf, or else\nshe grudged every word which caused the slightest relaxation in her\nspeed, although her chest seemed tightened, and her head throbbing,\nfrom the rate at which they were walking.\n\n\"And you want Will Wilson to prove an _alibi_--is that it?\"\n\n\"Yes--oh, yes--can we not cross now?\"\n\n\"No, wait a minute; it's the teagle hoisting above your head I'm\nafraid of;--and who is it that's to be tried?\"\n\n\"Jem; oh, lad! can't we get past?\"\n\nThey rushed under the great bales quivering in the air above their\nheads and pressed onwards for a few minutes, till Master Charley\nagain saw fit to walk a little slower, and ask a few more questions.\n\n\"Mary, is Jem your brother, or your sweetheart, that you're so set\nupon saving him?\"\n\n\"No--no,\" replied she, but with something of hesitation, that made\nthe shrewd boy yet more anxious to clear up the mystery.\n\n\"Perhaps he's your cousin, then? Many a girl has a cousin who has not\na sweetheart.\"\n\n\"No, he's neither kith nor kin to me. What's the matter? What are you\nstopping for?\" said she, with nervous terror, as Charley turned back\na few steps, and peered up a side street.\n\n\"Oh, nothing to flurry you so, Mary. I heard you say to mother you\nhad never been in Liverpool before, and if you'll only look up this\nstreet you may see the back windows of our Exchange. Such a building\nas yon is! with 'natomy hiding under a blanket, and Lord Admiral\nNelson, and a few more people in the middle of the court! No! come\nhere,\" as Mary, in her eagerness, was looking at any window that\ncaught her eye first, to satisfy the boy. \"Here, then, now you can\nsee it. You can say, now, you've seen Liverpool Exchange.\"\n\n\"Yes, to be sure--it's a beautiful window, I'm sure. But are we near\nthe boats? I'll stop as I come back, you know; only I think we'd\nbetter get on now.\"\n\n\"Oh! if the wind's in your favour, you'll be down the river in no\ntime, and catch Will, I'll be bound; and if it's not, why, you know,\nthe minute it took you to look at the Exchange will be neither here\nnor there.\"\n\nAnother rush onwards, till one of the long crossings near the docks\ncaused a stoppage, and gave Mary time for breathing, and Charley\nleisure to ask another question.\n\n\"You've never said where you come from?\"\n\n\"Manchester,\" replied she.\n\n\"Eh, then! you've a power of things to see. Liverpool beats\nManchester hollow, they say. A nasty, smoky hole, bean't it? Are you\nbound to live there?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! it's my home.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't think I could abide a home in the middle of smoke.\nLook there! now you see the river! That's something now you'd give\na deal for in Manchester. Look!\"\n\nAnd Mary did look, and saw down an opening made in the forest of\nmasts belonging to the vessels in dock, the glorious river, along\nwhich white-sailed ships were gliding with the ensigns of all\nnations, not \"braving the battle,\" but telling of the distant lands,\nspicy or frozen, that sent to that mighty mart for their comforts\nor their luxuries; she saw small boats passing to and fro on that\nglittering highway, but she also saw such puffs and clouds of\nsmoke from the countless steamers, that she wondered at Charley's\nintolerance of the smoke of Manchester. Across the swing-bridge,\nalong the pier,--and they stood breathless by a magnificent dock,\nwhere hundreds of ships lay motionless during the process of loading\nand unloading. The cries of the sailors, the variety of languages\nused by the passers-by, and the entire novelty of the sight compared\nwith any thing which Mary had ever seen, made her feel most helpless\nand forlorn; and she clung to her young guide as to one who alone by\nhis superior knowledge could interpret between her and the new race\nof men by whom she was surrounded,--for a new race sailors might\nreasonably be considered, to a girl who had hitherto seen none but\ninland dwellers, and those for the greater part factory people.\n\nIn that new world of sight and sound, she still bore one prevailing\nthought, and though her eye glanced over the ships and the\nwide-spreading river, her mind was full of the thought of reaching\nWill.\n\n\"Why are we here?\" asked she of Charley. \"There are no little boats\nabout, and I thought I was to go in a little boat; those ships are\nnever meant for short distances, are they?\"\n\n\"To be sure not,\" replied he, rather contemptuously. \"But the _John\nCropper_ lay in this dock, and I know many of the sailors; and if I\ncould see one I knew, I'd ask him to run up the mast, and see if he\ncould catch a sight of her in the offing. If she's weighed her anchor\nno use for your going, you know.\"\n\nMary assented quietly to this speech, as if she were as careless as\nCharley seemed now to be about her overtaking Will; but in truth her\nheart was sinking within her, and she no longer felt the energy which\nhad hitherto upheld her. Her bodily strength was giving way, and she\nstood cold and shivering, although the noon-day sun beat down with\nconsiderable power on the shadeless spot where she was standing.\n\n\"Here's Tom Bourne!\" said Charley; and altering his manner from\nthe patronising key in which he had spoken to Mary, he addressed a\nweather-beaten old sailor who came rolling along the pathway where\nthey stood, his hands in his pockets, and his quid in his mouth, with\nvery much the air of one who had nothing to do but look about him,\nand spit right and left; addressing this old tar, Charley made known\nto him his wish in slang, which to Mary was almost inaudible, and\nquite unintelligible, and which I am too much of a land-lubber to\nrepeat correctly.\n\nMary watched looks and actions with a renovated keenness of\nperception.\n\nShe saw the old man listen attentively to Charley; she saw him eye\nher over from head to foot, and wind up his inspection with a little\nnod of approbation (for her very shabbiness and poverty of dress were\ncreditable signs to the experienced old sailor); and then she watched\nhim leisurely swing himself on to a ship in the basin, and, borrowing\na glass, run up the mast with the speed of a monkey.\n\n\"He'll fall!\" said she, in affright, clutching at Charley's arm, and\njudging the sailor, from his storm-marked face and unsteady walk on\nland, to be much older than he really was.\n\n\"Not he!\" said Charley. \"He's at the mast-head now. See! he's looking\nthrough his glass, and using his arms as steady as if he were on\ndry land. Why, I've been up the mast, many and many a time; only\ndon't tell mother. She thinks I'm to be a shoemaker, but I've made\nup my mind to be a sailor; only there's no good arguing with a woman.\nYou'll not tell her, Mary?\"\n\n\"Oh, see!\" exclaimed she (his secret was very safe with her, for, in\nfact, she had not heard it). \"See! he's coming down; he's down. Speak\nto him, Charley.\"\n\nBut unable to wait another instant she called out herself,\n\n\"Can you see the _John Cropper_? Is she there yet?\"\n\n\"Ay, ay,\" he answered, and coming quickly up to them, he hurried them\naway to seek for a boat, saying the bar was already covered, and in\nan hour the ship would hoist her sails and be off. \"You've the wind\nright against you, and must use oars. No time to lose.\"\n\nThey ran to some steps leading down to the water. They beckoned to\nsome watermen, who, suspecting the real state of the case, appeared\nin no hurry for a fare, but leisurely brought their boat alongside\nthe stairs, as if it were a matter of indifference to them whether\nthey were engaged or not, while they conversed together in few words,\nand in an under-tone, respecting the charge they should make.\n\n\"Oh, pray make haste,\" called Mary. \"I want you to take me to the\n_John Cropper_. Where is she, Charley? Tell them--I don't rightly\nknow the words,--only make haste!\"\n\n\"In the offing she is, sure enough, miss,\" answered one of the men,\nshoving Charley on one side, regarding him as too young to be a\nprincipal in the bargain.\n\n\"I don't think we can go, Dick,\" said he, with a wink to his\ncompanion; \"there's the gentleman over at New Brighton as wants us.\"\n\n\"But, mayhap, the young woman will pay us handsome for giving her a\nlast look at her sweetheart,\" interposed the other.\n\n\"Oh, how much do you want? Only make haste--I've enough to pay you,\nbut every moment is precious,\" said Mary.\n\n\"Ay, that it is. Less than an hour won't take us to the mouth of the\nriver, and she'll be off by two o'clock!\"\n\nPoor Mary's ideas of \"plenty of money,\" however, were different to\nthose entertained by the boatmen. Only fourteen or fifteen shillings\nremained out of the sovereign Margaret had lent her, and the boatmen,\nimagining \"plenty\" to mean no less than several pounds, insisted\nupon receiving a sovereign (an exorbitant fare, by the bye, although\nreduced from their first demand of thirty shillings).\n\nWhile Charley, with a boy's impatience of delay, and disregard of\nmoney, kept urging,\n\n\"Give it 'em, Mary; they'll none of them take you for less. It's your\nonly chance. There's St. Nicholas ringing one!\"\n\n\"I've only got fourteen and ninepence,\" cried she, in despair, after\ncounting over her money; \"but I'll give you my shawl, and you can\nsell it for four or five shillings,--oh! won't that much do?\" asked\nshe, in such a tone of voice, that they must indeed have had hard\nhearts who could refuse such agonised entreaty.\n\nThey took her on board.\n\nAnd in less than five minutes she was rocking and tossing in a boat\nfor the first time in her life, alone with two rough, hard-looking\nmen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\n\"JOHN CROPPER, AHOY!\"\n\n\n   \"A wet sheet and a flowing sea,\n     A wind that follows fast\n   And fills the white and rustling sail,\n     And bends the gallant mast!\n   And bends the gallant mast, my boys,\n     While, like the eagle free,\n   Away the good ship flies, and leaves\n     Old England on the lee.\"\n\n   ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.\n\n\nMary had not understood that Charley was not coming with her. In\nfact, she had not thought about it, till she perceived his absence,\nas they pushed off from the landing-place, and remembered that she\nhad never thanked him for all his kind interest in her behalf; and\nnow his absence made her feel most lonely--even his, the little\nmushroom friend of an hour's growth.\n\nThe boat threaded her way through the maze of larger vessels which\nsurrounded the shore, bumping against one, kept off by the oars from\ngoing right against another, overshadowed by a third, until at length\nthey were fairly out on the broad river, away from either shore; the\nsights and sounds of land being lost in the distance.\n\nAnd then came a sort of pause.\n\nBoth wind and tide were against the two men, and labour as they would\nthey made but little way. Once Mary in her impatience had risen up to\nobtain a better view of the progress they had made, but the men had\nroughly told her to sit down immediately, and she had dropped on her\nseat like a chidden child, although the impatience was still at her\nheart.\n\nBut now she grew sure they were turning off from the straight course\nwhich they had hitherto kept on the Cheshire side of the river,\nwhither they had gone to avoid the force of the current, and after\na short time she could not help naming her conviction, as a kind of\nnightmare dread and belief came over her, that every thing animate\nand inanimate was in league against her one sole aim and object of\novertaking Will.\n\nThey answered gruffly. They saw a boatman whom they knew, and were\ndesirous of obtaining his services as steersman, so that both might\nrow with greater effect. They knew what they were about. So she sat\nsilent with clenched hands while the parley went on, the explanation\nwas given, the favour asked and granted. But she was sickening all\nthe time with nervous fear.\n\nThey had been rowing a long, long time--half a day it seemed, at\nleast--yet Liverpool appeared still close at hand, and Mary began\nalmost to wonder that the men were not as much disheartened as she\nwas, when the wind, which had been hitherto against them, dropped,\nand thin clouds began to gather over the sky, shutting out the sun,\nand casting a chilly gloom over every thing.\n\nThere was not a breath of air, and yet it was colder than when the\nsoft violence of the westerly wind had been felt.\n\nThe men renewed their efforts. The boat gave a bound forwards\nat every pull of the oars. The water was glassy and motionless,\nreflecting tint by tint of the Indian-ink sky above. Mary shivered,\nand her heart sank within her. Still now they evidently were making\nprogress. Then the steersman pointed to a rippling line in the river\nonly a little way off, and the men disturbed Mary, who was watching\nthe ships that lay in what appeared to her the open sea, to get at\ntheir sails.\n\nShe gave a little start, and rose. Her patience, her grief, and\nperhaps her silence, had begun to win upon the men.\n\n\"Yon second to the norrard is the _John Cropper_. Wind's right now,\nand sails will soon carry us alongside of her.\"\n\nHe had forgotten (or perhaps he did not like to remind Mary) that the\nsame wind which now bore their little craft along with easy, rapid\nmotion, would also be favourable to the _John Cropper_.\n\nBut as they looked with straining eyes, as if to measure the\ndecreasing distance that separated them from her, they saw her sails\nunfurled and flap in the breeze, till, catching the right point, they\nbellied forth into white roundness, and the ship began to plunge and\nheave, as if she were a living creature, impatient to be off.\n\n\"They're heaving anchor!\" said one of the boatmen to the others, as\nthe faint musical cry of the sailors came floating over the waters\nthat still separated them.\n\nFull of the spirit of the chase, though as yet ignorant of Mary's\nmotives, the men sprang to hoist another sail. It was fully as much\nas the boat could bear, in the keen, gusty east wind which was now\nblowing, and she bent, and laboured, and ploughed, and creaked\nupbraidingly as if tasked beyond her strength; but she sped along\nwith a gallant swiftness.\n\nThey drew nearer, and they heard the distant \"ahoy\" more clearly. It\nceased. The anchor was up, and the ship was away.\n\nMary stood up, steadying herself by the mast, and stretched out her\narms, imploring the flying vessel to stay its course by that mute\naction, while the tears streamed down her cheeks. The men caught\nup their oars and hoisted them in the air, and shouted to arrest\nattention.\n\nThey were seen by the men aboard the larger craft; but they were too\nbusy with all the confusion prevalent in an outward-bound vessel to\npay much attention. There were coils of ropes and seamen's chests\nto be stumbled over at every turn; there were animals, not properly\nsecured, roaming bewildered about the deck, adding their pitiful\nlowings and bleatings to the aggregate of noises. There were carcases\nnot cut up, looking like corpses of sheep and pigs rather than like\nmutton and pork; there were sailors running here and there and\neverywhere, having had no time to fall into method, and with their\nminds divided between thoughts of the land and the people they had\nleft, and the present duties on board ship; while the captain strove\nhard to procure some kind of order by hasty commands given in a loud,\nimpatient voice, to right and left, starboard and larboard, cabin and\nsteerage.\n\nAs he paced the deck with a chafed step, vexed at one or two little\nmistakes on the part of the mate, and suffering himself from the pain\nof separation from wife and children, but showing his suffering only\nby his outward irritation, he heard a hail from the shabby little\nriver-boat that was striving to overtake his winged ship. For the\nmen fearing that, as the ship was now fairly over the bar, they\nshould only increase the distance between them, and being now within\nshouting range, had asked of Mary her more particular desire.\n\nHer throat was dry; all musical sound had gone out of her voice;\nbut in a loud harsh whisper she told the men her errand of life and\ndeath, and they hailed the ship.\n\n\"We're come for one William Wilson, who is wanted to prove an _alibi_\nin Liverpool Assize Courts to-morrow. James Wilson is to be tried for\na murder, done on Thursday night, when he was with William Wilson.\nAny thing more, missis?\" asked the boat-man of Mary, in a lower\nvoice, and taking his hands down from his mouth.\n\n\"Say I'm Mary Barton. Oh, the ship is going on! Oh, for the love of\nHeaven, ask them to stop.\"\n\nThe boatman was angry at the little regard paid to his summons, and\ncalled out again; repeating the message with the name of the young\nwoman who sent it, and interlarding it with sailors' oaths.\n\nThe ship flew along--away,--the boat struggled after.\n\nThey could see the captain take his speaking-trumpet. And oh! and\nalas! they heard his words.\n\nHe swore a dreadful oath; he called Mary a disgraceful name; and he\nsaid he would not stop his ship for any one, nor could he part with\na single hand, whoever swung for it.\n\nThe words came in unpitying clearness with their trumpet-sound. Mary\nsat down, looking like one who prays in the death-agony. For her eyes\nwere turned up to that Heaven, where mercy dwelleth, while her blue\nlips quivered, though no sound came. Then she bowed her head and hid\nit in her hands.\n\n\"Hark! yon sailor hails us.\"\n\nShe looked up. And her heart stopped its beating to listen.\n\nWilliam Wilson stood as near the stern of the vessel as he could get;\nand unable to obtain the trumpet from the angry captain, made a tube\nof his own hands.\n\n\"So help me God, Mary Barton, I'll come back in the pilot-boat, time\nenough to save the life of the innocent.\"\n\n\"What does he say?\" asked Mary wildly, as the voice died away in the\nincreasing distance, while the boatmen cheered, in their kindled\nsympathy with their passenger.\n\n\"What does he say?\" repeated she. \"Tell me. I could not hear.\"\n\nShe had heard with her ears, but her brain refused to recognise the\nsense.\n\nThey repeated his speech, all three speaking at once, with many\ncomments; while Mary looked at them and then at the vessel now far\naway.\n\n\"I don't rightly know about it,\" said she, sorrowfully. \"What is the\npilot-boat?\"\n\nThey told her, and she gathered the meaning out of the sailors' slang\nwhich enveloped it. There was a hope still, although so slight and\nfaint.\n\n\"How far does the pilot go with the ship?\"\n\nTo different distances they said. Some pilots would go as far as\nHolyhead for the chance of the homeward-bound vessels; others only\ntook the ships over the Banks. Some captains were more cautious than\nothers, and the pilots had different ways. The wind was against\nthe homeward bound vessels, so perhaps the pilot aboard the _John\nCropper_ would not care to go far out.\n\n\"How soon would he come back?\"\n\nThere were three boatmen, and three opinions, varying from twelve\nhours to two days. Nay, the man who gave his vote for the longest\ntime, on having his judgment disputed, grew stubborn, and doubled\nthe time, and thought it might be the end of the week before the\npilot-boat came home.\n\nThey began disputing, and urging reasons; and Mary tried to\nunderstand them; but independently of their nautical language, a veil\nseemed drawn over her mind, and she had no clear perception of any\nthing that passed. Her very words seemed not her own, and beyond her\npower of control, for she found herself speaking quite differently to\nwhat she meant.\n\nOne by one her hopes had fallen away, and left her desolate; and\nthough a chance yet remained, she could no longer hope. She felt\ncertain it, too, would fade and vanish. She sank into a kind of\nstupor. All outward objects harmonised with her despair.\n\nThe gloomy leaden sky,--the deep, dark waters below, of a still\nheavier shade of colour,--the cold, flat yellow shore in the\ndistance, which no ray lightened up,--the nipping, cutting wind.\n\nShe shivered with her depression of mind and body.\n\nThe sails were taken down, of course, on the return to Liverpool,\nand the progress they made, rowing and tacking, was very slow. The\nmen talked together, disputing about the pilots at first, and then\nabout matters of local importance, in which Mary would have taken no\ninterest at any time, and she gradually became drowsy; irrepressibly\nso, indeed, for in spite of her jerking efforts to keep awake she\nsank away to the bottom of the boat, and there lay couched on a rough\nheap of sails, rope, and tackle of various kinds.\n\nThe measured beat of the waters against the sides of the boat, and\nthe musical boom of the more distant waves, were more lulling than\nsilence, and she slept sound.\n\nOnce she opened her eyes heavily, and dimly saw the old gray, rough\nboatman (who had stood out the most obstinately for the full fare)\ncovering her with his thick pea-jacket. He had taken it off on\npurpose, and was doing it tenderly in his way, but before she could\nrouse herself up to thank him she had dropped off to sleep again.\n\nAt last, in the dusk of evening, they arrived at the landing-place\nfrom which they had started some hours before. The men spoke to Mary,\nbut though she mechanically replied, she did not stir; so, at length,\nthey were obliged to shake her. She stood up, shivering and puzzled\nas to her whereabouts.\n\n\"Now tell me where you are bound to, missis,\" said the gray old man,\n\"and maybe I can put you in the way.\"\n\nShe slowly comprehended what he said, and went through the process of\nrecollection; but very dimly, and with much labour. She put her hand\ninto her pocket and pulled out her purse, and shook its contents into\nthe man's hand; and then began meekly to unpin her shawl, although\nthey had turned away without asking for it.\n\n\"No, no!\" said the older man, who lingered on the step before\nspringing into the boat, and to whom she mutely offered the shawl.\n\n\"Keep it! we donnot want it. It were only for to try you,--some folks\nsay they've no more blunt, when all the while they've getten a mint.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said she, in a dull, low tone.\n\n\"Where are you bound to? I axed that question afore,\" said the gruff\nold fellow.\n\n\"I don't know. I'm a stranger,\" replied she, quietly, with a strange\nabsence of anxiety under the circumstances.\n\n\"But you mun find out then,\" said he, sharply, \"pier-head's no place\nfor a young woman to be standing on, gape-saying.\"\n\n\"I've a card somewhere as will tell me,\" she answered, and the man,\npartly relieved, jumped into the boat, which was now pushing off to\nmake way for the arrivals from some steamer.\n\nMary felt in her pocket for the card, on which was written the name\nof the street where she was to have met Mr. Bridgenorth at two\no'clock; where Job and Mrs. Wilson were to have been, and where\nshe was to have learnt from the former the particulars of some\nrespectable lodging. It was not to be found.\n\nShe tried to brighten her perceptions, and felt again, and took\nout the little articles her pocket contained, her empty purse, her\npocket-handkerchief, and such little things, but it was not there.\n\nIn fact she had dropped it when, so eager to embark, she had pulled\nout her purse to reckon up her money.\n\nShe did not know this, of course. She only knew it was gone.\n\nIt added but little to the despair that was creeping over her. But\nshe tried a little more to help herself, though every minute her mind\nbecame more cloudy. She strove to remember where Will had lodged, but\nshe could not; name, street, every thing had passed away, and it did\nnot signify; better she were lost than found.\n\nShe sat down quietly on the top step of the landing, and gazed down\ninto the dark, dank water below. Once or twice a spectral thought\nloomed among the shadows of her brain; a wonder whether beneath that\ncold dismal surface there would not be rest from the troubles of\nearth. But she could not hold an idea before her for two consecutive\nmoments; and she forgot what she thought about before she could act\nupon it.\n\nSo she continued sitting motionless, without looking up, or regarding\nin any way the insults to which she was subjected.\n\nThrough the darkening light the old boatman had watched her:\ninterested in her in spite of himself, and his scoldings of himself.\n\nWhen the landing-place was once more comparatively clear, he made his\nway towards it, across boats, and along planks, swearing at himself\nwhile he did so, for an old fool.\n\nHe shook Mary's shoulder violently.\n\n\"D---- you, I ask you again where you're bound to? Don't sit there,\nstupid. Where are you going to?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" sighed Mary.\n\n\"Come, come; avast with that story. You said a bit ago you'd a card,\nwhich was to tell you where to go.\"\n\n\"I had, but I've lost it. Never mind.\"\n\nShe looked again down upon the black mirror below.\n\nHe stood by her, striving to put down his better self; but he could\nnot. He shook her again. She looked up, as if she had forgotten him.\n\n\"What do you want?\" asked she, wearily.\n\n\"Come with me, and be d----d to you!\" replied he, clutching her arm\nto pull her up.\n\nShe arose and followed him, with the unquestioning docility of a\nlittle child.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\nA TRUE BILL AGAINST JEM.\n\n\n   \"There are who, living by the legal pen,\n   Are held in honour--honourable men.\"\n\n   CRABBE.\n\n\nAt five minutes before two, Job Legh stood upon the door-step of the\nhouse where Mr. Bridgenorth lodged at Assize time. He had left Mrs.\nWilson at the dwelling of a friend of his, who had offered him a room\nfor the old woman and Mary: a room which had frequently been his, on\nhis occasional visits to Liverpool, but which he was thankful now to\nhave obtained for them, as his own sleeping-place was a matter of\nindifference to him, and the town appeared crowded and disorderly on\nthe eve of the Assizes.\n\nHe was shown in to Mr. Bridgenorth, who was writing. Mary and Will\nWilson had not yet arrived, being, as you know, far away on the broad\nsea; but of this Job of course knew nothing, and he did not as yet\nfeel much anxiety about their non-appearance; he was more curious to\nknow the result of Mr. Bridgenorth's interview that morning with Jem.\n\n\"Why, yes,\" said Mr. Bridgenorth, putting down his pen, \"I\nhave seen him, but to little purpose, I'm afraid. He's very\nimpracticable--very. I told him, of course, that he must be perfectly\nopen with me, or else I could not be prepared for the weak points. I\nnamed your name with the view of unlocking his confidence, but--\"\n\n\"What did he say?\" asked Job, breathlessly.\n\n\"Why, very little. He barely answered me. Indeed, he refused to\nanswer some questions--positively refused. I don't know what I can do\nfor him.\"\n\n\"Then you think him guilty, sir?\" said Job, despondingly.\n\n\"No, I don't,\" replied Mr. Bridgenorth, quickly and decisively. \"Much\nless than I did before I saw him. The impression (mind, 'tis only\nimpression; I rely upon your caution, not to take it for fact)--the\nimpression,\" with an emphasis on the word, \"he gave me is, that he\nknows something about the affair, but what, he will not say; and so\nthe chances are, if he persists in his obstinacy, he'll be hung.\nThat's all.\"\n\nHe began to write again, for he had no time to lose.\n\n\"But he must not be hung,\" said Job, with vehemence.\n\nMr. Bridgenorth looked up, smiled a little, but shook his head.\n\n\"What did he say, sir, if I may be so bold as to ask?\" continued Job.\n\n\"His words were few enough, and he was so reserved and short, that\nas I said before, I can only give you the impression they conveyed\nto me. I told him of course who I was, and for what I was sent. He\nlooked pleased, I thought,--at least his face (sad enough when I went\nin, I assure ye) brightened a little; but he said he had nothing to\nsay, no defence to make. I asked him if he was guilty, then; and by\nway of opening his heart I said I understood he had had provocation\nenough, inasmuch as I heard that the girl was very lovely, and had\njilted him to fall desperately in love with that handsome young\nCarson (poor fellow!). But James Wilson did not speak one way or\nanother. I then went to particulars. I asked him if the gun was his,\nas his mother had declared. He had not heard of her admission it was\nevident, from his quick way of looking up, and the glance of his eye;\nbut when he saw I was observing him, he hung down his head again, and\nmerely said she was right; it was his gun.\"\n\n\"Well!\" said Job, impatiently, as Mr. Bridgenorth paused.\n\n\"Nay! I have little more to tell you,\" continued that gentleman. \"I\nasked him to inform me in all confidence, how it came to be found\nthere. He was silent for a time, and then refused. Not only refused\nto answer that question, but candidly told me he would not say\nanother word on the subject, and, thanking me for my trouble and\ninterest in his behalf, he all but dismissed me. Ungracious enough on\nthe whole, was it not, Mr. Legh? And yet, I assure ye, I am twenty\ntimes more inclined to think him innocent than before I had the\ninterview.\"\n\n\"I wish Mary Barton would come,\" said Job, anxiously. \"She and Will\nare a long time about it.\"\n\n\"Ay, that's our only chance, I believe,\" answered Mr. Bridgenorth,\nwho was writing again. \"I sent Johnson off before twelve to serve him\nwith his sub-poena, and to say I wanted to speak with him; he'll be\nhere soon, I've no doubt.\"\n\nThere was a pause. Mr. Bridgenorth looked up again, and spoke.\n\n\"Mr. Duncombe promised to be here to speak to his character. I sent\nhim a subpoena on Saturday night. Though after all, juries go very\nlittle by such general and vague testimony as that to character.\nIt is very right that they should not often; but in this instance\nunfortunate for us, as we must rest our case on the _alibi_.\"\n\nThe pen went again, scratch, scratch over the paper.\n\nJob grew very fidgetty. He sat on the edge of his chair, the more\nreadily to start up when Will and Mary should appear. He listened\nintently to every noise and every step on the stair.\n\nOnce he heard a man's footstep, and his old heart gave a leap of\ndelight. But it was only Mr. Bridgenorth's clerk, bringing him a\nlist of those cases in which the grand jury had found true bills.\nHe glanced it over and pushed it to Job, merely saying,\n\n\"Of course we expected this,\" and went on with his writing.\n\nThere was a true bill against James Wilson. Of course. And yet Job\nfelt now doubly anxious and sad. It seemed the beginning of the end.\nHe had got, by imperceptible degrees, to think Jem innocent. Little\nby little this persuasion had come upon him.\n\nMary (tossing about in the little boat on the broad river) did not\ncome, nor did Will.\n\nJob grew very restless. He longed to go and watch for them out of the\nwindow, but feared to interrupt Mr. Bridgenorth. At length his desire\nto look out was irresistible, and he got up and walked carefully and\ngently across the room, his boots creaking at every cautious step.\nThe gloom which had overspread the sky, and the influence of which\nhad been felt by Mary on the open water, was yet more perceptible\nin the dark, dull street. Job grew more and more fidgetty. He was\nobliged to walk about the room, for he could not keep still; and he\ndid so, regardless of Mr. Bridgenorth's impatient little motions\nand noises, as the slow, stealthy, creaking movements were heard,\nbackwards and forwards, behind his chair.\n\nHe really liked Job, and was interested for Jem, else his nervousness\nwould have overcome his sympathy long before it did. But he could\nhold out no longer against the monotonous, grating sound; so at last\nhe threw down his pen, locked his portfolio, and taking up his hat\nand gloves, he told Job he must go to the courts.\n\n\"But Will Wilson is not come,\" said Job, in dismay. \"Just wait while\nI run to his lodgings. I would have done it before, but I thought\nthey'd be here every minute, and I were afraid of missing them. I'll\nbe back in no time.\"\n\n\"No, my good fellow, I really must go. Besides, I begin to think\nJohnson must have made a mistake, and have fixed with this William\nWilson to meet me at the courts. If you like to wait for him here,\npray make use of my room; but I've a notion I shall find him there:\nin which case, I'll send him to your lodgings; shall I? You know\nwhere to find me. I shall be here again by eight o'clock, and with\nthe evidence of this witness that's to prove the _alibi_, I'll have\nthe brief drawn out, and in the hands of counsel to-night.\"\n\nSo saying he shook hands with Job, and went his way. The old man\nconsidered for a minute as he lingered at the door, and then bent\nhis steps towards Mrs. Jones's, where he knew (from reference to\nqueer, odd, heterogeneous memoranda, in an ancient black-leather\npocket-book) that Will lodged, and where he doubted not he should\nhear both of him and of Mary.\n\nHe went there, and gathered what intelligence he could out of Mrs.\nJones's slow replies.\n\nHe asked if a young woman had been there that morning, and if she had\nseen Will Wilson. \"No!\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"Why, bless you, 'cause he had sailed some hours before she came\nasking for him.\"\n\nThere was a dead silence, broken only by the even, heavy sound of\nMrs. Jones's ironing.\n\n\"Where is the young woman now?\" asked Job.\n\n\"Somewhere down at the docks,\" she thought. \"Charley would know, if\nhe was in, but he wasn't. He was in mischief, somewhere or other, she\nhad no doubt. Boys always were. He would break his neck some day, she\nknew;\" so saying, she quietly spat upon her fresh iron, to test its\nheat, and then went on with her business.\n\nJob could have boxed her, he was in such a state of irritation. But\nhe did not, and he had his reward. Charley came in, whistling with\nan air of indifference, assumed to carry off his knowledge of the\nlateness of the hour to which he had lingered about the docks.\n\n\"Here's an old man come to know where the young woman is who went out\nwith thee this morning,\" said his mother, after she had bestowed on\nhim a little motherly scolding.\n\n\"Where she is now, I don't know. I saw her last sailing down the\nriver after the _John Cropper_. I'm afeared she won't reach her; wind\nchanged and she would be under weigh, and over the bar in no time.\nShe should have been back by now.\"\n\nIt took Job some little time to understand this, from the confused\nuse of the feminine pronoun. Then he inquired how he could best find\nMary.\n\n\"I'll run down again to the pier,\" said the boy; \"I'll warrant I'll\nfind her.\"\n\n\"Thou shalt do no such a thing,\" said his mother, setting her back\nagainst the door. The lad made a comical face at Job, which met with\nno responsive look from the old man, whose sympathies were naturally\nin favour of the parent; although he would thankfully have availed\nhimself of Charley's offer, for he was weary, and anxious to return\nto poor Mrs. Wilson, who would be wondering what had become of him.\n\n\"How can I best find her? Who did she go with, lad?\"\n\nBut Charley was sullen at his mother's exercise of authority before\na stranger, and at that stranger's grave looks when he meant to have\nmade him laugh.\n\n\"They were river boatmen;--that's all I know,\" said he.\n\n\"But what was the name of their boat?\" persevered Job.\n\n\"I never took no notice;--the Anne, or William,--or some of them\ncommon names, I'll be bound.\"\n\n\"What pier did she start from?\" asked Job, despairingly.\n\n\"Oh, as for that matter, it were the stairs on the Prince's Pier she\nstarted from; but she'll not come back to the same, for the American\nsteamer came up with the tide, and anchored close to it, blocking up\nthe way for all the smaller craft. It's a rough evening too, to be\nout on,\" he maliciously added.\n\n\"Well, God's will be done! I did hope we could have saved the lad,\"\nsaid Job, sorrowfully; \"but I'm getten very doubtful again. I'm\nuneasy about Mary, too,--very. She's a stranger in Liverpool.\"\n\n\"So she told me,\" said Charley. \"There's traps about for young women\nat every corner. It's a pity she's no one to meet her when she\nlands.\"\n\n\"As for that,\" replied Job, \"I don't see how any one could meet her\nwhen we can't tell where she would come to. I must trust to her\ncoming right. She's getten spirit and sense. She'll most likely be\nfor coming here again. Indeed, I don't know what else she can do, for\nshe knows no other place in Liverpool. Missus, if she comes, will\nyou give your son leave to bring her to No. 8, Back Garden Court,\nwhere there's friends waiting for her? I'll give him sixpence for his\ntrouble.\"\n\nMrs. Jones, pleased with the reference to her, gladly promised. And\neven Charley, indignant as he was at first at the idea of his motions\nbeing under the control of his mother, was mollified at the prospect\nof the sixpence, and at the probability of getting nearer to the\nheart of the mystery.\n\nBut Mary never came.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\nJOB LEGH'S DECEPTION.\n\n\n   \"Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans;\n     The clock gives warning for eleven;\n   'Tis on the stroke--'He must be near,'\n   Quoth Betty, 'and will soon be here,\n     As sure as there's a moon in heaven.'\n\n   The clock is on the stroke of twelve,\n     And Johnny is not yet in sight,\n   --The moon's in heaven, as Betty sees,\n   But Betty is not quite at ease;\n     And Susan has a dreadful night.\"\n\n   WORDSWORTH.\n\n\nJob found Mrs. Wilson pacing about in a restless way; not speaking to\nthe woman at whose house she was staying, but occasionally heaving\nsuch deep oppressive sighs as quite startled those around her.\n\n\"Well!\" said she, turning sharp round in her tottering walk up and\ndown, as Job came in.\n\n\"Well, speak!\" repeated she, before he could make up his mind what to\nsay; for, to tell the truth, he was studying for some kind-hearted\nlie which might soothe her for a time. But now the real state of the\ncase came blurting forth in answer to her impatient questioning.\n\n\"Will's not to the fore. But he'll may be turn up yet, time enough.\"\n\nShe looked at him steadily for a minute, as if almost doubting if\nsuch despair could be in store for her as his words seemed to imply.\nThen she slowly shook her head, and said, more quietly than might\nhave been expected from her previous excited manner,\n\n\"Don't go for to say that! Thou dost not think it. Thou'rt well-nigh\nhopeless, like me. I seed all along my lad would be hung for what\nhe never did. And better he were, and were shut [49] of this weary\nworld, where there's neither justice nor mercy left.\"\n\n\n   [Footnote 49: \"Shut,\" quit.]\n\n\nShe looked up with tranced eyes as if praying to that throne where\nmercy ever abideth, and then sat down.\n\n\"Nay, now thou'rt off at a gallop,\" said Job. \"Will has sailed this\nmorning for sure, but that brave wench, Mary Barton, is after him,\nand will bring him back, I'll be bound, if she can but get speech on\nhim. She's not back yet. Come, come, hold up thy head. It will all\nend right.\"\n\n\"It will all end right,\" echoed she; \"but not as thou tak'st it. Jem\nwill be hung, and will go to his father and the little lads, where\nthe Lord God wipes away all tears, and where the Lord Jesus speaks\nkindly to the little ones, who look about for the mothers they left\nupon earth. Eh, Job, yon's a blessed land, and I long to go to it,\nand yet I fret because Jem is hastening there. I would not fret if\nhe and I could lie down to-night to sleep our last sleep; not a bit\nwould I fret if folk would but know him to be innocent--as I do.\"\n\n\"They'll know it sooner or later, and repent sore if they've hanged\nhim for what he never did,\" replied Job.\n\n\"Ay, that they will. Poor souls! May God have mercy on them when they\nfind out their mistake.\"\n\nPresently Job grew tired of sitting waiting, and got up, and hung\nabout the door and window, like some animal wanting to go out. It was\npitch dark, for the moon had not yet risen.\n\n\"You just go to bed,\" said he to the widow. \"You'll want your\nstrength for to-morrow. Jem will be sadly off, if he sees you so cut\nup as you look to-night. I'll step down again and find Mary. She'll\nbe back by this time. I'll come and tell you every thing, never fear.\nBut, now, you go to bed.\"\n\n\"Thou'rt a kind friend, Job Legh, and I'll go, as thou wishest me.\nBut, oh! mind thou com'st straight off to me, and bring Mary as soon\nas thou'st lit on her.\" She spoke low, but very calmly.\n\n\"Ay, ay!\" replied Job, slipping out of the house.\n\nHe went first to Mr. Bridgenorth's, where it had struck him that Will\nand Mary might be all this time waiting for him.\n\nThey were not there, however. Mr. Bridgenorth had just come in, and\nJob went breathlessly up-stairs to consult with him as to the state\nof the case.\n\n\"It's a bad job,\" said the lawyer, looking very grave, while he\narranged his papers. \"Johnson told me how it was; the woman that\nWilson lodged with told him. I doubt it's but a wild-goose chase\nof the girl Barton. Our case must rest on the uncertainty of\ncircumstantial evidence, and the goodness of the prisoner's previous\ncharacter. A very vague and weak defence. However, I've engaged Mr.\nClinton as counsel, and he'll make the best of it. And now, my good\nfellow, I must wish you good-night, and turn you out of doors. As it\nis, I shall have to sit up into the small hours. Did you see my clerk\nas you came up-stairs? You did! Then may I trouble you to ask him to\nstep up immediately?\"\n\nAfter this Job could not stay, and, making his humble bow, he left\nthe room.\n\nThen he went to Mrs. Jones's. She was in, but Charley had slipped off\nagain. There was no holding that boy. Nothing kept him but lock and\nkey, and they did not always; for once she had him locked up in the\ngarret, and he had got off through the skylight. Perhaps now he was\ngone to see after the young woman down at the docks. He never wanted\nan excuse to be there.\n\nUnasked, Job took a chair, resolved to await Charley's re-appearance.\n\nMrs. Jones ironed and folded her clothes, talking all the time of\nCharley and her husband, who was a sailor in some ship bound for\nIndia, and who, in leaving her their boy, had evidently left her\nrather more than she could manage. She moaned and croaked over\nsailors, and sea-port towns, and stormy weather, and sleepless\nnights, and trousers all over tar and pitch, long after Job had left\noff attending to her, and was only trying to hearken to every step\nand every voice in the street.\n\nAt last Charley came in, but he came alone.\n\n\"Yon Mary Barton has getten into some scrape or another,\" said he,\naddressing himself to Job. \"She's not to be heard of at any of the\npiers; and Bourne says it were a boat from the Cheshire side as she\nwent aboard of. So there's no hearing of her till to-morrow morning.\"\n\n\"To-morrow morning she'll have to be in court at nine o'clock, to\nbear witness on a trial,\" said Job, sorrowfully.\n\n\"So she said; at least somewhat of the kind,\" said Charley, looking\ndesirous to hear more. But Job was silent.\n\nHe could not think of any thing further that could be done; so he\nrose up, and, thanking Mrs. Jones for the shelter she had given him,\nhe went out into the street; and there he stood still, to ponder over\nprobabilities and chances.\n\nAfter some little time he slowly turned towards the lodging where\nhe had left Mrs. Wilson. There was nothing else to be done; but he\nloitered on the way, fervently hoping that her weariness and her woes\nmight have sent her to sleep before his return, that he might be\nspared her questionings.\n\nHe went very gently into the house-place where the sleepy landlady\nawaited his coming and his bringing the girl, who, she had been told,\nwas to share the old woman's bed.\n\nBut in her sleepy blindness she knocked things so about in lighting\nthe candle (she could see to have a nap by fire-light, she said),\nthat the voice of Mrs. Wilson was heard from the little back-room,\nwhere she was to pass the night.\n\n\"Who's there?\"\n\nJob gave no answer, and kept down his breath, that she might think\nherself mistaken. The landlady, having no such care, dropped the\nsnuffers with a sharp metallic sound, and then, by her endless\napologies, convinced the listening woman that Job had returned.\n\n\"Job! Job Legh!\" she cried out, nervously.\n\n\"Eh, dear!\" said Job to himself, going reluctantly to her bed-room\ndoor. \"I wonder if one little lie would be a sin as things stand? It\nwould happen give her sleep, and she won't have sleep for many and\nmany a night (not to call sleep), if things goes wrong to-morrow.\nI'll chance it, any way.\"\n\n\"Job! art thou there?\" asked she again with a trembling impatience\nthat told in every tone of her voice.\n\n\"Ay! sure! I thought thou'd ha' been asleep by this time.\"\n\n\"Asleep! How could I sleep till I knowed if Will were found?\"\n\n\"Now for it,\" muttered Job to himself. Then in a louder voice, \"Never\nfear! he's found, and safe, ready for to-morrow.\"\n\n\"And he'll prove that thing for my poor lad, will he? He'll bear\nwitness that Jem were with him? Oh, Job, speak! tell me all!\"\n\n\"In for a penny, in for a pound,\" thought Job. \"Happen one prayer\nwill do for the sum total. Any rate, I must go on now.--Ay, ay,\"\nshouted he, through the door. \"He can prove all; and Jem will come\noff as clear as a new-born babe.\"\n\nHe could hear Mrs. Wilson's rustling movements, and in an instant\nguessed she was on her knees, for he heard her trembling voice\nuplifted in thanksgiving and praise to God, stopped at times by sobs\nof gladness and relief.\n\nAnd when he heard this, his heart misgave him; for he thought of the\nawful enlightening, the terrible revulsion of feeling that awaited\nher in the morning. He saw the short-sightedness of falsehood; but\nwhat could he do now?\n\nWhile he listened, she ended her grateful prayers.\n\n\"And Mary? Thou'st found her at Mrs. Jones's, Job?\" said she,\ncontinuing her inquiries.\n\nHe gave a great sigh.\n\n\"Yes, she was there, safe enough, second time of going.--God forgive\nme!\" muttered he, \"who'd ha' thought of my turning out such an arrant\nliar in my old days?\"\n\n\"Bless the wench! Is she here? Why does she not come to bed? I'm sure\nshe's need.\"\n\nJob coughed away his remains of conscience, and made answer,\n\n\"She was a bit weary, and o'er done with her sail; and Mrs. Jones\naxed her to stay there all night. It was nigh at hand to the courts,\nwhere she will have to be in the morning.\"\n\n\"It comes easy enough after a while,\" groaned out Job. \"The father\nof lies helps one, I suppose, for now my speech comes as natural as\ntruth. She's done questioning now, that's one good thing. I'll be off\nbefore Satan and she are at me again.\"\n\nHe went to the house-place, where the landlady stood wearily waiting.\nHer husband was in bed, and asleep long ago.\n\nBut Job had not yet made up his mind what to do. He could not go to\nsleep, with all his anxieties, if he were put into the best bed in\nLiverpool.\n\n\"Thou'lt let me sit up in this arm-chair,\" said he at length to the\nwoman, who stood, expecting his departure.\n\nHe was an old friend, so she let him do as he wished. But, indeed,\nshe was too sleepy to have opposed him. She was too glad to be\nreleased and go to bed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\nHOW MARY PASSED THE NIGHT.\n\n\n                           \"To think\n   That all this long interminable night,\n   Which I have passed in thinking on two words--\n   'Guilty'--'Not Guilty!'--like one happy moment\n   O'er many a head hath flown unheeded by;\n   O'er happy sleepers dreaming in their bliss\n   Of bright to-morrows--or far happier still,\n   With deep breath buried in forgetfulness.\n   O all the dismallest images of death\n   Did swim before my eyes!\"\n\n   WILSON.\n\n\nAnd now, where was Mary?\n\nHow Job's heart would have been relieved of one of its cares if he\ncould have seen her: for he was in a miserable state of anxiety about\nher; and many and many a time through that long night he scolded her\nand himself; her for her obstinacy, and himself for his weakness in\nyielding to her obstinacy, when she insisted on being the one to\nfollow and find out Will.\n\nShe did not pass that night in bed any more than Job; but she was\nunder a respectable roof, and among kind, though rough people.\n\nShe had offered no resistance to the old boatman, when he had\nclutched her arm, in order to insure her following him, as he\nthreaded the crowded dock-ways, and dived up strange bye-streets. She\ncame on meekly after him, scarcely thinking in her stupor where she\nwas going, and glad (in a dead, heavy way) that some one was deciding\nthings for her.\n\nHe led her to an old-fashioned house, almost as small as house could\nbe, which had been built long ago, before all the other part of\nthe street, and had a country-town look about it in the middle of\nthat bustling back street. He pulled her into the house-place; and\nrelieved to a certain degree of his fear of losing her on the way, he\nexclaimed,\n\n\"There!\" giving a great slap of one hand on her back.\n\nThe room was light and bright, and roused Mary (perhaps the slap on\nher back might help a little, too), and she felt the awkwardness\nof accounting for her presence to a little bustling old woman who\nhad been moving about the fire-place on her entrance. The boatman\ntook it very quietly, never deigning to give any explanation, but\nsitting down in his own particular chair, and chewing tobacco, while\nhe looked at Mary with the most satisfied air imaginable, half\ntriumphantly, as if she were the captive of his bow and spear, and\nhalf defyingly, as if daring her to escape.\n\nThe old woman, his wife, stood still, poker in hand, waiting to be\ntold who it was that her husband had brought home so unceremoniously;\nbut, as she looked in amazement the girl's cheek flushed, and then\nblanched to a dead whiteness; a film came over her eyes, and catching\nat the dresser for support in that hot whirling room, she fell in a\nheap on the floor.\n\nBoth man and wife came quickly to her assistance. They raised her up,\nstill insensible, and he supported her on one knee, while his wife\npattered away for some cold fresh water. She threw it straight over\nMary; but though it caused a great sob, the eyes still remained\nclosed, and the face as pale as ashes.\n\n\"Who is she, Ben?\" asked the woman, as she rubbed her unresisting,\npowerless hands.\n\n\"How should I know?\" answered her husband gruffly.\n\n\"Well-a-well!\" (in a soothing tone, such as you use to irritated\nchildren), and as if half to herself, \"I only thought you might, you\nknow, as you brought her home. Poor thing! we must not ask aught\nabout her, but that she needs help. I wish I'd my salts at home, but\nI lent 'em to Mrs. Burton, last Sunday in church, for she could not\nkeep awake through the sermon. Dear-a-me, how white she is!\"\n\n\"Here! you hold her up a bit,\" said her husband.\n\nShe did as he desired, still crooning to herself, not caring for his\nshort, sharp interruptions as she went on; and, indeed, to her old,\nloving heart, his crossest words fell like pearls and diamonds, for\nhe had been the husband of her youth; and even he, rough and crabbed\nas he was, was secretly soothed by the sound of her voice, although\nnot for worlds, if he could have helped it, would he have shown any\nof the love that was hidden beneath his rough outside.\n\n\"What's the old fellow after?\" said she, bending over Mary, so as to\naccommodate the drooping head. \"Taking my pen, as I've had better\nnor five year. Bless us, and save us! he's burning it! Ay, I see now,\nhe's his wits about him; burnt feathers is always good for a faint.\nBut they don't bring her round, poor wench! Now what's he after\nnext? Well! he is a bright one, my old man! That I never thought of\nthat, to be sure!\" exclaimed she, as he produced a square bottle of\nsmuggled spirits, labelled \"Golden Wasser,\" from a corner cupboard in\ntheir little room.\n\n\"That'll do!\" said she, as the dose he poured into Mary's open mouth\nmade her start and cough. \"Bless the man! It's just like him to be so\ntender and thoughtful!\"\n\n\"Not a bit!\" snarled he, as he was relieved by Mary's returning\ncolour, and opened eyes, and wondering, sensible gaze; \"not a bit!\nI never was such a fool afore.\"\n\nHis wife helped Mary to rise, and placed her in a chair.\n\n\"All's right now, young woman?\" asked the boatman, anxiously.\n\n\"Yes, sir, and thank you. I'm sure, sir, I don't know rightly how to\nthank you,\" faltered Mary, softly forth.\n\n\"Be hanged to you and your thanks.\" And he shook himself, took his\npipe, and went out without deigning another word; leaving his wife\nsorely puzzled as to the character and history of the stranger within\nher doors.\n\nMary watched the boatman leave the house, and then, turning her\nsorrowful eyes to the face of her hostess, she attempted feebly to\nrise, with the intention of going away,--where she knew not.\n\n\"Nay! nay! who e'er thou be'st, thou'rt not fit to go out into the\nstreet. Perhaps\" (sinking her voice a little) \"thou'rt a bad one; I\nalmost misdoubt thee, thou'rt so pretty. Well-a-well! it's the bad\nones as have the broken hearts, sure enough; good folk never get\nutterly cast down, they've always getten hope in the Lord: it's the\nsinful as bear the bitter, bitter grief in their crushed hearts, poor\nsouls; it's them we ought, most of all, to pity and to help. She\nshanna leave the house to-night, choose who she is,--worst woman in\nLiverpool, she shanna. I wished I knew where th' old man picked her\nup, that I do.\"\n\nMary had listened feebly to this soliloquy, and now tried to satisfy\nher hostess in weak, broken sentences.\n\n\"I'm not a bad one, missis, indeed. Your master took me out to sea\nafter a ship as had sailed. There was a man in it as might save a\nlife at the trial to-morrow. The captain would not let him come, but\nhe says he'll come back in the pilot-boat.\" She fell to sobbing at\nthe thought of her waning hopes, and the old woman tried to comfort\nher, beginning with her accustomed,\n\n\"Well-a-well! and he'll come back, I'm sure. I know he will; so keep\nup your heart. Don't fret about it. He's sure to be back.\"\n\n\"Oh! I'm afraid! I'm sore afraid he won't,\" cried Mary, consoled,\nnevertheless, by the woman's assertions, all groundless as she knew\nthem to be.\n\nStill talking half to herself and half to Mary, the old woman\nprepared tea, and urged her visitor to eat and refresh herself. But\nMary shook her head at the proffered food, and only drank a cup of\ntea with thirsty eagerness. For the spirits had thrown her into a\nburning heat, and rendered each impression received through her\nsenses of the most painful distinctness and intensity, while her head\nached in a terrible manner.\n\nShe disliked speaking, her power over her words seemed so utterly\ngone. She used quite different expressions to those she intended. So\nshe kept silent, while Mrs. Sturgis (for that was the name of her\nhostess) talked away, and put her tea-things by, and moved about\nincessantly, in a manner that increased the dizziness in Mary's head.\nShe felt as if she ought to take leave for the night and go. But\nwhere?\n\nPresently the old man came back, crosser and gruffer than when he\nwent away. He kicked aside the dry shoes his wife had prepared for\nhim, and snarled at all she said. Mary attributed this to his finding\nher still there, and gathered up her strength for an effort to leave\nthe house. But she was mistaken. By-and-bye, he said (looking right\ninto the fire, as if addressing it), \"Wind's right against them!\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, and is it so?\" said his wife, who, knowing him well,\nknew that his surliness proceeded from some repressed sympathy.\n\"Well-a-well, wind changes often at night. Time enough before\nmorning. I'd bet a penny it has changed sin' thou looked.\"\n\nShe looked out of their little window at a weather-cock, near,\nglittering in the moonlight; and as she was a sailor's wife, she\ninstantly recognised the unfavourable point at which the indicator\nseemed stationary, and giving a heavy sigh, turned into the room, and\nbegan to beat about in her own mind for some other mode of comfort.\n\n\"There's no one else who can prove what you want at the trial\nto-morrow, is there?\" asked she.\n\n\"No one!\" answered Mary.\n\n\"And you've no clue to the one as is really guilty, if t'other is\nnot?\"\n\nMary did not answer, but trembled all over.\n\nSturgis saw it.\n\n\"Don't bother her with thy questions,\" said he to his wife. \"She mun\ngo to bed, for she's all in a shiver with the sea air. I'll see after\nthe wind, hang it, and the weather-cock, too. Tide will help 'em when\nit turns.\"\n\nMary went up-stairs murmuring thanks and blessings on those who took\nthe stranger in. Mrs. Sturgis led her into a little room redolent of\nthe sea and foreign lands. There was a small bed for one son, bound\nfor China; and a hammock slung above for another, who was now tossing\nin the Baltic. The sheets looked made out of sail-cloth, but were\nfresh and clean in spite of their brownness.\n\nAgainst the wall were wafered two rough drawings of vessels with\ntheir names written underneath, on which the mother's eyes caught,\nand gazed until they filled with tears. But she brushed the drops\naway with the back of her hand, and in a cheerful tone went on to\nassure Mary the bed was well aired.\n\n\"I cannot sleep, thank you. I will sit here, if you please,\" said\nMary, sinking down on the window-seat.\n\n\"Come, now,\" said Mrs. Sturgis, \"my master told me to see you to bed,\nand I mun. What's the use of watching? A watched pot never boils, and\nI see you are after watching that weather-cock. Why now, I try never\nto look at it, else I could do nought else. My heart many a time goes\nsick when the wind rises, but I turn away and work away, and try\nnever to think on the wind, but on what I ha' getten to do.\"\n\n\"Let me stay up a little,\" pleaded Mary, as her hostess seemed so\nresolute about seeing her to bed. Her looks won her suit.\n\n\"Well, I suppose I mun. I shall catch it down stairs, I know. He'll\nbe in a fidget till you're getten to bed, I know; so you mun be quiet\nif you are so bent upon staying up.\"\n\nAnd quietly, noiselessly, Mary watched the unchanging weather-cock\nthrough the night. She sat on the little window-seat, her hand\nholding back the curtain which shaded the room from the bright\nmoonlight without; her head resting its weariness against the corner\nof the window-frame; her eyes burning and stiff with the intensity of\nher gaze.\n\nThe ruddy morning stole up the horizon, casting a crimson glow into\nthe watcher's room.\n\nIt was the morning of the day of trial!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\nTHE TRIAL AND VERDICT--\"NOT GUILTY.\"\n\n\n            \"Thou stand'st here arraign'd,\n   That, with presumption impious and accursed,\n   Thou hast usurp'd God's high prerogative,\n   Making thy fellow mortal's life and death\n   Wait on thy moody and diseased passions;\n   That with a violent and untimely steel\n   Hast set abroach the blood that should have ebbed\n   In calm and natural current: to sum all\n   In one wild name--a name the pale air freezes at,\n   And every cheek of man sinks in with horror--\n   Thou art a cold and midnight murderer.\"\n\n   MILMAN'S \"FAZIO.\"\n\n\nOf all the restless people who found that night's hours agonising\nfrom excess of anxiety, the poor father of the murdered man was\nperhaps the most restless. He had slept but little since the blow had\nfallen; his waking hours had been too full of agitated thought, which\nseemed to haunt and pursue him through his unquiet slumbers.\n\nAnd this night of all others was the most sleepless. He turned over\nand over again in his mind the wonder if every thing had been done\nthat could be done, to insure the conviction of Jem Wilson. He almost\nregretted the haste with which he had urged forward the proceedings,\nand yet until he had obtained vengeance, he felt as if there was no\npeace on earth for him (I don't know that he exactly used the term\nvengeance in his thoughts; he spoke of justice, and probably thought\nof his desired end as such); no peace either bodily or mental, for\nhe moved up and down his bedroom with the restless incessant tramp\nof a wild beast in a cage, and if he compelled his aching limbs to\ncease for an instant, the twitchings which ensued almost amounted to\nconvulsions, and he re-commenced his walk as the lesser evil, and the\nmore bearable fatigue.\n\nWith daylight increased power of action came; and he drove off to\narouse his attorney, and worry him with further directions and\ninquiries; and when that was ended, he sat, watch in hand, until the\ncourts should be opened, and the trial begin.\n\nWhat were all the living,--wife or daughters,--what were they in\ncomparison with the dead,--the murdered son who lay unburied still,\nin compliance with his father's earnest wish, and almost vowed\npurpose of having the slayer of his child sentenced to death, before\nhe committed the body to the rest of the grave?\n\nAt nine o'clock they all met at their awful place of _rendezvous_.\n\nThe judge, the jury, the avenger of blood, the prisoner, the\nwitnesses--all were gathered together within one building. And\nbesides these were many others, personally interested in some part\nof the proceedings, in which, however, they took no part; Job Legh,\nBen Sturgis, and several others were there, amongst whom was Charley\nJones.\n\nJob Legh had carefully avoided any questioning from Mrs. Wilson that\nmorning. Indeed he had not been much in her company, for he had risen\nup early to go out once more to make inquiry for Mary; and when\nhe could hear nothing of her, he had desperately resolved not to\nundeceive Mrs. Wilson, as sorrow never came too late; and if the blow\nwere inevitable, it would be better to leave her in ignorance of\nthe impending evil as long as possible. She took her place in the\nwitness-room, worn and dispirited, but not anxious.\n\nAs Job struggled through the crowd into the body of the court, Mr.\nBridgenorth's clerk beckoned to him.\n\n\"Here's a letter for you from our client!\"\n\nJob sickened as he took it. He did not know why, but he dreaded a\nconfession of guilt, which would be an overthrow of all hope.\n\nThe letter ran as follows.\n\n\n   DEAR FRIEND,--I thank you heartily for your goodness in\n   finding me a lawyer, but lawyers can do no good to me,\n   whatever they may do to other people. But I am not the\n   less obliged to you, dear friend. I foresee things will go\n   against me--and no wonder. If I was a jury-man, I should\n   say the man was guilty as had as much evidence brought\n   against him as may be brought against me to-morrow. So\n   it's no blame to them if they do. But, Job Legh, I think I\n   need not tell you I am as guiltless in this matter as the\n   babe unborn, although it is not in my power to prove it.\n   If I did not believe that you thought me innocent, I could\n   not write as I do now to tell you my wishes. You'll not\n   forget they are the wishes of a man shortly to die. Dear\n   friend, you must take care of my mother. Not in the money\n   way, for she will have enough for her and Aunt Alice; but\n   you must let her talk to you of me; and show her that\n   (whatever others may do) you think I died innocent. I\n   don't reckon she will stay long behind when we are all\n   gone. Be tender with her, Job, for my sake; and if she\n   is a bit fractious at times, remember what she has gone\n   through. I know mother will never doubt me, God bless her.\n\n   There is one other whom I fear I have loved too dearly;\n   and yet, the loving her has made the happiness of my life.\n   She will think I have murdered her lover; she will think\n   I have caused the grief she must be feeling. And she must\n   go on thinking so. It is hard upon me to say this; but she\n   _must_. It will be best for her, and that's all I ought\n   to think on. But, dear Job, you are a hearty fellow for\n   your time of life, and may live a many years to come; and\n   perhaps you could tell her, when you felt sure you were\n   drawing near your end, that I solemnly told you (as I do\n   now) that I was innocent of this thing. You must not tell\n   her for many years to come; but I cannot well bear to\n   think on her living through a long life, and hating the\n   thought of me as the murderer of him she loved, and dying\n   with that hatred to me in her heart. It would hurt me sore\n   in the other world to see the look of it in her face, as\n   it would be, till she was told. I must not let myself\n   think on how she must be viewing me now. So God bless you,\n   Job Legh; and no more from\n\n   Yours to command,\n\n   JAMES WILSON.\n\n\nJob turned the letter over and over when he had read it; sighed\ndeeply; and then wrapping it carefully up in a bit of newspaper he\nhad about him, he put it in his waistcoat pocket, and went off to\nthe door of the witness-room to ask if Mary Barton were there.\n\nAs the door opened he saw her sitting within, against a table on\nwhich her folded arms were resting, and her head was hidden within\nthem. It was an attitude of hopelessness, and would have served to\nstrike Job dumb in sickness of heart, even without the sound of Mrs.\nWilson's voice in passionate sobbing, and sore lamentations, which\ntold him as well as words could do (for she was not within view of\nthe door, and he did not care to go in), that she was at any rate\npartially undeceived as to the hopes he had given her last night.\n\nSorrowfully did Job return into the body of the court; neither Mrs.\nWilson nor Mary having seen him as he had stood at the witness-room\ndoor.\n\nAs soon as he could bring his distracted thoughts to bear upon the\npresent scene, he perceived that the trial of James Wilson for the\nmurder of Henry Carson was just commencing. The clerk was gabbling\nover the indictment, and in a minute or two there was the accustomed\nquestion, \"How say you, Guilty, or Not Guilty?\"\n\nAlthough but one answer was expected,--was customary in all\ncases,--there was a pause of dead silence, an interval of solemnity\neven in this hackneyed part of the proceeding; while the prisoner at\nthe bar stood with compressed lips, looking at the judge with his\noutward eyes, but with far other and different scenes presented\nto his mental vision;--a sort of rapid recapitulation of his\nlife,--remembrances of his childhood,--his father (so proud of him,\nhis first-born child),--his sweet little playfellow, Mary,--his\nhopes, his love,--his despair, yet still, yet ever and ever, his\nlove,--the blank, wide world it had been without her love,--his\nmother,--his childless mother,--but not long to be so,--not long to\nbe away from all she loved,--nor during that time to be oppressed\nwith doubt as to his innocence, sure and secure of her darling's\nheart;--he started from his instant's pause, and said in a low firm\nvoice,\n\n\"Not guilty, my lord.\"\n\nThe circumstances of the murder, the discovery of the body, the\ncauses of suspicion against Jem, were as well known to most of\nthe audience as they are to you, so there was some little buzz of\nconversation going on among the people while the leading counsel for\nthe prosecution made his very effective speech.\n\n\"That's Mr. Carson, the father, sitting behind Serjeant Wilkinson!\"\n\n\"What a noble-looking old man he is! so stern and inflexible, with\nsuch classical features! Does he not remind you of some of the busts\nof Jupiter?\"\n\n\"I am more interested by watching the prisoner. Criminals always\ninterest me. I try to trace in the features common to humanity some\nexpression of the crimes by which they have distinguished themselves\nfrom their kind. I have seen a good number of murderers in my day,\nbut I have seldom seen one with such marks of Cain on his countenance\nas the man at the bar.\"\n\n\"Well, I am no physiognomist, but I don't think his face strikes me\nas bad. It certainly is gloomy and depressed, and not unnaturally so,\nconsidering his situation.\"\n\n\"Only look at his low, resolute brow, his downcast eye, his white\ncompressed lips. He never looks up,--just watch him.\"\n\n\"His forehead is not so low if he had that mass of black hair\nremoved, and is very square, which some people say is a good sign.\nIf others are to be influenced by such trifles as you are, it would\nhave been much better if the prison barber had cut his hair a little\nprevious to the trial; and as for down-cast eye, and compressed lip,\nit is all part and parcel of his inward agitation just now; nothing\nto do with character, my good fellow.\"\n\nPoor Jem! His raven hair (his mother's pride, and so often fondly\ncaressed by her fingers), was that too to have its influence against\nhim?\n\nThe witnesses were called. At first they consisted principally of\npolicemen; who, being much accustomed to giving evidence, knew what\nwere the material points they were called on to prove, and did not\nlose the time of the court in listening to any thing unnecessary.\n\n\"Clear as day against the prisoner,\" whispered one attorney's clerk\nto another.\n\n\"Black as night, you mean,\" replied his friend; and they both smiled.\n\n\"Jane Wilson! who's she? some relation, I suppose, from the name.\"\n\n\"The mother,--she that is to prove the gun part of the case.\"\n\n\"Oh, ay--I remember! Rather hard on her, too, I think.\"\n\nThen both were silent, as one of the officers of the court ushered\nMrs. Wilson into the witness-box. I have often called her \"the old\nwoman,\" and \"an old woman,\" because, in truth, her appearance was\nso much beyond her years, which might not be many above fifty. But\npartly owing to her accident in early life, which left a stamp of\npain upon her face, partly owing to her anxious temper, partly to\nher sorrows, and partly to her limping gait, she always gave me the\nidea of age. But now she might have seemed more than seventy; her\nlines were so set and deep, her features so sharpened, and her walk\nso feeble. She was trying to check her sobs into composure, and\n(unconsciously) was striving to behave as she thought would best\nplease her poor boy, whom she knew she had often grieved by her\nuncontrolled impatience. He had buried his face in his arms, which\nrested on the front of the dock (an attitude he retained during the\ngreater part of his trial, and which prejudiced many against him).\n\nThe counsel began the examination.\n\n\"Your name is Jane Wilson, I believe.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"The mother of the prisoner at the bar?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir;\" with quivering voice, ready to break out into weeping,\nbut earning respect by the strong effort at self-control, prompted,\nas I have said before, by her earnest wish to please her son by her\nbehaviour.\n\nThe barrister now proceeded to the important part of the examination,\ntending to prove that the gun found on the scene of the murder was\nthe prisoner's. She had committed herself so fully to the policeman,\nthat she could not well retract; so without much delay in bringing\nthe question round to the desired point, the gun was produced in\ncourt, and the inquiry made--\n\n\"That gun belongs to your son, does it not?\"\n\nShe clenched the sides of the witness-box in her efforts to make her\nparched tongue utter words. At last she moaned forth,\n\n\"Oh! Jem, Jem! what mun I say?\"\n\nEvery one bent forward to hear the prisoner's answer; although, in\nfact, it was of little importance to the issue of the trial. He\nlifted up his head; and with a face brimming full of pity for his\nmother, yet resolved into endurance, said,\n\n\"Tell the truth, mother!\"\n\nAnd so she did, with the fidelity of a little child. Every one felt\nthat she did; and the little colloquy between mother and son did them\nsome slight service in the opinion of the audience. But the awful\njudge sat unmoved; and the jurymen changed not a muscle of their\ncountenances; while the counsel for the prosecution went triumphantly\nthrough this part of the case, including the fact of Jem's absence\nfrom home on the night of the murder, and bringing every admission to\nbear right against the prisoner.\n\nIt was over. She was told to go down. But she could no longer compel\nher mother's heart to keep silence, and suddenly turning towards\nthe judge (with whom she imagined the verdict to rest), she thus\naddressed him with her choking voice.\n\n\"And now, sir, I've telled you the truth, and the whole truth, as\n_he_ bid me; but don't ye let what I have said go for to hang him;\noh, my lord judge, take my word for it, he's as innocent as the\nchild as has yet to be born. For sure, I, who am his mother, and\nhave nursed him on my knee, and been gladdened by the sight of him\nevery day since, ought to know him better than yon pack of fellows\"\n(indicating the jury, while she strove against her heart to render\nher words distinct and clear for her dear son's sake) \"who, I'll go\nbail, never saw him before this morning in all their born days. My\nlord judge, he's so good I often wondered what harm there was in him;\nmany is the time when I've been fretted (for I'm frabbit enough at\ntimes), when I've scold't myself, and said, 'You ungrateful thing,\nthe Lord God has given you Jem, and isn't that blessing enough for\nyou?' But He has seen fit to punish me. If Jem is--if Jem is--taken\nfrom me, I shall be a childless woman; and very poor, having nought\nleft to love on earth, and I cannot say 'His will be done.' I cannot,\nmy lord judge, oh, I cannot.\"\n\nWhile sobbing out these words she was led away by the officers of the\ncourt, but tenderly, and reverently, with the respect which great\nsorrow commands.\n\nThe stream of evidence went on and on, gathering fresh force from\nevery witness who was examined, and threatening to overwhelm poor\nJem. Already they had proved that the gun was his, that he had been\nheard not many days before the commission of the deed to threaten the\ndeceased; indeed, that the police had, at that time, been obliged to\ninterfere to prevent some probable act of violence. It only remained\nto bring forward a sufficient motive for the threat and the murder.\nThe clue to this had been furnished by the policeman, who had\noverheard Jem's angry language to Mr. Carson; and his report in the\nfirst instance had occasioned the subpoena to Mary.\n\nAnd now she was to be called on to bear witness. The court was by\nthis time almost as full as it could hold; but fresh attempts were\nbeing made to squeeze in at all the entrances, for many were anxious\nto see and hear this part of the trial.\n\nOld Mr. Carson felt an additional beat at his heart at the thought of\nseeing the fatal Helen, the cause of all--a kind of interest and yet\nrepugnance, for was not she beloved by the dead; nay, perhaps in her\nway, loving and mourning for the same being that he himself was so\nbitterly grieving over? And yet he felt as if he abhorred her and her\nrumoured loveliness, as if she were the curse against him; and he\ngrew jealous of the love with which she had inspired his son, and\nwould fain have deprived her of even her natural right of sorrowing\nover her lover's untimely end: for you see it was a fixed idea\nin the minds of all, that the handsome, bright, gay, rich young\ngentleman must have been beloved in preference to the serious, almost\nstern-looking smith, who had to toil for his daily bread.\n\nHitherto the effect of the trial had equalled Mr. Carson's most\nsanguine hopes, and a severe look of satisfaction came over the face\nof the avenger,--over that countenance whence the smile had departed,\nnever more to return.\n\nAll eyes were directed to the door through which the witnesses\nentered. Even Jem looked up to catch one glimpse before he hid his\nface from her look of aversion. The officer had gone to fetch her.\n\nShe was in exactly the same attitude as when Job Legh had seen her\ntwo hours before through the half-open door. Not a finger had moved.\nThe officer summoned her, but she did not stir. She was so still he\nthought she had fallen asleep, and he stepped forward and touched\nher. She started up in an instant, and followed him with a kind of\nrushing rapid motion into the court, into the witness-box.\n\nAnd amid all that sea of faces, misty and swimming before her eyes,\nshe saw but two clear bright spots, distinct and fixed: the judge,\nwho might have to condemn; and the prisoner, who might have to die.\n\nThe mellow sunlight streamed down that high window on her head, and\nfell on the rich treasure of her golden hair, stuffed away in masses\nunder her little bonnet-cap; and in those warm beams the motes kept\ndancing up and down. The wind had changed--had changed almost as\nsoon as she had given up her watching; the wind had changed, and she\nheeded it not.\n\nMany who were looking for mere flesh and blood beauty, mere\ncolouring, were disappointed; for her face was deadly white, and\nalmost set in its expression, while a mournful bewildered soul\nlooked out of the depths of those soft, deep, gray eyes. But others\nrecognised a higher and stranger kind of beauty; one that would keep\nits hold on the memory for many after years.\n\nI was not there myself; but one who was, told me that her look, and\nindeed her whole face, was more like the well-known engraving from\nGuido's picture of \"Beatrice Cenci\" than any thing else he could give\nme an idea of. He added, that her countenance haunted him, like the\nremembrance of some wild sad melody, heard in childhood; that it\nwould perpetually recur with its mute imploring agony.\n\nWith all the court reeling before her (always save and except those\nawful two), she heard a voice speak, and answered the simple inquiry\n(something about her name) mechanically, as if in a dream. So she\nwent on for two or three more questions, with a strange wonder in her\nbrain, as to the reality of the terrible circumstances in which she\nwas placed.\n\nSuddenly she was roused, she knew not how or by what. She was\nconscious that all was real, that hundreds were looking at her, that\ntrue-sounding words were being extracted from her; that that figure,\nso bowed down, with the face concealed by both hands, was really Jem.\nHer face flushed scarlet, and then paler than before. But in her\ndread of herself, with the tremendous secret imprisoned within her,\nshe exerted every power she had to keep in the full understanding of\nwhat was going on, of what she was asked, and of what she answered.\nWith all her faculties preternaturally alive and sensitive, she heard\nthe next question from the pert young barrister, who was delighted to\nhave the examination of this witness.\n\n\"And pray, may I ask, which was the favoured lover? You say you knew\nboth these young men. Which was the favoured lover? Which did you\nprefer?\"\n\nAnd who was he, the questioner, that he should dare so lightly to\nask of her heart's secrets? That he should dare to ask her to tell,\nbefore that multitude assembled there, what woman usually whispers\nwith blushes and tears, and many hesitations, to one ear alone?\n\nSo, for an instant, a look of indignation contracted Mary's brow,\nas she steadily met the eyes of the impertinent counsellor. But, in\nthat instant, she saw the hands removed from a face beyond, behind;\nand a countenance revealed of such intense love and woe,--such a\ndeprecating dread of her answer; and suddenly her resolution was\ntaken. The present was everything; the future, that vast shroud, it\nwas maddening to think upon; but _now_ she might own her fault, but\n_now_ she might even own her love. Now, when the beloved stood thus,\nabhorred of men, there would be no feminine shame to stand between\nher and her avowal. So she also turned towards the judge, partly\nto mark that her answer was not given to the monkeyfied man who\nquestioned her, and likewise that her face might be averted from, and\nher eyes not gaze upon, the form that contracted with the dread of\nthe words he anticipated.\n\n\"He asks me which of them two I liked the best. Perhaps I liked Mr.\nHarry Carson once--I don't know--I've forgotten; but I loved James\nWilson, that's now on trial, above what tongue can tell--above all\nelse on earth put together; and I love him now better than ever,\nthough he has never known a word of it till this minute. For you see,\nsir, mother died before I was thirteen, before I could know right\nfrom wrong about some things; and I was giddy and vain, and ready to\nlisten to any praise of my good looks; and this poor young Mr. Carson\nfell in with me, and told me he loved me; and I was foolish enough\nto think he meant me marriage: a mother is a pitiful loss to a girl,\nsir; and so I used to fancy I could like to be a lady, and rich,\nand never know want any more. I never found out how dearly I loved\nanother till one day, when James Wilson asked me to marry him, and\nI was very hard and sharp in my answer (for indeed, sir, I'd a deal\nto bear just then), and he took me at my word and left me; and from\nthat day to this I've never spoken a word to him, or set eyes on him;\nthough I'd fain have done so, to try and show him we had both been\ntoo hasty; for he'd not been gone out of my sight above a minute\nbefore I knew I loved--far above my life,\" said she, dropping her\nvoice as she came to this second confession of the strength of her\nattachment. \"But, if the gentleman asks me which I loved the best,\nI make answer, I was flattered by Mr. Carson, and pleased with his\nflattery; but James Wilson I--\"\n\nShe covered her face with her hands, to hide the burning scarlet\nblushes, which even dyed her fingers.\n\nThere was a little pause; still, though her speech might inspire pity\nfor the prisoner, it only strengthened the supposition of his guilt.\nPresently the counsellor went on with his examination.\n\n\"But you have seen young Mr. Carson since your rejection of the\nprisoner?\"\n\n\"Yes, often.\"\n\n\"You have spoken to him, I conclude, at these times.\"\n\n\"Only once to call speaking.\"\n\n\"And what was the substance of your conversation? Did you tell him\nyou found you preferred his rival?\"\n\n\"No, sir. I don't think as I've done wrong in saying, now as things\nstand, what my feelings are; but I never would be so bold as to tell\none young man I cared for another. I never named Jem's name to Mr.\nCarson. Never.\"\n\n\"Then what did you say when you had this final conversation with Mr.\nCarson? You can give me the substance of it, if you don't remember\nthe words.\"\n\n\"I'll try, sir; but I'm not very clear. I told him I could not love\nhim, and wished to have nothing more to do with him. He did his best\nto over-persuade me, but I kept steady, and at last I ran off.\"\n\n\"And you never spoke to him again?\"\n\n\"Never!\"\n\n\"Now, young woman, remember you are upon your oath. Did you ever tell\nthe prisoner at the bar of Mr. Henry Carson's attentions to you? of\nyour acquaintance, in short? Did you ever try to excite his jealousy\nby boasting of a lover so far above you in station?\"\n\n\"Never. I never did,\" said she, in so firm and distinct a manner as\nto leave no doubt.\n\n\"Were you aware that he knew of Mr. Henry Carson's regard for you?\nRemember you are on your oath!\"\n\n\"Never, sir. I was not aware until I heard of the quarrel between\nthem, and what Jem had said to the policeman, and that was after the\nmurder. To this day I can't make out who told Jem. Oh, sir, may not\nI go down?\"\n\nFor she felt the sense, the composure, the very bodily strength which\nshe had compelled to her aid for a time, suddenly giving way, and was\nconscious that she was losing all command over herself. There was no\noccasion to detain her longer; she had done her part. She might go\ndown. The evidence was still stronger against the prisoner; but now\nhe stood erect and firm, with self-respect in his attitude, and a\nlook of determination on his face, which almost made it appear noble.\nYet he seemed lost in thought.\n\nJob Legh had all this time been trying to soothe and comfort Mrs.\nWilson, who would first be in the court, in order to see her darling,\nand then, when her sobs became irrepressible, had to be led out into\nthe open air, and sat there weeping, on the steps of the court-house.\nWho would have taken charge of Mary on her release from the\nwitness-box I do not know, if Mrs. Sturgis, the boatman's wife, had\nnot been there, brought by her interest in Mary, towards whom she now\npressed, in order to urge her to leave the scene of the trial.\n\n\"No! no!\" said Mary, to this proposition. \"I must be here, I must\nwatch that they don't hang him, you know I must.\"\n\n\"Oh! they'll not hang him! never fear! Besides the wind has changed,\nand that's in his favour. Come away. You're so hot, and first white\nand then red; I'm sure you're ill. Just come away.\"\n\n\"Oh! I don't know about any thing but that I must stay,\" replied\nMary, in a strange hurried manner, catching hold of some rails as if\nshe feared some bodily force would be employed to remove her. So Mrs.\nSturgis just waited patiently by her, every now and then peeping\namong the congregation of heads in the body of the court, to see if\nher husband were still there. And there he always was to be seen,\nlooking and listening with all his might. His wife felt easy that he\nwould not be wanting her at home until the trial was ended.\n\nMary never let go her clutched hold on the rails. She wanted them to\nsteady her, in that heaving, whirling court. She thought the feeling\nof something hard compressed within her hand would help her to\nlisten, for it was such pain, such weary pain in her head, to strive\nto attend to what was being said. They were all at sea, sailing away\non billowy waves, and every one speaking at once, and no one heeding\nher father, who was calling on them to be silent, and listen to him.\nThen again, for a brief second, the court stood still, and she could\nsee the judge, sitting up there like an idol, with his trappings, so\nrigid and stiff; and Jem, opposite, looking at her, as if to say, Am\nI to die for what you know your ----. Then she checked herself, and\nby a great struggle brought herself round to an instant's sanity.\nBut the round of thought never stood still; and off she went again;\nand every time her power of struggling against the growing delirium\ngrew fainter and fainter. She muttered low to herself, but no one\nheard her except her neighbour, Mrs. Sturgis; all were too closely\nattending to the case for the prosecution, which was now being wound\nup.\n\nThe counsel for the prisoner had avoided much cross-examination,\nreserving to himself the right of calling the witnesses forward\nagain; for he had received so little, and such vague instructions,\nand understood that so much depended on the evidence of one who was\nnot forthcoming, that in fact he had little hope of establishing any\nthing like a show of a defence, and contented himself with watching\nthe case, and lying in wait for any legal objections that might\noffer themselves. He lay back on the seat, occasionally taking a\npinch of snuff in a manner intended to be contemptuous; now and then\nelevating his eyebrows, and sometimes exchanging a little note with\nMr. Bridgenorth behind him. The attorney had far more interest in the\ncase than the barrister, to which he was perhaps excited by his poor\nold friend Job Legh; who had edged and wedged himself through the\ncrowd close to Mr. Bridgenorth's elbow, sent thither by Ben Sturgis,\nto whom he had been \"introduced\" by Charley Jones, and who had\naccounted for Mary's disappearance on the preceding day, and spoken\nof their chase, their fears, their hopes.\n\nAll this was told in a few words to Mr. Bridgenorth--so few, that\nthey gave him but a confused idea, that time was of value; and this\nhe named to his counsel, who now rose to speak for the defence.\n\nJob Legh looked about for Mary, now he had gained, and given, some\nidea of the position of things. At last he saw her, standing by a\ndecent-looking woman, looking flushed and anxious, and moving her\nlips incessantly, as if eagerly talking; her eyes never resting on\nany object, but wandering about as if in search of something. Job\nthought it was for him she was seeking, and he struggled to get round\nto her. When he had succeeded, she took no notice of him, although\nhe spoke to her, but still kept looking round and round in the same\nwild, restless manner. He tried to hear the low quick mutterings of\nher voice, as he caught the repetition of the same words over and\nover again.\n\n\"I must not go mad. I must not, indeed. They say people tell the\ntruth when they're mad; but I don't. I was always a liar. I was,\nindeed; but I'm not mad. I must not go mad. I must not, indeed.\"\n\nSuddenly she seemed to become aware how earnestly Job was listening\n(with mournful attention) to her words, and turning sharp round upon\nhim, with upbraiding for his eaves-dropping on her lips, she caught\nsight of something,--or some one,--who, even in that state, had power\nto arrest her attention, and throwing up her arms with wild energy,\nshe shrieked aloud,\n\n\"Oh, Jem! Jem! you're saved; and I _am_ mad--\" and was instantly\nseized with convulsions. With much commiseration she was taken out\nof court, while the attention of many was diverted from her, by the\nfierce energy with which a sailor forced his way over rails and\nseats, against turnkeys and policemen. The officers of the court\nopposed this forcible manner of entrance, but they could hardly\ninduce the offender to adopt any quieter way of attaining his object,\nand telling his tale in the witness-box, the legitimate place. For\nWill had dwelt so impatiently on the danger in which his absence\nwould place his cousin, that even yet he seemed to fear that he might\nsee the prisoner carried off, and hung, before he could pour out the\nnarrative which would exculpate him. As for Job Legh, his feelings\nwere all but uncontrollable; as you may judge by the indifference\nwith which he saw Mary borne, stiff and convulsed, out of the court,\nin the charge of the kind Mrs. Sturgis, who, you will remember, was\nan utter stranger to him.\n\n\"She'll keep! I'll not trouble myself about her,\" said he to himself,\nas he wrote with trembling hands a little note of information to Mr.\nBridgenorth, who had conjectured, when Will had first disturbed the\nawful tranquillity of the life-and-death court, that the witness had\narrived (better late than never) on whose evidence rested all the\nslight chance yet remaining to Jem Wilson of escaping death. During\nthe commotion in the court, among all the cries and commands, the\ndismay and the directions, consequent upon Will's entrance, and\npoor Mary's fearful attack of illness, Mr. Bridgenorth had kept his\nlawyer-like presence of mind; and long before Job Legh's almost\nillegible note was poked at him, he had recapitulated the facts on\nwhich Will had to give evidence, and the manner in which he had been\npursued, after his ship had taken her leave of the land.\n\nThe barrister who defended Jem took new heart when he was put in\npossession of these striking points to be adduced, not so much out\nof earnestness to save the prisoner, of whose innocence he was still\ndoubtful, as because he saw the opportunities for the display of\nforensic eloquence which were presented by the facts; \"a gallant tar\nbrought back from the pathless ocean by a girl's noble daring,\" \"the\ndangers of too hastily judging from circumstantial evidence,\" &c.,\n&c.; while the counsellor for the prosecution prepared himself by\nfolding his arms, elevating his eyebrows, and putting his lips in the\nform in which they might best whistle down the wind such evidence\nas might be produced by a suborned witness, who dared to perjure\nhimself. For, of course, it is etiquette to suppose that such\nevidence as may be given against the opinion which lawyers are\npaid to uphold, is any thing but based on truth; and \"perjury,\"\n\"conspiracy,\" and \"peril of your immortal soul,\" are light\nexpressions to throw at the heads of those who may prove (not the\nspeaker, there would then be some excuse for the hasty words of\npersonal anger, but) the hirer of the speaker to be wrong, or\nmistaken.\n\nBut when once Will had attained his end, and felt that his tale,\nor part of a tale, would be heard by judge and jury; when once he\nsaw Jem standing safe and well before him (even though he saw him\npale and care-worn at the felon's bar); his courage took the shape\nof presence of mind, and he awaited the examination with a calm,\nunflinching intelligence, which dictated the clearest and most\npertinent answers. He told the story you know so well: how his\nleave of absence being nearly expired, he had resolved to fulfil\nhis promise, and go to see an uncle residing in the Isle of Man;\nhow his money (sailor-like) was all expended in Manchester, and how,\nconsequently, it had been necessary for him to walk to Liverpool,\nwhich he had accordingly done on the very night of the murder,\naccompanied as far as Hollins Greeb by his friend and cousin, the\nprisoner at the bar. He was clear and distinct in every corroborative\ncircumstance, and gave a short account of the singular way in which\nhe had been recalled from his outward-bound voyage, and the terrible\nanxiety he had felt, as the pilot-boat had struggled home against\nthe wind. The jury felt that their opinion (so nearly decided half\nan hour ago) was shaken and disturbed in a very uncomfortable and\nperplexing way, and were almost grateful to the counsel for the\nprosecution, when he got up, with a brow of thunder, to demolish\nthe evidence, which was so bewildering when taken in connexion with\nevery thing previously adduced. But if such, without looking to the\nconsequences, was the first impulsive feeling of some among the jury,\nhow shall I describe the vehemence of passion which possessed the\nmind of poor Mr. Carson, as he saw the effect of the young sailor's\nstatement? It never shook his belief in Jem's guilt in the least,\nthat attempt at an alibi; his hatred, his longing for vengeance,\nhaving once defined an object to itself, could no more bear to be\nfrustrated and disappointed than the beast of prey can submit to have\nhis victim taken from his hungry jaws. No more likeness to the calm\nstern power of Jupiter was there in that white eager face, almost\ndistorted by its fell anxiety of expression.\n\nThe counsel to whom etiquette assigned the cross-examination of Will,\ncaught the look on Mr. Carson's face, and in his desire to further\nthe intense wish there manifested, he over-shot his mark even in his\nfirst insulting question:\n\n\"And now, my man, you've told the court a very good and very\nconvincing story; no reasonable man ought to doubt the unstained\ninnocence of your relation at the bar. Still there is one\ncircumstance you have forgotten to name; and I feel that without\nit your evidence is rather incomplete. Will you have the kindness\nto inform the gentlemen of the jury what has been your charge for\nrepeating this very plausible story? How much good coin of Her\nMajesty's realm have you received, or are you to receive, for walking\nup from the docks, or some less creditable place, and uttering the\ntale you have just now repeated,--very much to the credit of your\ninstructor, I must say? Remember, sir, you are upon oath.\"\n\nIt took Will a minute to extract the meaning from the garb of\nunaccustomed words in which it was invested, and during this time he\nlooked a little confused. But the instant the truth flashed upon him,\nhe fixed his bright clear eyes, flaming with indignation, upon the\ncounsellor, whose look fell at last before that stern unflinching\ngaze. Then, and not till then, Will made answer.\n\n\"Will you tell the judge and jury how much money you've been paid for\nyour impudence towards one who has told God's blessed truth, and who\nwould scorn to tell a lie, or blackguard any one, for the biggest fee\nas ever lawyer got for doing dirty work? Will you tell, sir?-- But\nI'm ready, my lord judge, to take my oath as many times as your\nlordship or the jury would like, to testify to things having happened\njust as I said. There's O'Brien, the pilot, in court now. Would\nsomebody with a wig on please to ask him how much he can say for me?\"\n\nIt was a good idea, and caught at by the counsel for the defence.\nO'Brien gave just such testimony as was required to clear Will\nfrom all suspicion. He had witnessed the pursuit, he had heard the\nconversation which took place between the boat and the ship; he had\ngiven Will a homeward passage in his boat. And the character of an\naccredited pilot, appointed by Trinity House, was known to be above\nsuspicion.\n\nMr. Carson sank back on his seat in sickening despair. He knew enough\nof courts to be aware of the extreme unwillingness of juries to\nconvict, even where the evidence is most clear, when the penalty\nof such conviction is death. At the period of the trial most\ncondemnatory to the prisoner, he had repeated this fact to himself\nin order to damp his too certain expectation of a conviction. Now it\nneeded not repetition, for it forced itself upon his consciousness,\nand he seemed to _know_, even before the jury retired to consult,\nthat by some trick, some negligence, some miserable hocus-pocus,\nthe murderer of his child, his darling, his Absalom, who had never\nrebelled,--the slayer of his unburied boy would slip through the\nfangs of justice, and walk free and unscathed over that earth where\nhis son would never more be seen.\n\nIt was even so. The prisoner hid his face once more to shield the\nexpression of an emotion he could not control, from the notice of the\nover-curious; Job Legh ceased his eager talking to Mr. Bridgenorth;\nCharley looked grave and earnest; for the jury filed one by one back\ninto their box, and the question was asked to which such an awful\nanswer might be given.\n\nThe verdict they had come to was unsatisfactory to themselves at\nlast; neither being convinced of his innocence, nor yet quite willing\nto believe him guilty in the teeth of the alibi. But the punishment\nthat awaited him, if guilty, was so terrible, and so unnatural a\nsentence for man to pronounce on man, that the knowledge of it had\nweighed down the scale on the side of innocence, and \"Not Guilty\" was\nthe verdict that thrilled through the breathless court.\n\nOne moment of silence, and then the murmurs rose, as the verdict was\ndiscussed by all with lowered voice. Jem stood motionless, his head\nbowed; poor fellow, he was stunned with the rapid career of events\nduring the last few hours.\n\nHe had assumed his place at the bar with little or no expectation\nof an acquittal; and with scarcely any desire for life, in the\ncomplication of occurrences tending to strengthen the idea of Mary's\nmore than indifference to him; she had loved another, and in her mind\nJem believed that he himself must be regarded as the murderer of him\nshe loved. And suddenly, athwart this gloom which made life seem such\na blank expanse of desolation, there flashed the exquisite delight\nof hearing Mary's avowal of love, making the future all glorious, if\na future in this world he might hope to have. He could not dwell on\nany thing but her words, telling of her passionate love; all else was\nindistinct, nor could he strive to make it otherwise. She loved him.\n\nAnd Life, now full of tender images, suddenly bright with all\nexquisite promises, hung on a breath, the slenderest gossamer chance.\nHe tried to think that the knowledge of her love would soothe him\neven in his dying hours; but the phantoms of what life with her\nmight be, would obtrude, and made him almost gasp and reel under the\nuncertainty he was enduring. Will's appearance had only added to the\nintensity of this suspense.\n\nThe full meaning of the verdict could not at once penetrate his\nbrain. He stood dizzy and motionless. Some one pulled his coat. He\nturned, and saw Job Legh, the tears stealing down his brown furrowed\ncheeks, while he tried in vain to command voice enough to speak. He\nkept shaking Jem by the hand as the best and necessary expression of\nhis feeling.\n\n\"Here! make yourself scarce! I should think you'd be glad to get\nout of that!\" exclaimed the gaoler, as he brought up another livid\nprisoner, from out whose eyes came the anxiety which he would not\nallow any other feature to display.\n\nJob Legh pressed out of court, and Jem followed unreasoningly.\n\nThe crowd made way, and kept their garments tight about them, as Jem\npassed, for about him there still hung the taint of the murderer.\n\nHe was in the open air, and free once more! Although many looked on\nhim with suspicion, faithful friends closed round him; his arm was\nunresistingly pumped up and down by his cousin and Job; when one\nwas tired, the other took up the wholesome exercise, while Ben\nSturgis was working off his interest in the scene by scolding Charley\nfor walking on his head round and round Mary's sweetheart, for a\nsweetheart he was now satisfactorily ascertained to be, in spite of\nher assertion to the contrary. And all this time Jem himself felt\nbewildered and dazzled; he would have given any thing for an hour's\nuninterrupted thought on the occurrences of the past week, and the\nnew visions raised up during the morning; aye, even though that\ntranquil hour were to be passed in the hermitage of his quiet prison\ncell. The first question sobbed out by his choking voice, oppressed\nwith emotion, was,\n\n\"Where is she?\"\n\nThey led him to the room where his mother sat. They had told her\nof her son's acquittal, and now she was laughing, and crying,\nand talking, and giving way to all those feelings which she had\nrestrained with such effort during the last few days. They brought\nher son to her, and she threw herself upon his neck, weeping there.\nHe returned her embrace, but looked around, beyond. Excepting his\nmother there was no one in the room but the friends who had entered\nwith him.\n\n\"Eh, lad!\" said she, when she found voice to speak. \"See what it is\nto have behaved thysel! I could put in a good word for thee, and the\njury could na go and hang thee in the face of th' character I gave\nthee. Was na it a good thing they did na keep me from Liverpool? But\nI would come; I knew I could do thee good, bless thee, my lad. But\nthou'rt very white, and all of a tremble.\"\n\nHe kissed her again and again, but looking round as if searching for\nsome one he could not find, the first words he uttered were still,\n\n\"Where is she?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\n\nREQUIESCAT IN PACE.\n\n\n   \"Fear no more the heat o' th' sun,\n     Nor the furious winter's rages;\n   Thou thy worldly task hast done,\n     Home art gone and ta'en thy wages.\"\n\n   CYMBELINE.\n\n   \"While day and night can bring delight,\n     Or nature aught of pleasure give;\n   While joys above my mind can move\n     For thee, and thee alone I live:\n\n   \"When that grim foe of joy below\n     Comes in between to make us part,\n   The iron hand that breaks our band,\n     It breaks my bliss--it breaks my heart.\"\n\n   BURNS.\n\n\nShe was where no words of peace, no soothing hopeful tidings could\nreach her; in the ghastly spectral world of delirium. Hour after\nhour, day after day, she started up with passionate cries on her\nfather to save Jem; or rose wildly, imploring the winds and waves,\nthe pitiless winds and waves, to have mercy; and over and over\nagain she exhausted her feverish fitful strength in these agonised\nentreaties, and fell back powerless, uttering only the wailing moans\nof despair. They told her Jem was safe, they brought him before her\neyes; but sight and hearing were no longer channels of information to\nthat poor distracted brain, nor could human voice penetrate to her\nunderstanding.\n\nJem alone gathered the full meaning of some of her strange sentences,\nand perceived that by some means or other she, like himself, had\ndivined the truth of her father being the murderer.\n\nLong ago (reckoning time by events and thoughts, and not by clock\nor dial-plate), Jem had felt certain that Mary's father was Harry\nCarson's murderer; and although the motive was in some measure a\nmystery, yet a whole train of circumstances (the principal of which\nwas that John Barton had borrowed the fatal gun only two days before)\nhad left no doubt in Jem's mind. Sometimes he thought that John had\ndiscovered, and thus bloodily resented, the attentions which Mr.\nCarson had paid to his daughter; at others, he believed the motive to\nexist in the bitter feuds between the masters and their work-people,\nin which Barton was known to take so keen an interest. But if he had\nfelt himself pledged to preserve this secret, even when his own life\nwas the probable penalty, and he believed he should fall, execrated\nby Mary as the guilty destroyer of her lover, how much more was he\nbound now to labour to prevent any word of hers from inculpating her\nfather, now that she was his own; now that she had braved so much\nto rescue him; and now that her poor brain had lost all guiding and\ncontrolling power over her words.\n\nAll that night long Jem wandered up and down the narrow precincts\nof Ben Sturgis's house. In the little bed-room where Mrs. Sturgis\nalternately tended Mary, and wept over the violence of her illness,\nhe listened to her ravings; each sentence of which had its own\npeculiar meaning and reference, intelligible to his mind, till her\nwords rose to the wild pitch of agony, that no one could alleviate,\nand he could bear it no longer, and stole, sick and miserable down\nstairs, where Ben Sturgis thought it his duty to snore away in an\narm-chair instead of his bed, under the idea that he should thus be\nmore ready for active service, such as fetching the doctor to revisit\nhis patient.\n\nBefore it was fairly light, Jem (wide-awake, and listening with an\nearnest attention he could not deaden, however painful its results\nproved) heard a gentle subdued knock at the house door; it was no\nbusiness of his, to be sure, to open it, but as Ben slept on, he\nthought he would see who the early visitor might be, and ascertain\nif there was any occasion for disturbing either host or hostess. It\nwas Job Legh who stood there, distinct against the outer light of the\nstreet.\n\n\"How is she? Eh! poor soul! is that her! no need to ask! How strange\nher voice sounds! Screech! screech! and she so low, sweet-spoken,\nwhen she's well! Thou must keep up heart, old boy, and not look so\ndismal, thysel.\"\n\n\"I can't help it, Job; it's past a man's bearing to hear such a one\nas she is, going on as she is doing; even if I did not care for her,\nit would cut me sore to see one so young, and--I can't speak of it,\nJob, as a man should do,\" said Jem, his sobs choking him.\n\n\"Let me in, will you?\" said Job, pushing past him, for all this time\nJem had stood holding the door, unwilling to admit Job where he might\nhear so much that would be suggestive to one acquainted with the\nparties that Mary named.\n\n\"I'd more than one reason for coming betimes. I wanted to hear how\nyon poor wench was;--that stood first. Late last night I got a letter\nfrom Margaret, very anxious-like. The doctor says the old lady yonder\ncan't last many days longer, and it seems so lonesome for her to die\nwith no one but Margaret and Mrs. Davenport about her. So I thought\nI'd just come and stay with Mary Barton, and see as she's well done\nto, and you and your mother and Will go and take leave of old Alice.\"\n\nJem's countenance, sad at best just now, fell lower and lower. But\nJob went on with his speech.\n\n\"She still wanders, Margaret says, and thinks she's with her mother\nat home; but for all that, she should have some kith and kin near her\nto close her eyes, to my thinking.\"\n\n\"Could not you and Will take mother home? I'd follow when--\" Jem\nfaltered out thus far, when Job interrupted,\n\n\"Lad! if thou knew what thy mother has suffered for thee, thou'd\nnot speak of leaving her just when she's got thee from the grave\nas it were. Why, this very night she roused me up, and 'Job,' says\nshe, 'I ask your pardon for wakening you, but tell me, am I awake or\ndreaming? Is Jem proved innocent? Oh, Job Legh! God send I've not\nbeen only dreaming it!' For thou see'st she can't rightly understand\nwhy thou'rt with Mary, and not with her. Ay, ay! I know why; but a\nmother only gives up her son's heart inch by inch to his wife, and\nthen she gives it up with a grudge. No, Jem! thou must go with thy\nmother just now, if ever thou hopest for God's blessing. She's a\nwidow, and has none but thee. Never fear for Mary! She's young and\nwill struggle through. They are decent people, these folk she is\nwith, and I'll watch o'er her as though she was my own poor girl,\nthat lies cold enough in London-town. I grant ye, it's hard enough\nfor her to be left among strangers. To my mind John Barton would\nbe more in the way of his duty, looking after his daughter, than\ndelegating it up and down the country, looking after every one's\nbusiness but his own.\"\n\nA new idea and a new fear came into Jem's mind. What if Mary should\nimplicate her father?\n\n\"She raves terribly,\" said he. \"All night long she's been speaking\nof her father, and mixing up thoughts of him with the trial she saw\nyesterday. I should not wonder if she'll speak of him as being in\ncourt next thing.\"\n\n\"I should na wonder, either,\" answered Job. \"Folk in her way say many\nand many a strange thing; and th' best way is never to mind them. Now\nyou take your mother home, Jem, and stay by her till old Alice is\ngone, and trust me for seeing after Mary.\"\n\nJem felt how right Job was, and could not resist what he knew to be\nhis duty, but I cannot tell you how heavy and sick at heart he was\nas he stood at the door to take a last fond, lingering look at Mary.\nHe saw her sitting up in bed, her golden hair, dimmed with her one\nday's illness, floating behind her, her head bound round with wetted\ncloths, her features all agitated, even to distortion, with the pangs\nof her anxiety.\n\nHer lover's eyes filled with tears. He could not hope. The elasticity\nof his heart had been crushed out of him by early sorrows; and now,\nespecially, the dark side of every thing seemed to be presented to\nhim. What if she died, just when he knew the treasure, the untold\ntreasure he possessed in her love! What if (worse than death) she\nremained a poor gibbering maniac all her life long (and mad people\ndo live to be old sometimes, even under all the pressure of their\nburden), terror-distracted as she was now, and no one able to comfort\nher!\n\n\"Jem!\" said Job, partly guessing the other's feelings by his own.\n\"Jem!\" repeated he, arresting his attention before he spoke. Jem\nturned round, the little motion causing the tears to overflow and\ntrickle down his cheeks. \"Thou must trust in God, and leave her in\nHis hands.\" He spoke hushed, and low; but the words sank all the more\ninto Jem's heart, and gave him strength to tear himself away.\n\nHe found his mother (notwithstanding that she had but just regained\nher child through Mary's instrumentality) half inclined to resent his\nhaving passed the night in anxious devotion to the poor invalid. She\ndwelt on the duties of children to their parents (above all others),\ntill Jem could hardly believe the relative positions they had held\nonly yesterday, when she was struggling with and controlling every\ninstinct of her nature, only because _he_ wished it. However, the\nrecollection of that yesterday, with its hair's breadth between him\nand a felon's death, and the love that had lightened the dark shadow,\nmade him bear with the meekness and patience of a true-hearted man\nall the worrying little acerbities of to-day; and he had no small\nmerit in so doing; for in him, as in his mother, the re-action after\nintense excitement had produced its usual effect in increased\nirritability of the nervous system.\n\nThey found Alice alive, and without pain. And that was all. A child\nof a few weeks old would have had more bodily strength; a child of a\nvery few months old, more consciousness of what was passing before\nher. But even in this state she diffused an atmosphere of peace\naround her. True, Will, at first, wept passionate tears at the sight\nof her, who had been as a mother to him, so standing on the confines\nof life. But even now, as always, loud passionate feeling could not\nlong endure in the calm of her presence. The firm faith which her\nmind had no longer power to grasp, had left its trail of glory; for\nby no other word can I call the bright happy look which illumined the\nold earth-worn face. Her talk, it is true, bore no more that constant\nearnest reference to God and His holy Word which it had done in\nhealth, and there were no death-bed words of exhortation from the\nlips of one so habitually pious. For still she imagined herself once\nagain in the happy, happy realms of childhood; and again dwelling\nin the lovely northern haunts where she had so often longed to be.\nThough earthly sight was gone away, she beheld again the scenes she\nhad loved from long years ago! she saw them without a change to dim\nthe old radiant hues. The long dead were with her, fresh and blooming\nas in those bygone days. And death came to her as a welcome blessing,\nlike as evening comes to the weary child. Her work here was finished,\nand faithfully done.\n\nWhat better sentence can an emperor wish to have said over his bier?\nIn second childhood (that blessing clouded by a name), she said her\n\"Nunc Dimittis,\"--the sweetest canticle to the holy.\n\n\"Mother, good night! Dear mother! bless me once more! I'm very tired,\nand would fain go to sleep.\" She never spoke again on this side\nHeaven.\n\nShe died the day after their return from Liverpool. From that time,\nJem became aware that his mother was jealously watching for some word\nor sign which should betoken his wish to return to Mary. And yet go\nto Liverpool he must and would, as soon as the funeral was over, if\nbut for a single glimpse of his darling. For Job had never written;\nindeed, any necessity for his so doing had never entered his head.\nIf Mary died, he would announce it personally; if she recovered, he\nmeant to bring her home with him. Writing was to him little more than\nan auxiliary to natural history; a way of ticketing specimens, not of\nexpressing thoughts.\n\nThe consequence of this want of intelligence as to Mary's state was,\nthat Jem was constantly anticipating that every person and every\nscrap of paper was to convey to him the news of her death. He could\nnot endure this state long; but he resolved not to disturb the house\nby announcing to his mother his purposed intention of returning to\nLiverpool, until the dead had been carried forth.\n\nOn Sunday afternoon they laid her low with many tears. Will wept as\none who would not be comforted.\n\nThe old childish feeling came over him, the feeling of loneliness at\nbeing left among strangers.\n\nBy and bye, Margaret timidly stole near him, as if waiting to\nconsole; and soon his passion sank down to grief, and grief gave way\nto melancholy, and though he felt as if he never could be joyful\nagain, he was all the while unconsciously approaching nearer to the\nfull happiness of calling Margaret his own, and a golden thread was\ninterwoven even now with the darkness of his sorrow. Yet it was on\nhis arm that Jane Wilson leant on her return homewards. Jem took\ncharge of Margaret.\n\n\"Margaret, I'm bound for Liverpool by the first train to-morrow; I\nmust set your grandfather at liberty.\"\n\n\"I'm sure he likes nothing better than watching over poor Mary; he\nloves her nearly as well as me. But let me go! I have been so full\nof poor Alice, I've never thought of it before; I can't do so much\nas many a one, but Mary will like to have a woman about her that she\nknows. I'm sorry I waited to be reminded, Jem.\" replied Margaret,\nwith some little self-reproach.\n\nBut Margaret's proposition did not at all agree with her companion's\nwishes. He found he had better speak out, and put his intention at\nonce to the right motive; the subterfuge about setting Job Legh at\nliberty had done him harm instead of good.\n\n\"To tell truth, Margaret, it's I that must go, and that for my own\nsake, not your grandfather's. I can rest neither by night nor day for\nthinking on Mary. Whether she lives or dies I look on her as my wife\nbefore God, as surely and solemnly as if we were married. So being, I\nhave the greatest right to look after her, and I cannot yield it even\nto--\"\n\n\"Her father,\" said Margaret, finishing his interrupted sentence. \"It\nseems strange that a girl like her should be thrown on the bare world\nto struggle through so bad an illness. No one seems to know where\nJohn Barton is, else I thought of getting Morris to write him a\nletter telling him about Mary. I wish he was home, that I do!\"\n\nJem could not echo this wish.\n\n\"Mary's not bad off for friends where she is,\" said he. \"I call them\nfriends, though a week ago we none of us knew there were such folks\nin the world. But being anxious and sorrowful about the same thing\nmakes people friends quicker than any thing, I think. She's like a\nmother to Mary in her ways; and he bears a good character, as far as\nI could learn just in that hurry. We're drawing near home, and I've\nnot said my say, Margaret. I want you to look after mother a bit.\nShe'll not like my going, and I've got to break it to her yet. If she\ntakes it very badly, I'll come back to-morrow night; but if she's not\nagainst it very much, I mean to stay till it's settled about Mary,\none way or the other. Will, you know, will be there, Margaret, to\nhelp a bit in doing for mother.\"\n\nWill's being there made the only objection Margaret saw to this plan.\nShe disliked the idea of seeming to throw herself in his way; and yet\nshe did not like to say any thing of this feeling to Jem, who had all\nalong seemed perfectly unconscious of any love-affair, besides his\nown, in progress.\n\nSo Margaret gave a reluctant consent.\n\n\"If you can just step up to our house to-night, Jem, I'll put up a\nfew things as may be useful to Mary, and then you can say when you'll\nlikely be back. If you come home to-morrow night, and Will's there,\nperhaps I need not step up?\"\n\n\"Yes, Margaret, do! I shan't leave easy unless you go some time in\nthe day to see mother. I'll come to-night, though; and now good-bye.\nStay! do you think you could just coax poor Will to walk a bit home\nwith you, that I might speak to mother by myself?\"\n\nNo! that Margaret could not do. That was expecting too great a\nsacrifice of bashful feeling.\n\nBut the object was accomplished by Will's going up-stairs immediately\non their return to the house, to indulge his mournful thoughts alone.\nAs soon as Jem and his mother were left by themselves, he began on\nthe subject uppermost in his mind.\n\n\"Mother!\"\n\nShe put her handkerchief from her eyes, and turned quickly round so\nas to face him where he stood, thinking what best to say. The little\naction annoyed him, and he rushed at once into the subject.\n\n\"Mother! I am going back to Liverpool to-morrow morning to see how\nMary Barton is.\"\n\n\"And what's Mary Barton to thee, that thou shouldst be running after\nher in that-a-way?\"\n\n\"If she lives, she shall be my wedded wife. If she dies--mother, I\ncan't speak of what I shall feel if she dies.\" His voice was choked\nin his throat.\n\nFor an instant his mother was interested by his words; and then came\nback the old jealousy of being supplanted in the affections of that\nson, who had been, as it were, newly born to her, by the escape he\nhad so lately experienced from danger. So she hardened her heart\nagainst entertaining any feeling of sympathy; and turned away from\nthe face, which recalled the earnest look of his childhood, when he\nhad come to her in some trouble, sure of help and comfort.\n\nAnd coldly she spoke, in those tones which Jem knew and dreaded, even\nbefore the meaning they expressed was fully shaped. \"Thou'rt old\nenough to please thysel. Old mothers are cast aside, and what they've\nborne forgotten, as soon as a pretty face comes across. I might have\nthought of that last Tuesday, when I felt as if thou wert all my own,\nand the judge were some wild animal trying to rend thee from me. I\nspoke up for thee then; but it's all forgotten now, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Mother! you know all this while, _you know_ I can never forget any\nkindness you've ever done for me; and they've been many. Why should\nyou think I've only room for one love in my heart? I can love you as\ndearly as ever, and Mary too, as much as man ever loved woman.\"\n\nHe awaited a reply. None was vouchsafed.\n\n\"Mother, answer me!\" said he, at last.\n\n\"What mun I answer? You asked me no question.\"\n\n\"Well! I ask you this now. To-morrow morning I go to Liverpool to see\nher, who is as my wife. Dear mother! will you bless me on my errand?\nIf it please God she recovers, will you take her to you as you would\na daughter?\"\n\nShe could neither refuse nor assent.\n\n\"Why need you go?\" said she querulously, at length. \"You'll be\ngetting in some mischief or another again. Can't you stop at home\nquiet with me?\"\n\nJem got up, and walked about the room in despairing impatience. She\nwould not understand his feelings. At last he stopped right before\nthe place where she was sitting, with an air of injured meekness on\nher face.\n\n\"Mother! I often think what a good man father was! I've often heard\nyou tell of your courting days; and of the accident that befell you,\nand how ill you were. How long is it ago?\"\n\n\"Near upon five-and-twenty years,\" said she, with a sigh.\n\n\"You little thought when you were so ill you should live to have such\na fine strapping son as I am, did you now?\"\n\nShe smiled a little, and looked up at him, which was just what he\nwanted.\n\n\"Thou'rt not so fine a man as thy father was, by a deal!\" said she,\nlooking at him with much fondness, notwithstanding her depreciatory\nwords.\n\nHe took another turn or two up and down the room. He wanted to bend\nthe subject round to his own case.\n\n\"Those were happy days when father was alive!\"\n\n\"You may say so, lad! Such days as will never come again to me, at\nany rate.\" She sighed sorrowfully.\n\n\"Mother!\" said he at last, stopping short, and taking her hand in\nhis with tender affection, \"you'd like me to be as happy a man as my\nfather was before me, would not you? You'd like me to have some one\nto make me as happy as you made father? Now, would you not, dear\nmother?\"\n\n\"I did not make him as happy as I might ha' done,\" murmured she, in\na low, sad voice of self-reproach. \"Th' accident gave a jar to my\ntemper it's never got the better of; and now he's gone where he can\nnever know how I grieve for having frabbed him as I did.\"\n\n\"Nay, mother, we don't know that!\" said Jem, with gentle soothing.\n\"Any how, you and father got along with as few rubs as most people.\nBut for _his_ sake, dear mother, don't say me nay, now that I come to\nyou to ask your blessing before setting out to see her, who is to be\nmy wife, if ever woman is; for _his_ sake, if not for mine, love her\nwho I shall bring home to be to me all you were to him: and mother! I\ndo not ask for a truer or a tenderer heart than yours is, in the long\nrun.\"\n\nThe hard look left her face; though her eyes were still averted\nfrom Jem's gaze, it was more because they were brimming over with\ntears, called forth by his words, than because any angry feeling yet\nremained. And when his manly voice died away in low pleadings, she\nlifted up her hands, and bent down her son's head below the level of\nher own; and then she solemnly uttered a blessing.\n\n\"God bless thee, Jem, my own dear lad. And may He bless Mary Barton\nfor thy sake.\"\n\nJem's heart leaped up, and from this time hope took the place of fear\nin his anticipations with regard to Mary.\n\n\"Mother! you show your own true self to Mary, and she'll love you as\ndearly as I do.\"\n\nSo with some few smiles, and some few tears, and much earnest\ntalking, the evening wore away.\n\n\"I must be off to see Margaret. Why, it's near ten o'clock! Could you\nhave thought it? Now don't you stop up for me, mother. You and Will\ngo to bed, for you've both need of it. I shall be home in an hour.\"\n\nMargaret had felt the evening long and lonely; and was all but giving\nup the thoughts of Jem's coming that night, when she heard his step\nat the door.\n\nHe told her of his progress with his mother; he told her his hopes,\nand was silent on the subject of his fears.\n\n\"To think how sorrow and joy are mixed up together. You'll date your\nstart in life as Mary's acknowledged lover from poor Alice Wilson's\nburial day. Well! the dead are soon forgotten!\"\n\n\"Dear Margaret!--But you're worn out with your long evening waiting\nfor me. I don't wonder. But never you, nor any one else, think\nbecause God sees fit to call up new interests, perhaps right out\nof the grave, that therefore the dead are forgotten. Margaret, you\nyourself can remember our looks, and fancy what we're like.\"\n\n\"Yes! but what has that to do with remembering Alice?\"\n\n\"Why, just this. You're not always trying to think on our faces, and\nmaking a labour of remembering; but often, I'll be bound, when you're\nsinking off to sleep, or when you're very quiet and still, the faces\nyou knew so well when you could see, come smiling before you with\nloving looks. Or you remember them, without striving after it, and\nwithout thinking it's your duty to keep recalling them. And so it is\nwith them that are hidden from our sight. If they've been worthy to\nbe heartily loved while alive, they'll not be forgotten when dead;\nit's against nature. And we need no more be upbraiding ourselves\nfor letting in God's rays of light upon our sorrow, and no more\nbe fearful of forgetting them, because their memory is not always\nhaunting and taking up our minds, than you need to trouble yourself\nabout remembering your grandfather's face, or what the stars were\nlike,--you can't forget if you would, what it's such a pleasure to\nthink about. Don't fear my forgetting Aunt Alice.\"\n\n\"I'm not, Jem; not now, at least; only you seemed so full about\nMary.\"\n\n\"I've kept it down so long, remember. How glad Aunt Alice would have\nbeen to know that I might hope to have her for my wife! that's to\nsay, if God spares her!\"\n\n\"She would not have known it, even if you could have told her this\nlast fortnight,--ever since you went away she's been thinking always\nthat she was a little child at her mother's apron-string. She must\nhave been a happy little thing; it was such a pleasure to her to\nthink about those early days, when she lay old and gray on her\ndeath-bed.\"\n\n\"I never knew any one seem more happy all her life long.\"\n\n\"Ay! and how gentle and easy her death was! She thought her mother\nwas near her.\"\n\nThey fell into calm thought about those last peaceful happy hours.\n\nIt struck eleven. Jem started up.\n\n\"I should have been gone long ago. Give me the bundle. You'll not\nforget my mother. Good night, Margaret.\"\n\nShe let him out and bolted the door behind him. He stood on the steps\nto adjust some fastening about the bundle. The court, the street, was\ndeeply still. Long ago had all retired to rest on that quiet Sabbath\nevening. The stars shone down on the silent deserted streets, and\nthe soft clear moonlight fell in bright masses, leaving the steps on\nwhich Jem stood in shadow.\n\nA foot-fall was heard along the pavement; slow and heavy was the\nsound. Before Jem had ended his little piece of business, a form\nhad glided into sight; a wan, feeble figure, bearing, with evident\nand painful labour, a jug of water from the neighbouring pump. It\nwent before Jem, turned up the court at the corner of which he was\nstanding, passed into the broad, calm light; and there, with bowed\nhead, sinking and shrunk body, Jem recognised John Barton.\n\nNo haunting ghost could have had less of the energy of life in its\ninvoluntary motions than he, who, nevertheless, went on with the\nsame measured clock-work tread until the door of his own house was\nreached. And then he disappeared, and the latch fell feebly to, and\nmade a faint and wavering sound, breaking the solemn silence of the\nnight. Then all again was still.\n\nFor a minute or two Jem stood motionless, stunned by the thoughts\nwhich the sight of Mary's father had called up.\n\nMargaret did not know he was at home: had he stolen like a thief by\ndead of night into his own dwelling? Depressed as Jem had often and\nlong seen him, this night there was something different about him\nstill; beaten down by some inward storm, he seemed to grovel along,\nall self-respect lost and gone.\n\nMust he be told of Mary's state? Jem felt he must not; and this for\nmany reasons. He could not be informed of her illness without many\nother particulars being communicated at the same time, of which it\nwere better he should be kept in ignorance; indeed, of which Mary\nherself could alone give the full explanation. No suspicion that he\nwas the criminal seemed hitherto to have been excited in the mind of\nany one. Added to these reasons was Jem's extreme unwillingness to\nface him, with the belief in his breast that he, and none other, had\ndone the fearful deed.\n\nIt was true that he was Mary's father, and as such had every right\nto be told of all concerning her; but supposing he were, and that\nhe followed the impulse so natural to a father, and wished to go to\nher, what might be the consequences? Among the mingled feelings she\nhad revealed in her delirium, ay, mingled even with the most tender\nexpressions of love for her father, was a sort of horror of him; a\ndread of him as a blood-shedder, which seemed to separate him into\ntwo persons,--one, the father who had dandled her on his knee, and\nloved her all her life long; the other, the assassin, the cause of\nall her trouble and woe.\n\nIf he presented himself before her while this idea of his character\nwas uppermost, who might tell the consequence?\n\nJem could not, and would not, expose her to any such fearful chance:\nand to tell the truth, I believe he looked upon her as more his\nown, to guard from all shadow of injury with most loving care, than\nas belonging to any one else in this world, though girt with the\nreverend name of Father, and guiltless of aught that might have\nlessened such reverence.\n\nIf you think this account of mine confused, of the half-feelings,\nhalf-reasons, which passed through Jem's mind, as he stood gazing at\nthe empty space, where that crushed form had so lately been seen,--if\nyou are perplexed to disentangle the real motives, I do assure you\nit was from just such an involved set of thoughts that Jem drew the\nresolution to act as if he had not seen that phantom likeness of John\nBarton; himself, yet not himself.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\n\nTHE RETURN HOME.\n\n\n   \"_Dixwell._ Forgiveness! Oh, forgiveness, and a grave!\n   _Mary._     God knows thy heart, my father! and I shudder\n               To think what thou perchance hast acted.\n   _Dixwell._  Oh!\n   _Mary._     No common load of woe is thine, my father.\"\n\n   ELLIOTT'S \"KERHONAH.\"\n\n\nMary still hovered between life and death when Jem arrived at the\nhouse where she lay; and the doctors were as yet unwilling to\ncompromise their wisdom by allowing too much hope to be entertained.\nBut the state of things, if not less anxious, was less distressing\nthan when Jem had quitted her. She lay now in a stupor, which was\npartly disease, and partly exhaustion after the previous excitement.\n\nAnd now Jem found the difficulty which every one who has watched by\na sick bed knows full well; and which is perhaps more insurmountable\nto men than it is to women,--the difficulty of being patient, and\ntrying not to expect any visible change for long, long hours of sad\nmonotony.\n\nBut after awhile the reward came. The laboured breathing became\nlower and softer, the heavy look of oppressive pain melted away\nfrom the face, and a languor that was almost peace took the place\nof suffering. She slept a natural sleep; and they stole about on\ntip-toe, and spoke low, and softly, and hardly dared to breathe,\nhowever much they longed to sigh out their thankful relief.\n\nShe opened her eyes. Her mind was in the tender state of a\nlately-born infant's. She was pleased with the gay but not dazzling\ncolours of the paper; soothed by the subdued light; and quite\nsufficiently amused by looking at all the objects in the room,--the\ndrawing of the ships, the festoons of the curtain, the bright flowers\non the painted backs of the chairs,--to care for any stronger\nexcitement. She wondered at the ball of glass, containing various\ncoloured sands from the Isle of Wight, or some such place, which hung\nsuspended from the middle of the little valance over the window. But\nshe did not care to exert herself to ask any questions, although she\nsaw Mrs. Sturgis standing at the bed-side with some tea, ready to\ndrop it into her mouth by spoonfuls.\n\nShe did not see the face of honest joy, of earnest thankfulness,--the\nclasped hands,--the beaming eyes,--the trembling eagerness of\ngesture, of one who had long awaited her awakening, and who now stood\nbehind the curtains watching through some little chink her every\nfaint motion; or if she had caught a glimpse of that loving, peeping\nface, she was in too exhausted a state to have taken much notice,\nor have long retained the impression that he she loved so well was\nhanging about her, and blessing God for every conscious look which\nstole over her countenance.\n\nShe fell softly into slumber, without a word having been spoken by\nany one during that half hour of inexpressible joy. And again the\nstillness was enforced by sign and whispered word, but with eyes that\nbeamed out their bright thoughts of hope. Jem sat by the side of the\nbed, holding back the little curtain, and gazing as if he could never\ngaze his fill at the pale, wasted face, so marbled and so chiselled\nin its wan outline.\n\nShe wakened once more; her soft eyes opened, and met his over-bending\nlook. She smiled gently, as a baby does when it sees its mother\ntending its little cot; and continued her innocent, infantine gaze\ninto his face, as if the sight gave her much unconscious pleasure.\nBut by-and-by a different expression came into her sweet eyes; a look\nof memory and intelligence; her white face flushed the brightest rosy\nred, and with feeble motion she tried to hide her head in the pillow.\n\nIt required all Jem's self-control to do what he knew and felt to\nbe necessary, to call Mrs. Sturgis, who was quietly dozing by the\nfireside; and that done, he felt almost obliged to leave the room to\nkeep down the happy agitation which would gush out in every feature,\nevery gesture, and every tone.\n\nFrom that time forward Mary's progress towards health was rapid.\n\nThere was every reason, but one, in favour of her speedy removal\nhome. All Jem's duties lay in Manchester. It was his mother's\ndwelling-place, and there his plans for life had been to be worked\nout; plans, which the suspicion and imprisonment he had fallen into,\nhad thrown for a time into a chaos, which his presence was required\nto arrange into form. For he might find, in spite of a jury's\nverdict, that too strong a taint was on his character for him ever to\nlabour in Manchester again. He remembered the manner in which some\none suspected of having been a convict was shunned by masters and\nmen, when he had accidentally met with work in their foundry; the\nrecollection smote him now, how he himself had thought that it did\nnot become an honest upright man to associate with one who had been\na prisoner. He could not choose but think on that poor humble being,\nwith his downcast conscious look; hunted out of the work-shop,\nwhere he had sought to earn an honest livelihood, by the looks, and\nhalf-spoken words, and the black silence of repugnance (worse than\nwords to bear), that met him on all sides.\n\nJem felt that his own character had been attainted; and that to many\nit might still appear suspicious. He knew that he could convince the\nworld, by a future as blameless as his past had been, that he was\ninnocent. But at the same time he saw that he must have patience, and\nnerve himself for some trials; and the sooner these were undergone,\nthe sooner he was aware of the place he held in men's estimation, the\nbetter. He longed to have presented himself once more at the foundry;\nand then the reality would drive away the pictures that would\n(unbidden) come of a shunned man, eyed askance by all, and driven\nforth to shape out some new career.\n\nI said every reason \"but one\" inclined Jem to hasten Mary's return as\nsoon as she was sufficiently convalescent. That one was the meeting\nwhich awaited her at home.\n\nTurn it over as Jem would, he could not decide what was the best\ncourse to pursue. He could compel himself to any line of conduct\nthat his reason and his sense of right told him to be desirable;\nbut they did not tell him it was desirable to speak to Mary, in her\ntender state of mind and body, of her father. How much would be\nimplied by the mere mention of his name! Speak it as calmly, and\nas indifferently as he might, he could not avoid expressing some\nconsciousness of the terrible knowledge she possessed.\n\nShe, for her part, was softer and gentler than she had ever been in\nher gentlest mood; since her illness, her motions, her glances, her\nvoice were all tender in their languor. It seemed almost a trouble to\nher to break the silence with the low sounds of her own sweet voice,\nand her words fell sparingly on Jem's greedy, listening ear.\n\nHer face was, however, so full of love and confidence, that Jem felt\nno uneasiness at the state of silent abstraction into which she often\nfell. If she did but love him, all would yet go right; and it was\nbetter not to press for confidence on that one subject which must be\npainful to both.\n\nThere came a fine, bright, balmy day. And Mary tottered once more out\ninto the open air, leaning on Jem's arm, and close to his beating\nheart. And Mrs. Sturgis watched them from her door, with a blessing\non her lips, as they went slowly up the street.\n\nThey came in sight of the river. Mary shuddered.\n\n\"Oh, Jem! take me home. Yon river seems all made of glittering,\nheaving, dazzling metal, just as it did when I began to be ill.\"\n\nJem led her homewards. She dropped her head as searching for\nsomething on the ground.\n\n\"Jem!\" He was all attention. She paused for an instant. \"When may I\ngo home? To Manchester, I mean. I am so weary of this place; and I\nwould fain be at home.\"\n\nShe spoke in a feeble voice; not at all impatiently, as the words\nthemselves would seem to intimate, but in a mournful way, as if\nanticipating sorrow even in the very fulfilment of her wishes.\n\n\"Darling! we will go whenever you wish; whenever you feel strong\nenough. I asked Job to tell Margaret to get all in readiness for you\nto go there at first. She'll tend you and nurse you. You must not go\nhome. Job proffered for you to go there.\"\n\n\"Ah! but I must go home, Jem. I'll try and not fail now in what's\nright. There are things we must not speak on\" (lowering her voice),\n\"but you'll be really kind if you'll not speak against my going home.\nLet us say no more about it, dear Jem. I must go home, and I must go\nalone.\"\n\n\"Not alone, Mary!\"\n\n\"Yes, alone! I cannot tell you why I ask it. And if you guess, I know\nyou well enough to be sure you'll understand why I ask you never to\nspeak on that again to me, till I begin. Promise, dear Jem, promise!\"\n\nHe promised; to gratify that beseeching face he promised. And then he\nrepented, and felt as if he had done ill. Then again he felt as if\nshe were the best judge, and knowing all (perhaps more than even he\ndid) might be forming plans which his interference would mar.\n\nOne thing was certain! it was a miserable thing to have this awful\nforbidden ground of discourse; to guess at each other's thoughts,\nwhen eyes were averted, and cheeks blanched, and words stood still,\narrested in their flow by some casual allusion.\n\nAt last a day, fine enough for Mary to travel on, arrived. She had\nwished to go, but now her courage failed her. How could she have said\nshe was weary of that quiet house, where even Ben Sturgis' grumblings\nonly made a kind of harmonious bass in the concord between him and\nhis wife, so thoroughly did they know each other with the knowledge\nof many years! How could she have longed to quit that little peaceful\nroom where she had experienced such loving tendence! Even the very\ncheck bed-curtains became dear to her under the idea of seeing them\nno more. If it was so with inanimate objects, if they had such power\nof exciting regret, what were her feelings with regard to the kind\nold couple, who had taken the stranger in, and cared for her, and\nnursed her, as though she had been a daughter? Each wilful sentence\nspoken in the half unconscious irritation of feebleness came now with\navenging self-reproach to her memory, as she hung about Mrs. Sturgis,\nwith many tears, which served instead of words to express her\ngratitude and love.\n\nBen bustled about with the square bottle of Goldenwasser in one of\nhis hands, and a small tumbler in the other; he went to Mary, Jem,\nand his wife in succession, pouring out a glass for each and bidding\nthem drink it to keep their spirits up: but as each severally\nrefused, he drank it himself; and passed on to offer the same\nhospitality to another with the like refusal, and the like result.\n\nWhen he had swallowed the last of the three draughts, he condescended\nto give his reasons for having done so.\n\n\"I cannot abide waste. What's poured out mun be drunk. That's my\nmaxim.\" So saying, he replaced the bottle in the cupboard.\n\nIt was he who in a firm commanding voice at last told Jem and Mary\nto be off, or they would be too late. Mrs. Sturgis had kept up till\nthen; but as they left her house, she could no longer restrain her\ntears, and cried aloud in spite of her husband's upbraiding.\n\n\"Perhaps they'll be too late for th' train!\" exclaimed she, with a\ndegree of hope, as the clock struck two.\n\n\"What! and come back again! No! no! that would never do. We've done\nour part, and cried our cry; it's no use going o'er the same ground\nagain. I should ha' to give 'em more out of yon bottle when next\nparting time came, and them three glasses they had made a hole in\nthe stuff, I can tell you. Time Jack was back from Hamburg with some\nmore.\"\n\nWhen they reached Manchester, Mary looked very white, and the\nexpression on her face was almost stern. She was in fact summoning up\nher resolution to meet her father if he were at home. Jem had never\nnamed his midnight glimpse of John Barton to human being; but Mary\nhad a sort of presentiment that wander where he would, he would seek\nhis home at last. But in what mood she dreaded to think. For the\nknowledge of her father's capability of guilt seemed to have opened\na dark gulf in his character, into the depths of which she trembled\nto look. At one moment she would fain have claimed protection\nagainst the life she must lead, for some time at least, alone with\na murderer! She thought of his gloom, before his mind was haunted\nby the memory of so terrible a crime; his moody, irritable ways. She\nimagined the evenings as of old: she, toiling at some work, long\nafter houses were shut, and folks abed; he, more savage than he had\never been before with the inward gnawing of his remorse. At such\ntimes she could have cried aloud with terror, at the scenes her fancy\nconjured up.\n\nBut her filial duty, nay, her love and gratitude for many deeds of\nkindness done to her as a little child, conquered all fear. She would\nendure all imaginable terrors, although of daily occurrence. And\nshe would patiently bear all wayward violence of temper; more than\npatiently would she bear it--pitifully, as one who knew of some awful\ncurse awaiting the blood-shedder. She would watch over him tenderly,\nas the Innocent should watch over the Guilty; awaiting the gracious\nseasons, wherein to pour oil and balm into the bitter wounds.\n\nWith the untroubled peace which the resolve to endure to the end\ngives, she approached the house that from habit she still called\nhome, but which possessed the holiness of home no longer.\n\n\"Jem!\" said she, as they stood at the entrance to the court, close\nby Job Legh's door, \"you must go in there and wait half-an-hour. Not\nless. If in that time I don't come back, you go your ways to your\nmother. Give her my dear love. I will send by Margaret when I want to\nsee you.\" She sighed heavily.\n\n\"Mary! Mary! I cannot leave you. You speak as coldly as if we were to\nbe nought to each other. And my heart's bound up in you. I know why\nyou bid me keep away, but--\"\n\nShe put her hand on his arm, as he spoke in a loud agitated tone; she\nlooked into his face with upbraiding love in her eyes, and then she\nsaid, while her lips quivered, and he felt her whole frame trembling:\n\n\"Dear Jem! I often could have told you more of love, if I had not\nonce spoken out so free. Remember that time, Jem, if ever you think\nme cold. Then, the love that's in my heart would out in words; but\nnow, though I'm silent on the pain I'm feeling in quitting you, the\nlove is in my heart all the same. But this is not the time to speak\non such things. If I do not do what I feel to be right now, I may\nblame myself all my life long! Jem, you promised--\"\n\nAnd so saying she left him. She went quicker than she would otherwise\nhave passed over those few yards of ground, for fear he should still\ntry to accompany her. Her hand was on the latch, and in a breath the\ndoor was opened.\n\nThere sat her father, still and motionless--not even turning his head\nto see who had entered; but perhaps he recognised the foot-step,--the\ntrick of action.\n\nHe sat by the fire; the grate I should say, for fire there was none.\nSome dull, gray ashes, negligently left, long days ago, coldly choked\nup the bars. He had taken the accustomed seat from mere force of\nhabit, which ruled his automaton-body. For all energy, both physical\nand mental, seemed to have retreated inwards to some of the great\ncitadels of life, there to do battle against the Destroyer,\nConscience.\n\nHis hands were crossed, his fingers interlaced; usually a position\nimplying some degree of resolution, or strength; but in him it was so\nfaintly maintained, that it appeared more the result of chance; an\nattitude requiring some application of outward force to alter,--and a\nblow with a straw seemed as though it would be sufficient.\n\nAnd as for his face, it was sunk and worn,--like a skull, with yet\na suffering expression that skulls have not! Your heart would have\nached to have seen the man, however hardly you might have judged his\ncrime.\n\nBut crime and all was forgotten by his daughter, as she saw his\nabashed look, his smitten helplessness. All along she had felt it\ndifficult (as I may have said before) to reconcile the two ideas, of\nher father and a blood-shedder. But now it was impossible. He was her\nfather! her own dear father! and in his sufferings, whatever their\ncause, more dearly loved than ever before. His crime was a thing\napart, never more to be considered by her.\n\nAnd tenderly did she treat him, and fondly did she serve him in every\nway that heart could devise, or hand execute.\n\nShe had some money about her, the price of her strange services as a\nwitness; and when the lingering dusk drew on, she stole out to effect\nsome purchases necessary for her father's comfort.\n\nFor how body and soul had been kept together, even as much as they\nwere, during the days he had dwelt alone, no one can say. The house\nwas bare as when Mary had left it, of coal, or of candle, of food, or\nof blessing in any shape.\n\nShe came quickly home; but as she passed Job Legh's door, she\nstopped. Doubtless Jem had long since gone; and doubtless, too, he\nhad given Margaret some good reason for not intruding upon her friend\nfor this night at least, otherwise Mary would have seen her before\nnow.\n\nBut to-morrow,--would she not come in to-morrow? And who so quick as\nblind Margaret in noticing tones, and sighs, and even silence?\n\nShe did not give herself time for further thought, her desire to be\nonce more with her father was too pressing; but she opened the door,\nbefore she well knew what to say.\n\n\"It's Mary Barton! I know her by her breathing! Grandfather, it's\nMary Barton!\"\n\nMargaret's joy at meeting her, the open demonstration of her love,\naffected Mary much; she could not keep from crying, and sat down weak\nand agitated on the first chair she could find.\n\n\"Ay, ay, Mary! thou'rt looking a bit different to when I saw thee\nlast. Thou'lt give Jem and me good characters for sick nurses, I\ntrust. If all trades fail, I'll turn to that. Jem's place is for\nlife, I reckon. Nay, never redden so, lass. You and he know each\nother's minds by this time!\"\n\nMargaret held her hand, and gently smiled into her face.\n\nJob Legh took the candle up, and began a leisurely inspection.\n\n\"Thou hast getten a bit of pink in thy cheeks,--not much; but when\nlast I saw thee, thy lips were as white as a sheet. Thy nose is\nsharpish at th' end; thou'rt more like thy father than ever thou wert\nbefore. Lord! child, what's the matter? Art thou going to faint?\"\n\nFor Mary had sickened at the mention of that name; yet she felt that\nnow or never was the time to speak.\n\n\"Father's come home!\" she said, \"but he's very poorly; I never saw\nhim as he is now, before. I asked Jem not to come near him for fear\nit might fidget him.\"\n\nShe spoke hastily, and (to her own idea) in an unnatural manner. But\nthey did not seem to notice it, nor to take the hint she had thrown\nout of company being unacceptable; for Job Legh directly put down\nsome insect, which he was impaling on a corking-pin, and exclaimed,\n\n\"Thy father come home! Why, Jem never said a word of it! And ailing\ntoo! I'll go in, and cheer him with a bit of talk. I ne'er knew any\ngood come of delegating it.\"\n\n\"Oh, Job! father cannot stand--father is too ill. Don't come; not\nbut that you're very kind and good; but to-night--indeed,\" said she\nat last, in despair, seeing Job still persevere in putting away his\nthings; \"you must not come till I send or come for you. Father's in\nthat strange way, I can't answer for it if he sees strangers. Please\ndon't come. I'll come and tell you every day how he goes on. I must\nbe off now to see after him. Dear Job! kind Job! don't be angry with\nme. If you knew all you'd pity me.\"\n\nFor Job was muttering away in high dudgeon, and even Margaret's\ntone was altered as she wished Mary good night. Just then she could\nill brook coldness from any one, and least of all bear the idea of\nbeing considered ungrateful by so kind and zealous a friend as Job\nhad been; so she turned round suddenly, even when her hand was on\nthe latch of the door, and ran back, and threw her arms about his\nneck, and kissed him first, and then Margaret. And then, the tears\nfast-falling down her cheeks, but no word spoken, she hastily left\nthe house, and went back to her home.\n\nThere was no change in her father's position, or in his spectral\nlook. He had answered her questions (but few in number, for so many\nsubjects were unapproachable) by monosyllables, and in a weak, high,\nchildish voice; but he had not lifted his eyes; he could not meet\nhis daughter's look. And she, when she spoke, or as she moved about,\navoided letting her eyes rest upon him. She wished to be her usual\nself; but while every thing was done with a consciousness of purpose,\nshe felt it was impossible.\n\nIn this manner things went on for some days. At night he feebly\nclambered up stairs to bed; and during those long dark hours Mary\nheard those groans of agony which never escaped his lips by day, when\nthey were compressed in silence over his inward woe.\n\nMany a time she sat up listening, and wondering if it would ease his\nmiserable heart if she went to him, and told him she knew all, and\nloved and pitied him more than words could tell.\n\nBy day the monotonous hours wore on in the same heavy, hushed manner\nas on that first dreary afternoon. He ate,--but without relish; and\nfood seemed no longer to nourish him, for each morning his face had\ncaught more of the ghastly fore-shadowing of Death.\n\nThe neighbours kept strangely aloof. Of late years John Barton had\nhad a repellent power about him, felt by all, except to the few who\nhad either known him in his better and happier days, or those to whom\nhe had given his sympathy and his confidence. People did not care to\nenter the doors of one whose very depth of thoughtfulness rendered\nhim moody and stern. And now they contented themselves with a kind\ninquiry when they saw Mary in her goings-out or in her comings-in.\nWith her oppressing knowledge, she imagined their reserved conduct\nstranger than it was in reality. She missed Job and Margaret\ntoo; who, in all former times of sorrow or anxiety since their\nacquaintance first began, had been ready with their sympathy.\n\nBut most of all she missed the delicious luxury she had lately\nenjoyed in having Jem's tender love at hand every hour of the day, to\nward off every wind of heaven, and every disturbing thought.\n\nShe knew he was often hovering about the house; though the knowledge\nseemed to come more by intuition, than by any positive sight or sound\nfor the first day or two. On the third day she met him at Job Legh's.\n\nThey received her with every effort of cordiality; but still there\nwas a cobweb-veil of separation between them, to which Mary was\nmorbidly acute; while in Jem's voice, and eyes, and manner, there was\nevery evidence of most passionate, most admiring, and most trusting\nlove. The trust was shown by his respectful silence on that one point\nof reserve on which she had interdicted conversation.\n\nHe left Job Legh's house when she did. They lingered on the step,\nhe holding her hand between both of his, as loth to let her go; he\nquestioned her as to when he should see her again.\n\n\"Mother does so want to see you,\" whispered he. \"Can you come to see\nher to-morrow? or when?\"\n\n\"I cannot tell,\" replied she, softly. \"Not yet. Wait awhile; perhaps\nonly a little while. Dear Jem, I must go to him,--dearest Jem.\"\n\nThe next day, the fourth from Mary's return home, as she was sitting\nnear the window, sadly dreaming over some work, she caught a glimpse\nof the last person she wished to see--of Sally Leadbitter!\n\nShe was evidently coming to their house; another moment, and she\ntapped at the door. John Barton gave an anxious, uneasy side-glance.\nMary knew that if she delayed answering the knock, Sally would not\nscruple to enter; so as hastily as if the visit had been desired, she\nopened the door, and stood there with the latch in her hand, barring\nup all entrance, and as much as possible obstructing all curious\nglances into the interior.\n\n\"Well, Mary Barton! You're home at last! I heard you'd getten home;\nso I thought I'd just step over and hear the news.\"\n\nShe was bent on coming in, and saw Mary's preventive design. So she\nstood on tip-toe, looking over Mary's shoulders into the room where\nshe suspected a lover to be lurking; but instead, she saw only the\nfigure of the stern, gloomy father she had always been in the habit\nof avoiding; and she dropped down again, content to carry on the\nconversation where Mary chose, and as Mary chose, in whispers.\n\n\"So the old governor is back again, eh? And what does he say to all\nyour fine doings at Liverpool, and before?--you and I know where. You\ncan't hide it now, Mary, for it's all in print.\"\n\nMary gave a low moan,--and then implored Sally to change the subject;\nfor unpleasant as it always was, it was doubly unpleasant in the\nmanner in which she was treating it. If they had been alone, Mary\nwould have borne it patiently,--or so she thought,--but now she\nfelt almost certain her father was listening; there was a subdued\nbreathing, a slight bracing-up of the listless attitude. But there\nwas no arresting Sally's curiosity to hear all she could respecting\nthe adventures Mary had experienced. She, in common with the rest of\nMiss Simmonds' young ladies, was almost jealous of the fame that Mary\nhad obtained; to herself, such miserable notoriety.\n\n\"Nay! there's no use shunning talking it over. Why! it was in the\n_Guardian_,--and the _Courier_,--and some one told Jane Hodson it was\neven copied into a London paper. You've set up heroine on your own\naccount, Mary Barton. How did you like standing witness? Ar'n't them\nlawyers impudent things? staring at one so. I'll be bound you wished\nyou'd taken my offer, and borrowed my black watered scarf! Now didn't\nyou, Mary? Speak truth!\"\n\n\"To tell truth, I never thought about it then, Sally. How could I?\"\nasked she, reproachfully.\n\n\"Oh--I forgot. You were all for that stupid James Wilson. Well! if\nI've ever the luck to go witness on a trial, see if I don't pick up a\nbetter beau than the prisoner. I'll aim at a lawyer's clerk, but I'll\nnot take less than a turnkey.\"\n\nCast down as Mary was, she could hardly keep from smiling at the\nidea, so wildly incongruous with the scene she had really undergone,\nof looking out for admirers during a trial for murder.\n\n\"I'd no thought to be looking out for beaux, I can assure you,\nSally.--But don't let us talk any more about it; I can't bear to\nthink on it. How is Miss Simmonds? and everybody?\"\n\n\"Oh, very well; and by the way she gave me a bit of a message for\nyou. You may come back to work if you'll behave yourself, she says.\nI told you she'd be glad to have you back, after all this piece of\nbusiness, by way of tempting people to come to her shop. They'd come\nfrom Salford to have a peep at you, for six months at least.\"\n\n\"Don't talk so; I cannot come, I can never face Miss Simmonds again.\nAnd even if I could--\" she stopped, and blushed.\n\n\"Ay! I know what you're thinking on. But that will not be this some\ntime, as he's turned off from the foundry,--you'd better think twice\nafore refusing Miss Simmonds' offer.\"\n\n\"Turned off from the foundry! Jem?\" cried Mary.\n\n\"To be sure! didn't you know it? Decent men were not going to work\nwith a--no! I suppose I mustn't say it, seeing you went to such\ntrouble to get up an _alibi_; not that I should think much the worse\nof a spirited young fellow for falling foul of a rival,--they always\ndo at the theatre.\"\n\nBut Mary's thoughts were with Jem. How good he had been never to name\nhis dismissal to her. How much he had had to endure for her sake!\n\n\"Tell me all about it,\" she gasped out.\n\n\"Why, you see, they've always swords quite handy at them plays,\"\nbegan Sally; but Mary, with an impatient shake of her head,\ninterrupted,\n\n\"About Jem,--about Jem, I want to know.\"\n\n\"Oh! I don't pretend to know more than is in every one's mouth:\nhe's turned away from the foundry, because folks don't think you've\ncleared him outright of the murder; though perhaps the jury were loth\nto hang him. Old Mr. Carson is savage against judge and jury, and\nlawyers and all, as I heard.\"\n\n\"I must go to him, I must go to him,\" repeated Mary, in a hurried\nmanner.\n\n\"He'll tell you all I've said is true, and not a word of lie,\"\nreplied Sally. \"So I'll not give your answer to Miss Simmonds, but\nleave you to think twice about it. Good afternoon!\"\n\nMary shut the door, and turned into the house.\n\nHer father sat in the same attitude; the old unchanging attitude.\nOnly his head was more bowed towards the ground.\n\nShe put on her bonnet to go to Ancoats; for see, and question, and\ncomfort, and worship Jem, she must.\n\nAs she hung about her father for an instant before leaving him, he\nspoke--voluntarily spoke for the first time since her return; but\nhis head was drooping so low she could not hear what he said, so she\nstooped down; and after a moment's pause, he repeated the words,\n\n\"Tell Jem Wilson to come here at eight o'clock to-night.\"\n\nCould he have overheard her conversation with Sally Leadbitter? They\nhad whispered low, she thought. Pondering on this, and many other\nthings, she reached Ancoats.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV.\n\n\"FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES.\"\n\n\n                  \"Oh, had he lived,\n   Replied Rusilla, never penitence\n   Had equalled his! full well I know his heart,\n   Vehement in all things. He would on himself\n   Have wreaked such penance as had reached the height\n   Of fleshly suffering,--yea, which being told,\n   With its portentous rigour should have made\n   The memory of his fault, o'erpowered and lost\n   In shuddering pity and astonishment,\n   Fade like a feeble horror.\"\n\n   SOUTHEY'S \"RODERICK.\"\n\n\nAs Mary was turning into the street where the Wilsons lived, Jem\novertook her. He came upon her suddenly, and she started.\n\n\"You're going to see mother?\" he asked tenderly, placing her arm\nwithin his, and slackening his pace.\n\n\"Yes, and you too. Oh, Jem, is it true? tell me.\"\n\nShe felt rightly that he would guess the meaning of her only half\nexpressed inquiry. He hesitated a moment before he answered her.\n\n\"Darling, it is; it's no use hiding it--if you mean that I'm no\nlonger to work at Duncombe's foundry. It's no time (to my mind) to\nhave secrets from each other, though I did not name it yesterday,\nthinking you might fret. I shall soon get work again, never fear.\"\n\n\"But why did they turn you off, when the jury had said you were\ninnocent?\"\n\n\"It was not just to say turned off, though I don't think I could have\nwell stayed on. A good number of the men managed to let out they\nshould not like to work under me again; there were some few who\nknew me well enough to feel I could not have done it, but more were\ndoubtful; and one spoke to young Mr. Duncombe, hinting at what they\nthought.\"\n\n\"Oh Jem! what a shame!\" said Mary, with mournful indignation.\n\n\"Nay, darling! I'm not for blaming them. Poor fellows like them have\nnought to stand upon and be proud of but their character, and it's\nfitting they should take care of that, and keep that free from soil\nand taint.\"\n\n\"But you,--what could they get but good from you? They might have\nknown you by this time.\"\n\n\"So some do; the overlooker, I'm sure, would know I'm innocent.\nIndeed, he said as much to-day; and he said he had had some talk\nwith old Mr. Duncombe, and they thought it might be better if I left\nManchester for a bit; they'd recommend me to some other place.\"\n\nBut Mary could only shake her head in a mournful way, and repeat her\nwords,\n\n\"They might have known thee better, Jem.\"\n\nJem pressed the little hand he held between his own work-hardened\nones. After a minute or two, he asked,\n\n\"Mary, art thou much bound to Manchester? Would it grieve thee sore\nto quit the old smoke-jack?\"\n\n\"With thee?\" she asked, in a quiet, glancing way.\n\n\"Ay, lass! Trust me, I'll ne'er ask thee to leave Manchester while\nI'm in it. Because I've heard fine things of Canada; and our\noverlooker has a cousin in the foundry line there.--Thou knowest\nwhere Canada is, Mary?\"\n\n\"Not rightly--not now, at any rate;--but with thee, Jem,\" her voice\nsunk to a soft, low whisper, \"anywhere--\"\n\nWhat was the use of a geographical description?\n\n\"But father!\" said Mary, suddenly breaking that delicious silence\nwith the one sharp discord in her present life.\n\nShe looked up at her lover's grave face; and then the message her\nfather had sent flashed across her memory.\n\n\"Oh, Jem, did I tell you?--Father sent word he wished to speak with\nyou. I was to bid you come to him at eight to-night. What can he\nwant, Jem?\"\n\n\"I cannot tell,\" replied he. \"At any rate I'll go. It's no use\ntroubling ourselves to guess,\" he continued, after a pause of a few\nminutes, during which they slowly and silently paced up and down the\nby-street, into which he had led her when their conversation began.\n\"Come and see mother, and then I'll take thee home, Mary. Thou wert\nall in a tremble when first I came up with thee; thou'rt not fit to\nbe trusted home by thyself,\" said he, with fond exaggeration of her\nhelplessness.\n\nYet a little more lovers' loitering; a few more words, in themselves\nnothing--to you nothing, but to those two what tender passionate\nlanguage can I use to express the feelings which thrilled through\nthat young man and maiden, as they listened to the syllables made\ndear and lovely through life by that hour's low-whispered talk.\n\nIt struck the half hour past seven.\n\n\"Come and speak to mother; she knows you're to be her daughter, Mary,\ndarling.\"\n\nSo they went in. Jane Wilson was rather chafed at her son's delay in\nreturning home, for as yet he had managed to keep her in ignorance of\nhis dismissal from the foundry; and it was her way to prepare some\nlittle pleasure, some little comfort for those she loved; and if\nthey, unwittingly, did not appear at the proper time to enjoy her\npreparation, she worked herself up into a state of fretfulness\nwhich found vent in upbraidings as soon as ever the objects of her\ncare appeared, thereby marring the peace which should ever be the\natmosphere of a home, however humble; and causing a feeling almost\namounting to loathing to arise at the sight of the \"stalled ox,\"\nwhich, though an effect and proof of careful love, has been the cause\nof so much disturbance.\n\nMrs. Wilson had first sighed, and then grumbled to herself, over the\nincreasing toughness of the potato-cakes she had made for her son's\ntea.\n\nThe door opened, and he came in; his face brightening into proud\nsmiles, Mary Barton hanging on his arm, blushing and dimpling, with\neye-lids veiling the happy light of her eyes,--there was around the\nyoung couple a radiant atmosphere--a glory of happiness.\n\nCould his mother mar it? Could she break into it with her Martha-like\ncares? Only for one moment did she remember her sense of injury,--her\nwasted trouble,--and then, her whole woman's heart heaving with\nmotherly love and sympathy, she opened her arms, and received Mary\ninto them, as, shedding tears of agitated joy, she murmured in her\near,\n\n\"Bless thee, Mary, bless thee! Only make him happy, and God bless\nthee for ever!\"\n\nIt took some of Jem's self-command to separate those whom he so much\nloved, and who were beginning, for his sake, to love one another so\ndearly. But the time for his meeting John Barton drew on: and it was\na long way to his house.\n\nAs they walked briskly thither they hardly spoke; though many\nthoughts were in their minds.\n\nThe sun had not long set, but the first faint shade of twilight was\nover all; and when they opened the door, Jem could hardly perceive\nthe objects within by the waning light of day, and the flickering\nfire-blaze.\n\nBut Mary saw all at a glance!\n\nHer eye, accustomed to what was usual in the aspect of the room, saw\ninstantly what was unusual,--saw, and understood it all.\n\nHer father was standing behind his habitual chair, holding by the\nback of it as if for support. And opposite to him there stood Mr.\nCarson; the dark out-line of his stern figure looming large against\nthe light of the fire in that little room.\n\nBehind her father sat Job Legh, his head in his hands, and resting\nhis elbows on the little family table,--listening evidently; but as\nevidently deeply affected by what he heard.\n\nThere seemed to be some pause in the conversation. Mary and Jem stood\nat the half-open door, not daring to stir; hardly to breathe.\n\n\"And have I heard you aright?\" began Mr. Carson, with his deep\nquivering voice. \"Man! have I heard you aright? Was it you, then,\nthat killed my boy? my only son?\"--(he said these last few words\nalmost as if appealing for pity, and then he changed his tone to\none more vehement and fierce). \"Don't dare to think that I shall be\nmerciful, and spare you, because you have come forward to accuse\nyourself. I tell you I will not spare you the least pang the law can\ninflict,--you, who did not show pity on my boy, shall have none from\nme.\"\n\n\"I did not ask for any,\" said John Barton, in a low voice.\n\n\"Ask, or not ask, what care I? You shall be hanged--hanged--man!\"\nsaid he, advancing his face, and repeating the word with slow,\ngrinding emphasis, as if to infuse some of the bitterness of his soul\ninto it.\n\nJohn Barton gasped, but not with fear. It was only that he felt it\nterrible to have inspired such hatred, as was concentrated into every\nword, every gesture of Mr. Carson's.\n\n\"As for being hanged, sir, I know it's all right and proper. I dare\nsay it's bad enough; but I tell you what, sir,\" speaking with an\nout-burst, \"if you'd hanged me the day after I'd done the deed, I\nwould have gone down on my knees and blessed you. Death! Lord, what\nis it to Life? To such a life as I've been leading this fortnight\npast. Life at best is no great thing; but such a life as I have\ndragged through since that night,\" he shuddered at the thought. \"Why,\nsir, I've been on the point of killing myself this many a time to\nget away from my own thoughts. I didn't! and I'll tell you why.\nI didn't know but that I should be more haunted than ever with\nthe recollection of my sin. Oh! God above only can tell the agony\nwith which I've repented me of it, and part perhaps because I\nfeared He would think I were impatient of the misery He sent as\npunishment--far, far worse misery than any hanging, sir.\" He ceased\nfrom excess of emotion.\n\nThen he began again.\n\n\"Sin' that day (it may be very wicked, sir, but it's the truth) I've\nkept thinking and thinking if I were but in that world where they say\nGod is, He would, may be, teach me right from wrong, even if it were\nwith many stripes. I've been sore puzzled here. I would go through\nHell-fire if I could but get free from sin at last, it's such an\nawful thing. As for hanging, that's just nought at all.\"\n\nHis exhaustion compelled him to sit down. Mary rushed to him. It\nseemed as if till then he had been unaware of her presence.\n\n\"Ay, ay, wench!\" said he feebly, \"is it thee? Where's Jem Wilson?\"\n\nJem came forward. John Barton spoke again, with many a break and\ngasping pause,\n\n\"Lad! thou hast borne a deal for me. It's the meanest thing I ever\ndid to leave thee to bear the brunt. Thou, who wert as innocent of\nany knowledge of it as the babe unborn. I'll not bless thee for it.\nBlessing from such as me would not bring thee any good. Thou'lt love\nMary, though she is my child.\"\n\nHe ceased, and there was a pause of a few seconds.\n\nThen Mr. Carson turned to go. When his hand was on the latch of the\ndoor, he hesitated for an instant.\n\n\"You can have no doubt for what purpose I go. Straight to the\npolice-office, to send men to take care of you, wretched man, and\nyour accomplice. To-morrow morning your tale shall be repeated to\nthose who can commit you to gaol, and before long you shall have the\nopportunity of trying how desirable hanging is.\"\n\n\"Oh, sir!\" said Mary, springing forward, and catching hold of Mr.\nCarson's arm, \"my father is dying. Look at him, sir. If you want\nDeath for Death, you have it. Don't take him away from me these last\nhours. He must go alone through Death, but let me be with him as long\nas I can. Oh, sir! if you have any mercy in you, leave him here to\ndie.\"\n\nJohn himself stood up, stiff and rigid, and replied,\n\n\"Mary, wench! I owe him summut. I will go die, where, and as he\nwishes me. Thou hast said true, I am standing side by side with\nDeath; and it matters little where I spend the bit of time left of\nLife. That time I must pass in wrestling with my soul for a character\nto take into the other world. I'll go where you see fit, sir. He's\ninnocent,\" faintly indicating Jem, as he fell back in his chair.\n\n\"Never fear! They cannot touch him,\" said Job Legh, in a low voice.\n\nBut as Mr. Carson was on the point of leaving the house with no sign\nof relenting about him, he was again stopped by John Barton, who had\nrisen once more from his chair, and stood supporting himself on Jem,\nwhile he spoke.\n\n\"Sir, one word! My hairs are gray with suffering, and yours with\nyears--\"\n\n\"And have I had no suffering?\" asked Mr. Carson, as if appealing for\nsympathy, even to the murderer of his child.\n\nAnd the murderer of his child answered to the appeal, and groaned in\nspirit over the anguish he had caused.\n\n\"Have I had no inward suffering to blanch these hairs? Have not I\ntoiled and struggled even to these years with hopes in my heart that\nall centered in my boy? I did not speak of them, but were they not\nthere? I seemed hard and cold; and so I might be to others, but not\nto him!--who shall ever imagine the love I bore to him? Even he never\ndreamed how my heart leapt up at the sound of his footstep, and how\nprecious he was to his poor old father.--And he is gone--killed--out\nof the hearing of all loving words--out of my sight for ever. He was\nmy sunshine, and now it is night! Oh, my God! comfort me, comfort\nme!\" cried the old man aloud.\n\nThe eyes of John Barton grew dim with tears. Rich and poor, masters\nand men, were then brothers in the deep suffering of the heart; for\nwas not this the very anguish he had felt for little Tom, in years so\nlong gone by that they seemed like another life!\n\nThe mourner before him was no longer the employer; a being of another\nrace, eternally placed in antagonistic attitude; going through the\nworld glittering like gold, with a stony heart within, which knew no\nsorrow but through the accidents of Trade; no longer the enemy, the\noppressor, but a very poor and desolate old man.\n\nThe sympathy for suffering, formerly so prevalent a feeling with him,\nagain filled John Barton's heart, and almost impelled him to speak\n(as best he could) some earnest, tender words to the stern man,\nshaking in his agony.\n\nBut who was he, that he should utter sympathy or consolation? The\ncause of all this woe.\n\nOh blasting thought! Oh miserable remembrance! He had forfeited all\nright to bind up his brother's wounds.\n\nStunned by the thought, he sank upon the seat, almost crushed with\nthe knowledge of the consequences of his own action; for he had\nno more imagined to himself the blighted home, and the miserable\nparents, than does the soldier, who discharges his musket, picture\nto himself the desolation of the wife, and the pitiful cries of the\nhelpless little ones, who are in an instant to be made widowed and\nfatherless.\n\nTo intimidate a class of men, known only to those below them as\ndesirous to obtain the greatest quantity of work for the lowest\nwages,--at most to remove an overbearing partner from an obnoxious\nfirm, who stood in the way of those who struggled as well as they\nwere able to obtain their rights,--this was the light in which\nJohn Barton had viewed his deed; and even so viewing it, after the\nexcitement had passed away, the Avenger, the sure Avenger, had found\nhim out.\n\nBut now he knew that he had killed a man, and a brother,--now he knew\nthat no good thing could come out of this evil, even to the sufferers\nwhose cause he had so blindly espoused.\n\nHe lay across the table, broken-hearted. Every fresh quivering sob of\nMr. Carson's stabbed him to his soul.\n\nHe felt execrated by all; and as if he could never lay bare the\nperverted reasonings which had made the performance of undoubted sin\nappear a duty. The longing to plead some faint excuse grew stronger\nand stronger. He feebly raised his head, and looking at Job Legh, he\nwhispered out,\n\n\"I did not know what I was doing, Job Legh; God knows I didn't! Oh,\nsir!\" said he wildly, almost throwing himself at Mr. Carson's feet,\n\"say you forgive me the anguish I now see I have caused you. I care\nnot for pain, or death, you know I don't; but oh, man! forgive me the\ntrespass I have done!\"\n\n\"Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against\nus,\" said Job, solemnly and low, as if in prayer; as if the words\nwere suggested by those John Barton had used.\n\nMr. Carson took his hands away from his face. I would rather see\ndeath than the ghastly gloom which darkened that countenance.\n\n\"Let my trespasses be unforgiven, so that I may have vengeance for my\nson's murder.\"\n\nThere are blasphemous actions as well as blasphemous words: all\nunloving, cruel deeds are acted blasphemy.\n\nMr. Carson left the house. And John Barton lay on the ground as one\ndead.\n\nThey lifted him up, and almost hoping that that deep trance might be\nto him the end of all earthly things, they bore him to his bed.\n\nFor a time they listened with divided attention to his faint\nbreathings; for in each hasty hurried step that echoed in the street\noutside, they thought they heard the approach of the officers of\njustice.\n\nWhen Mr. Carson left the house he was dizzy with agitation; the hot\nblood went careering through his frame. He could not see the deep\nblue of the night-heavens for the fierce pulses which throbbed in\nhis head. And partly to steady and calm himself, he leaned against a\nrailing, and looked up into those calm majestic depths with all their\nthousand stars.\n\nAnd by-and-by his own voice returned upon him, as if the last words\nhe had spoken were being uttered through all that infinite space; but\nin their echoes there was a tone of unutterable sorrow.\n\n\"Let my trespasses be unforgiven, so that I may have vengeance for my\nson's murder.\"\n\nHe tried to shake off the spiritual impression made by this\nimagination. He was feverish and ill,--and no wonder.\n\nSo he turned to go homewards; not, as he had threatened, to the\npolice-office. After all (he told himself), that would do in the\nmorning. No fear of the man's escaping, unless he escaped to the\ngrave.\n\nSo he tried to banish the phantom voices and shapes which came\nunbidden to his brain, and to recall his balance of mind by walking\ncalmly and slowly, and noticing every thing which struck his senses.\n\nIt was a warm soft evening in spring, and there were many persons in\nthe streets. Among others, a nurse with a little girl in her charge,\nconveying her home from some children's gaiety; a dance most likely,\nfor the lovely little creature was daintily decked out in soft, snowy\nmuslin; and her fairy feet tripped along by her nurse's side as if to\nthe measure of some tune she had lately kept time to.\n\nSuddenly up behind her there came a rough, rude errand-boy, nine\nor ten years of age; a giant he looked by the fairy-child, as she\nfluttered along. I don't know how it was, but in some awkward way\nhe knocked the poor little girl down upon the hard pavement as he\nbrushed rudely past, not much caring whom he hurt, so that he got\nalong.\n\nThe child arose sobbing with pain; and not without cause, for blood\nwas dropping down from the face, but a minute before so fair and\nbright--dropping down on the pretty frock, making those scarlet marks\nso terrible to little children.\n\nThe nurse, a powerful woman, had seized the boy, just as Mr. Carson\n(who had seen the whole transaction) came up.\n\n\"You naughty little rascal! I'll give you to a policeman, that\nI will! Do you see how you've hurt the little girl? Do you?\"\naccompanying every sentence with a violent jerk of passionate anger.\n\nThe lad looked hard and defying; but withal terrified at the threat\nof the policeman, those ogres of our streets to all unlucky urchins.\nThe nurse saw it, and began to drag him along, with a view of making\nwhat she called \"a wholesome impression.\"\n\nHis terror increased, and with it his irritation; when the little\nsweet face, choking away its sobs, pulled down nurse's head and said,\n\n\"Please, dear nurse, I'm not much hurt; it was very silly to cry, you\nknow. He did not mean to do it. _He did not know what he was doing_,\ndid you, little boy? Nurse won't call a policeman, so don't be\nfrightened.\" And she put up her little mouth to be kissed by her\ninjurer, just as she had been taught to do at home to \"make peace.\"\n\n\"That lad will mind, and be more gentle for the time to come, I'll\nbe bound, thanks to that little lady,\" said a passer-by, half to\nhimself, and half to Mr. Carson, whom he had observed to notice the\nscene.\n\nThe latter took no apparent heed of the remark, but passed on. But\nthe child's pleading reminded him of the low, broken voice he had so\nlately heard, penitently and humbly urging the same extenuation of\nhis great guilt.\n\n\"I did not know what I was doing.\"\n\nHe had some association with those words; he had heard, or read of\nthat plea somewhere before. Where was it?\n\nCould it be--?\n\nHe would look when he got home. So when he entered his house he went\nstraight and silently up-stairs to his library, and took down the\ngreat large handsome Bible, all grand and golden, with its leaves\nadhering together from the bookbinder's press, so little had it been\nused.\n\nOn the first page (which fell open to Mr. Carson's view) were written\nthe names of his children, and his own.\n\n   \"Henry John, son of the above John and Elizabeth Carson.\n   Born, Sept. 29th, 1815.\"\n\nTo make the entry complete, his death should now be added. But the\npage became hidden by the gathering mist of tears.\n\nThought upon thought, and recollection upon recollection came\ncrowding in, from the remembrance of the proud day when he had\npurchased the costly book, in order to write down the birth of the\nlittle babe of a day old.\n\nHe laid his head down on the open page, and let the tears fall slowly\non the spotless leaves.\n\nHis son's murderer was discovered; had confessed his guilt; and yet\n(strange to say) he could not hate him with the vehemence of hatred\nhe had felt, when he had imagined him a young man, full of lusty\nlife, defying all laws, human and divine. In spite of his desire to\nretain the revengeful feeling he considered as a duty to his dead\nson, something of pity would steal in for the poor, wasted skeleton\nof a man, the smitten creature, who had told him of his sin, and\nimplored his pardon that night.\n\nIn the days of his childhood and youth, Mr. Carson had been\naccustomed to poverty; but it was honest, decent poverty; not the\ngrinding squalid misery he had remarked in every part of John\nBarton's house, and which contrasted strangely with the pompous\nsumptuousness of the room in which he now sat. Unaccustomed wonder\nfilled his mind at the reflection of the different lots of the\nbrethren of mankind.\n\nThen he roused himself from his reverie, and turned to the object of\nhis search--the Gospel, where he half expected to find the tender\npleading: \"They know not what they do.\"\n\nIt was murk midnight by this time, and the house was still and quiet.\nThere was nothing to interrupt the old man in his unwonted study.\n\nYears ago, the Gospel had been his task-book in learning to read. So\nmany years ago, that he had become familiar with the events before he\ncould comprehend the Spirit that made the Life.\n\nHe fell to the narrative now afresh, with all the interest of a\nlittle child. He began at the beginning, and read on almost greedily,\nunderstanding for the first time the full meaning of the story. He\ncame to the end; the awful End. And there were the haunting words of\npleading.\n\nHe shut the book, and thought deeply.\n\nAll night long, the Archangel combated with the Demon.\n\nAll night long, others watched by the bed of Death. John Barton had\nrevived to fitful intelligence. He spoke at times with even something\nof his former energy; and in the racy Lancashire dialect he had\nalways used when speaking freely.\n\n\"You see I've so often been hankering after the right way; and it's\na hard one for a poor man to find. At least it's been so to me. No\none learned me, and no one telled me. When I was a little chap they\ntaught me to read, and then they ne'er gave me no books; only I\nheard say the Bible was a good book. So when I grew thoughtful, and\npuzzled, I took to it. But you'd never believe black was black, or\nnight was night, when you saw all about you acting as if black was\nwhite, and night was day. It's not much I can say for myself in\nt'other world, God forgive me; but I can say this, I would fain have\ngone after the Bible rules if I'd seen folk credit it; they all spoke\nup for it, and went and did clean contrary. In those days I would ha'\ngone about wi' my Bible, like a little child, my finger in th' place,\nand asking the meaning of this or that text, and no one told me. Then\nI took out two or three texts as clear as glass, and I tried to do\nwhat they bid me do. But I don't know how it was; masters and men,\nall alike cared no more for minding those texts, than I did for th'\nLord Mayor of London; so I grew to think it must be a sham put upon\npoor ignorant folk, women, and such-like.\n\n\"It was not long I tried to live Gospel-wise, but it was liker heaven\nthan any other bit of earth has been. I'd old Alice to strengthen me;\nbut every one else said, 'Stand up for thy rights, or thou'lt never\nget 'em;' and wife and children never spoke, but their helplessness\ncried aloud, and I was driven to do as others did,--and then Tom\ndied. You know all about that--I'm getting scant o' breath, and\nblind-like.\"\n\nThen again he spoke, after some minutes of hushed silence.\n\n\"All along it came natural to love folk, though now I am what I am.\nI think one time I could e'en have loved the masters if they'd ha'\nletten me; that was in my Gospel-days, afore my child died o' hunger.\nI was tore in two often-times, between my sorrow for poor suffering\nfolk, and my trying to love them as caused their sufferings (to my\nmind).\n\n\"At last I gave it up in despair, trying to make folks' actions\nsquare wi' th' Bible; and I thought I'd no longer labour at following\nth' Bible mysel. I've said all this afore, may be. But from that time\nI've dropped down, down,--down.\"\n\nAfter that he only spoke in broken sentences.\n\n\"I did not think he'd been such an old man,--Oh! that he had but\nforgiven me,\"--and then came earnest, passionate, broken words of\nprayer.\n\nJob Legh had gone home like one struck down with the unexpected\nshock. Mary and Jem together waited the approach of death; but as\nthe final struggle drew on, and morning dawned, Jem suggested some\nalleviation to the gasping breath, to purchase which he left the\nhouse in search of a druggist's shop, which should be open at that\nearly hour.\n\nDuring his absence, Barton grew worse; he had fallen across the bed,\nand his breathing seemed almost stopped; in vain did Mary strive to\nraise him, her sorrow and exhaustion had rendered her too weak.\n\nSo, on hearing some one enter the house-place below, she cried out\nfor Jem to come to her assistance.\n\nA step, which was not Jem's, came up the stairs.\n\nMr. Carson stood in the door-way. In one instant he comprehended the\ncase.\n\nHe raised up the powerless frame; and the departing soul looked out\nof the eyes with gratitude. He held the dying man propped in his\narms. John Barton folded his hands as if in prayer.\n\n\"Pray for us,\" said Mary, sinking on her knees, and forgetting in\nthat solemn hour all that had divided her father and Mr. Carson.\n\nNo other words could suggest themselves than some of those he had\nread only a few hours before.\n\n\"God be merciful to us sinners.--Forgive us our trespasses as we\nforgive them that trespass against us.\"\n\nAnd when the words were said, John Barton lay a corpse in Mr.\nCarson's arms.\n\nSo ended the tragedy of a poor man's life.\n\n\nMary knew nothing more for many minutes. When she recovered\nconsciousness, she found herself supported by Jem on the \"settle\" in\nthe house-place. Job and Mr. Carson were there, talking together\nlowly and solemnly. Then Mr. Carson bade farewell and left the house;\nand Job said aloud, but as if speaking to himself,\n\n\"God has heard that man's prayer. He has comforted him.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI.\n\nJEM'S INTERVIEW WITH MR. DUNCOMBE.\n\n\n   \"The first dark day of nothingness,\n   The last of danger and distress.\"\n\n   BYRON.\n\n\nAlthough Mary had hardly been conscious of her thoughts, and it had\nbeen more like a secret instinct informing her soul, than the result\nof any process of reasoning, she had felt for some time (ever since\nher return from Liverpool, in fact), that for her father there was\nbut one thing to be desired and anticipated, and that was death!\n\nShe had seen that Conscience had given the mortal wound to his\nearthly frame; she did not dare to question of the infinite mercy of\nGod, what the Future Life would be to him.\n\nThough at first desolate and stunned by the blow which had fallen on\nherself, she was resigned and submissive as soon as she recovered\nstrength enough to ponder and consider a little; and you may be\nsure that no tenderness or love was wanting on Jem's part, and no\nconsideration and sympathy on that of Job and Margaret, to soothe\nand comfort the girl who now stood alone in the world as far as\nblood-relations were concerned.\n\nShe did not ask or care to know what arrangements they were making\nin whispered tones with regard to the funeral. She put herself into\ntheir hands with the trust of a little child; glad to be undisturbed\nin the reveries and remembrances which filled her eyes with tears,\nand caused them to fall quietly down her pale cheeks.\n\nIt was the longest day she had ever known in her life; every charge\nand every occupation was taken away from her: but perhaps the length\nof quiet time thus afforded was really good, although its duration\nweighed upon her; for by this means she contemplated her situation in\nevery light, and fully understood that the morning's event had left\nher an orphan; and thus she was spared the pangs caused to us by the\noccurrence of death in the evening, just before we should naturally,\nin the usual course of events, lie down to slumber. For in such case,\nworn out by anxiety, and it may be by much watching, our very excess\nof grief rocks itself to sleep, before we have had time to realise\nits cause; and we waken, with a start of agony like a fresh stab, to\nthe consciousness of the one awful vacancy, which shall never, while\nthe world endures, be filled again.\n\nThe day brought its burden of duty to Mrs. Wilson. She felt bound\nby regard, as well as by etiquette, to go and see her future\ndaughter-in-law. And by an old association of ideas (perhaps of death\nwith church-yards, and churches with Sunday) she thought it necessary\nto put on her best, and latterly unused clothes, the airing of which\non a little clothes-horse before the fire seemed to give her a not\nunpleasing occupation.\n\nWhen Jem returned home late in the evening succeeding John Barton's\ndeath, weary and oppressed with the occurrences and excitements\nof the day, he found his mother busy about her mourning, and much\ninclined to talk. Although he longed for quiet, he could not avoid\nsitting down and answering her questions.\n\n\"Well, Jem, he's gone at last, is he?\"\n\n\"Yes. How did you hear, mother?\"\n\n\"Oh, Job came over here and telled me, on his way to the\nundertaker's. Did he make a fine end?\"\n\nIt struck Jem that she had not heard of the confession which had\nbeen made by John Barton on his death-bed; he remembered Job Legh's\ndiscretion, and he determined that if it could be avoided his mother\nshould never hear of it. Many of the difficulties to be anticipated\nin preserving the secret would be obviated, if he could induce his\nmother to fall into the plan he had named to Mary of emigrating to\nCanada. The reasons which rendered this secrecy desirable related\nto the domestic happiness he hoped for. With his mother's irritable\ntemper he could hardly expect that all allusion to the crime of John\nBarton would be for ever restrained from passing her lips, and he\nknew the deep trial such references would be to Mary. Accordingly he\nresolved as soon as possible in the morning to go to Job and beseech\nhis silence; he trusted that secrecy in that quarter, even if the\nknowledge had been extended to Margaret, might be easily secured.\n\nBut what would be Mr. Carson's course? Were there any means by which\nhe might be persuaded to spare John Barton's memory?\n\nHe was roused up from this train of thought by his mother's more\nirritated tone of voice.\n\n\"Jem!\" she was saying, \"thou might'st just as well never be at a\ndeath-bed again, if thou cannot bring off more news about it; here\nhave I been by mysel all day (except when oud Job came in), but\nthinks I, when Jem comes he'll be sure to be good company, seeing\nhe was in the house at the very time of the death; and here thou\nart, without a word to throw at a dog, much less thy mother: it's no\nuse thy going to a death-bed if thou cannot carry away any of the\nsayings!\"\n\n\"He did not make any, mother,\" replied Jem.\n\n\"Well, to be sure! So fond as he used to be of holding forth, to miss\nsuch a fine opportunity that will never come again! Did he die easy?\"\n\n\"He was very restless all night long,\" said Jem, reluctantly\nreturning to the thoughts of that time.\n\n\"And in course thou plucked the pillow away? Thou didst not! Well!\nwith thy bringing up, and thy learning, thou might'st have known that\nwere the only help in such a case. There were pigeons' feathers in\nthe pillow, depend on't. To think of two grown-up folk like you and\nMary, not knowing death could never come easy to a person lying on a\npillow with pigeons' feathers in!\"\n\nJem was glad to escape from all this talking to the solitude and\nquiet of his own room, where he could lie and think uninterruptedly\nof what had happened and remained to be done.\n\nThe first thing was to seek an interview with Mr. Duncombe, his\nformer master. Accordingly, early the next morning Jem set off on his\nwalk to the works, where for so many years his days had been spent;\nwhere for so long a time his thoughts had been thought, his hopes and\nfears experienced. It was not a cheering feeling to remember that\nhenceforward he was to be severed from all these familiar places; nor\nwere his spirits enlivened by the evident feelings of the majority of\nthose who had been his fellow-workmen. As he stood in the entrance to\nthe foundry, awaiting Mr. Duncombe's leisure, many of those employed\nin the works passed him on their return from breakfast; and with one\nor two exceptions, without any acknowledgment of former acquaintance\nbeyond a distant nod at the utmost.\n\n\"It is hard,\" said Jem to himself, with a bitter and indignant\nfeeling rising in his throat, \"that let a man's life be what it may,\nfolk are so ready to credit the first word against him. I could live\nit down if I stayed in England; but then what would not Mary have to\nbear? Sooner or later the truth would out; and then she would be a\nshow to folk for many a day as John Barton's daughter. Well! God does\nnot judge as hardly as man, that's one comfort for all of us!\"\n\nMr. Duncombe did not believe in Jem's guilt, in spite of the silence\nin which he again this day heard the imputation of it; but he agreed\nthat under the circumstances it was better he should leave the\ncountry.\n\n\"We have been written to by government, as I think I told you\nbefore, to recommend an intelligent man, well acquainted with\nmechanics, as instrument-maker to the Agricultural College they\nare establishing at Toronto, in Canada. It is a comfortable\nappointment,--house,--land,--and a good per-centage on the\ninstruments made. I will show you the particulars if I can lay my\nhand on the letter, which I believe I must have left at home.\"\n\n\"Thank you, sir. No need for seeing the letter to say I'll accept it.\nI must leave Manchester; and I'd as lief quit England at once when\nI'm about it.\"\n\n\"Of course government will give you your passage; indeed, I believe\nan allowance would be made for a family if you had one; but you are\nnot a married man, I believe?\"\n\n\"No, sir, but--\" Jem hung back from a confession with the awkwardness\nof a girl.\n\n\"But--\" said Mr. Duncombe, smiling, \"you would like to be a married\nman before you go, I suppose; eh, Wilson?\"\n\n\"If you please, sir. And there's my mother, too. I hope she'll go\nwith us. But I can pay her passage; no need to trouble government.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay! I'll write to-day and recommend you; and say that you have\na family of two. They'll never ask if the family goes upwards or\ndownwards. I shall see you again before you sail, I hope, Wilson;\nthough I believe they'll not allow you long to wait. Come to my house\nnext time; you'll find it pleasanter, I daresay. These men are so\nwrong-headed. Keep up your heart!\"\n\nJem felt that it was a relief to have this point settled; and that he\nneed no longer weigh reasons for and against his emigration.\n\nAnd with his path growing clearer and clearer before him the longer\nhe contemplated it, he went to see Mary, and if he judged it fit, to\ntell her what he had decided upon. Margaret was sitting with her.\n\n\"Grandfather wants to see you!\" said she to Jem on his entrance.\n\n\"And I want to see him,\" replied Jem, suddenly remembering his last\nnight's determination to enjoin secrecy on Job Legh.\n\nSo he hardly stayed to kiss poor Mary's sweet woe-begone face, but\ntore himself away from his darling to go to the old man, who awaited\nhim impatiently.\n\n\"I've getten a note from Mr. Carson,\" exclaimed Job the moment he saw\nJem; \"and man-alive, he wants to see thee and me! For sure, there's\nno more mischief up, is there?\" said he, looking at Jem with an\nexpression of wonder. But if any suspicion mingled for an instant\nwith the thoughts that crossed Job's mind, it was immediately\ndispelled by Jem's honest, fearless, open countenance.\n\n\"I can't guess what he's wanting, poor old chap,\" answered he. \"May\nbe there's some point he's not yet satisfied on; may be--but it's no\nuse guessing; let's be off.\"\n\n\"It wouldn't be better for thee to be scarce a bit, would it, and\nleave me to go and find out what's up? He has, perhaps, getten some\ncrotchet into his head thou'rt an accomplice, and is laying a trap\nfor thee.\"\n\n\"I'm not afeared!\" said Jem; \"I've done nought wrong, and know nought\nwrong, about yon poor dead lad; though I'll own I had evil thoughts\nonce on a time. Folk can't mistake long if once they'll search into\nthe truth. I'll go and give the old gentleman all the satisfaction in\nmy power, now it can injure no one. I'd my own reasons for wanting to\nsee him besides, and it all falls in right enough for me.\"\n\nJob was a little reassured by Jem's boldness; but still, if the truth\nmust be told, he wished the young man would follow his advice, and\nleave him to sound Mr. Carson's intentions.\n\nMeanwhile Jane Wilson had donned her Sunday suit of black, and set\noff on her errand of condolence. She felt nervous and uneasy at the\nidea of the moral sayings and texts which she fancied were expected\nfrom visitors on occasions like the present; and prepared many a good\nset speech as she walked towards the house of mourning.\n\nAs she gently opened the door, Mary, sitting idly by the fire, caught\na glimpse of her,--of Jem's mother,--of the early friend of her dead\nparents,--of the kind minister to many a little want in days of\nchildhood,--and rose and came and fell about her neck, with many a\nsob and moan, saying,\n\n\"Oh, he's gone--he's dead--all gone--all dead, and I am left alone!\"\n\n\"Poor wench! poor, poor wench!\" said Jane Wilson, tenderly kissing\nher. \"Thou'rt not alone, so donnot take on so. I'll say nought of Him\nwho's above, for thou know'st He is ever the orphan's friend; but\nthink on Jem! nay, Mary, dear, think on me! I'm but a frabbit woman\nat times, but I've a heart within me through all my temper, and thou\nshalt be as a daughter henceforward,--as mine own ewe-lamb. Jem shall\nnot love thee better in his way, than I will in mine; and thou'lt\nbear with my turns, Mary, knowing that in my soul God sees the love\nthat shall ever be thine, if thou'lt take me for thy mother, and\nspeak no more of being alone.\"\n\nMrs. Wilson was weeping herself long before she had ended this\nspeech, which was so different to all she had planned to say, and\nfrom all the formal piety she had laid in store for the visit; for\nthis was heart's piety, and needed no garnish of texts to make it\ntrue religion, pure and undefiled.\n\nThey sat together on the same chair, their arms encircling each\nother; they wept for the same dead; they had the same hope, and\ntrust, and overflowing love in the living.\n\nFrom that time forward, hardly a passing cloud dimmed the happy\nconfidence of their intercourse; even by Jem would his mother's\ntemper sooner be irritated than by Mary; before the latter she\nrepressed her occasional nervous ill-humour till the habit of\nindulging it was perceptibly decreased.\n\nYears afterwards in conversation with Jem, he was startled by a\nchance expression which dropped from his mother's lips; it implied a\nknowledge of John Barton's crime. It was many a long day since they\nhad seen any Manchester people who could have revealed the secret\n(if indeed it was known in Manchester, against which Jem had guarded\nin every possible way). And he was led to inquire first as to the\nextent, and then as to the source of her knowledge. It was Mary\nherself who had told all.\n\nFor on the morning to which this chapter principally relates, as Mary\nsat weeping, and as Mrs. Wilson comforted her by every tenderest word\nand caress, she revealed to the dismayed and astonished Jane, the\nsting of her deep sorrow; the crime which stained her dead father's\nmemory.\n\nShe was quite unconscious that Jem had kept it secret from his\nmother; she had imagined it bruited abroad as the suspicion against\nher lover had been; so word after word (dropped from her lips in the\nsupposition that Mrs. Wilson knew all) had told the tale and revealed\nthe cause of her deep anguish; deeper than is ever caused by Death\nalone.\n\nOn large occasions like the present, Mrs. Wilson's innate generosity\ncame out. Her weak and ailing frame imparted its irritation to her\nconduct in small things, and daily trifles; but she had deep and\nnoble sympathy with great sorrows, and even at the time that Mary\nspoke she allowed no expression of surprise or horror to escape her\nlips. She gave way to no curiosity as to the untold details; she was\nas secret and trustworthy as her son himself; and if in years to come\nher anger was occasionally excited against Mary, and she, on rare\noccasions, yielded to ill-temper against her daughter-in-law, she\nwould upbraid her for extravagance, or stinginess, or over-dressing,\nor under-dressing, or too much mirth or too much gloom, but never,\nnever in her most uncontrolled moments did she allude to any one of\nthe circumstances relating to Mary's flirtation with Harry Carson,\nor his murderer; and always when she spoke of John Barton, named\nhim with the respect due to his conduct before the last, miserable,\nguilty month of his life.\n\nTherefore it came like a blow to Jem when, after years had passed\naway, he gathered his mother's knowledge of the whole affair. From\nthe day when he learnt (not without remorse) what hidden depths of\nself-restraint she had in her soul, his manner to her, always tender\nand respectful, became reverential; and it was more than ever a\nloving strife between him and Mary which should most contribute\ntowards the happiness of the declining years of their mother.\n\nBut I am speaking of the events which have occurred only lately,\nwhile I have yet many things to tell you that happened six or seven\nyears ago.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII.\n\nDETAILS CONNECTED WITH THE MURDER.\n\n\n   \"The rich man dines, while the poor man pines,\n     And eats his heart away;\n   'They teach us lies,' he sternly cries,\n     'Would _brothers_ do as they?'\"\n\n   \"THE DREAM.\"\n\n\nMr. Carson stood at one of the breathing-moments of life. The object\nof the toils, the fears, and the wishes of his past years, was\nsuddenly hidden from his sight,--vanished into the deep mystery\nwhich circumscribes existence. Nay, even the vengeance which he had\nproposed to himself as an aim for exertion, had been taken away from\nbefore his eyes, as by the hand of God.\n\nEvents like these would have startled the most thoughtless into\nreflection, much more such a man as Mr. Carson, whose mind, if\nnot enlarged, was energetic; indeed, whose very energy, having\nbeen hitherto the cause of the employment of his powers in only\none direction, had prevented him from becoming largely and\nphilosophically comprehensive in his views.\n\nBut now the foundations of his past life were razed to the ground,\nand the place they had once occupied was sown with salt, to be for\never rebuilt no more. It was like the change from this Life to that\nother hidden one, when so many of the motives which have actuated\nall our earthly existence, will have become more fleeting than the\nshadows of a dream. With a wrench of his soul from the past, so\nmuch of which was as nothing, and worse than nothing to him now, Mr.\nCarson took some hours, after he had witnessed the death of his son's\nmurderer, to consider his situation.\n\nBut suddenly, while he was deliberating, and searching for motives\nwhich should be effective to compel him to exertion and action\nonce more; while he contemplated the desire after riches, social\ndistinction, a name among the merchant-princes amidst whom he moved,\nand saw these false substances fade away into the shadows they truly\nare, and one by one disappear into the grave of his son,--suddenly,\nI say, the thought arose within him that more yet remained to be\nlearned about the circumstances and feelings which had prompted John\nBarton's crime; and when once this mournful curiosity was excited,\nit seemed to gather strength in every moment that its gratification\nwas delayed. Accordingly he sent a message to summon Job Legh and\nJem Wilson, from whom he promised himself some elucidation of what\nwas as yet unexplained; while he himself set forth to call on Mr.\nBridgenorth, whom he knew to have been Jem's attorney, with a\nglimmering suspicion intruding on his mind, which he strove to repel,\nthat Jem might have had some share in his son's death.\n\nHe had returned before his summoned visitors arrived; and had time\nenough to recur to the evening on which John Barton had made his\nconfession. He remembered with mortification how he had forgotten\nhis proud reserve, and his habitual concealment of his feelings, and\nhad laid bare his agony of grief in the presence of these two men\nwho were coming to see him by his desire; and he entrenched himself\nbehind stiff barriers of self-control, through which he hoped no\nappearance of emotion would force its way in the conversation he\nanticipated.\n\nNevertheless, when the servant announced that two men were there by\nappointment to speak to him, and he had desired that they might be\nshown into the library where he sat, any watcher might have perceived\nby the trembling hands, and shaking head, not only how much he was\naged by the occurrences of the last few weeks, but also how much he\nwas agitated at the thought of the impending interview.\n\nBut he so far succeeded in commanding himself at first, as to appear\nto Jem Wilson and Job Legh one of the hardest and most haughty men\nthey had ever spoken to, and to forfeit all the interest which he had\npreviously excited in their minds by his unreserved display of deep\nand genuine feeling.\n\nWhen he had desired them to be seated, he shaded his face with his\nhand for an instant before speaking.\n\n\"I have been calling on Mr. Bridgenorth this morning,\" said he, at\nlast; \"as I expected, he can give me but little satisfaction on some\npoints respecting the occurrence on the 18th of last month which I\ndesire to have cleared up. Perhaps you two can tell me what I want\nto know. As intimate friends of Barton's you probably know, or can\nconjecture a good deal. Have no scruple as to speaking the truth.\nWhat you say in this room shall never be named again by me. Besides,\nyou are aware that the law allows no one to be tried twice for the\nsame offence.\"\n\nHe stopped for a minute, for the mere act of speaking was fatiguing\nto him after the excitement of the last few weeks.\n\nJob Legh took the opportunity of speaking.\n\n\"I'm not going to be affronted either for myself or Jem at what\nyou've just now been saying about the truth. You don't know us, and\nthere's an end on't; only it's as well for folk to think others good\nand true until they're proved contrary. Ask what you like, sir, I'll\nanswer for it we'll either tell truth or hold our tongues.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" said Mr. Carson, slightly bowing his head. \"What\nI wished to know was,\" referring to a slip of paper he held in his\nhand, and shaking so much he could hardly adjust his glasses to his\neyes, \"whether you, Wilson, can explain how Barton came possessed of\nyour gun. I believe you refused this explanation to Mr. Bridgenorth.\"\n\n\"I did, sir! If I had said what I knew then, I saw it would criminate\nBarton, and so I refused telling aught. To you, sir, now I will tell\nevery thing and any thing; only it is but little. The gun was my\nfather's before it was mine, and long ago he and John Barton had a\nfancy for shooting at the gallery; and they used always to take this\ngun, and brag that though it was old-fashioned it was sure.\"\n\nJem saw with self-upbraiding pain how Mr. Carson winced at these last\nwords, but at each irrepressible and involuntary evidence of feeling,\nthe hearts of the two men warmed towards him. Jem went on speaking.\n\n\"One day in the week--I think it was on the Wednesday,--yes, it\nwas,--it was on St. Patrick's day, I met John just coming out of our\nhouse, as I were going to my dinner. Mother was out, and he'd found\nno one in. He said he'd come to borrow the old gun, and that he'd\nhave made bold, and taken it, but it was not to be seen. Mother was\nafraid of it, so after father's death (for while he were alive, she\nseemed to think he could manage it) I had carried it to my own room.\nI went up and fetched it for John, who stood outside the door all the\ntime.\"\n\n\"What did he say he wanted it for?\" asked Mr. Carson, hastily.\n\n\"I don't think he spoke when I gave it him. At first he muttered\nsomething about the shooting-gallery, and I never doubted but that it\nwere for practice there, as I knew he had done years before.\"\n\nMr. Carson had strung up his frame to an attitude of upright\nattention while Jem was speaking; now the tension relaxed, and he\nsank back in his chair, weak and powerless.\n\nHe rose up again, however, as Jem went on, anxious to give every\nparticular which could satisfy the bereaved father.\n\n\"I never knew for what he wanted the gun till I was taken up,--I do\nnot know yet why he wanted it. No one would have had me get out of\nthe scrape by implicating an old friend,--my father's old friend, and\nthe father of the girl I loved. So I refused to tell Mr. Bridgenorth\naught about it, and would not have named it now to any one but you.\"\n\nJem's face became very red at the allusion he made to Mary, but\nhis honest, fearless eyes had met Mr. Carson's penetrating gaze\nunflinchingly, and had carried conviction of his innocence and\ntruthfulness. Mr. Carson felt certain that he had heard all that Jem\ncould tell. Accordingly he turned to Job Legh.\n\n\"You were in the room the whole time while Barton was speaking to me,\nI think?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" answered Job.\n\n\"You'll excuse my asking plain and direct questions; the information\nI am gaining is really a relief to my mind, I don't know how, but it\nis,--will you tell me if you had any idea of Barton's guilt in this\nmatter before?\"\n\n\"None whatever, so help me God!\" said Job, solemnly. \"To tell truth\n(and axing your forgiveness, Jem), I had never got quite shut of the\nnotion that Jem here had done it. At times I was as clear of his\ninnocence as I was of my own; and whenever I took to reasoning about\nit, I saw he could not have been the man that did it. Still I never\nthought of Barton.\"\n\n\"And yet by his confession he must have been absent at the time,\"\nsaid Mr. Carson, referring to his slip of paper.\n\n\"Ay, and for many a day after,--I can't rightly say how long. But\nstill, you see, one's often blind to many a thing that lies right\nunder one's nose, till it's pointed out. And till I heard what John\nBarton had to say yon night, I could not have seen what reason he had\nfor doing it; while in the case of Jem, any one who looked at Mary\nBarton might have seen a cause for jealousy, clear enough.\"\n\n\"Then you believe that Barton had no knowledge of my son's\nunfortunate,--\" he looked at Jem, \"of his attentions to Mary Barton.\nThis young man, Wilson, had heard of them, you see.\"\n\n\"The person who told me said clearly she neither had, nor would tell\nMary's father,\" interposed Jem. \"I don't believe he'd ever heard of\nit; he weren't a man to keep still in such a matter, if he had.\"\n\n\"Besides,\" said Job, \"the reason he gave on his death-bed, so to\nspeak, was enough; 'specially to those who knew him.\"\n\n\"You mean his feelings regarding the treatment of the workmen by the\nmasters; you think he acted from motives of revenge, in consequence\nof the part my son had taken in putting down the strike?\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" replied Job, \"it's hard to say: John Barton was not a\nman to take counsel with people; nor did he make many words about his\ndoings. So I can only judge from his way of thinking and talking in\ngeneral, never having heard him breathe a syllable concerning this\nmatter in particular. You see he were sadly put about to make great\nriches and great poverty square with Christ's Gospel\"--Job paused, in\norder to try and express what was clear enough in his own mind, as to\nthe effect produced on John Barton by the great and mocking contrasts\npresented by the varieties of human condition. Before he could find\nsuitable words to explain his meaning, Mr. Carson spoke.\n\n\"You mean he was an Owenite; all for equality and community of goods,\nand that kind of absurdity.\"\n\n\"No, no! John Barton was no fool. No need to tell him that were\nall men equal to-night, some would get the start by rising an hour\nearlier to-morrow. Nor yet did he care for goods, nor wealth--no man\nless, so that he could get daily bread for him and his; but what hurt\nhim sore, and rankled in him as long as I knew him (and, sir, it\nrankles in many a poor man's heart far more than the want of any\ncreature-comforts, and puts a sting into starvation itself), was that\nthose who wore finer clothes, and eat better food, and had more money\nin their pockets, kept him at arm's length, and cared not whether his\nheart was sorry or glad; whether he lived or died,--whether he was\nbound for heaven or hell. It seemed hard to him that a heap of gold\nshould part him and his brother so far asunder. For he was a loving\nman before he grew mad with seeing such as he was slighted, as if\nChrist Himself had not been poor. At one time, I've heard him say, he\nfelt kindly towards every man, rich or poor, because he thought they\nwere all men alike. But latterly he grew aggravated with the sorrows\nand suffering that he saw, and which he thought the masters might\nhelp if they would.\"\n\n\"That's the notion you've all of you got,\" said Mr. Carson. \"Now,\nhow in the world can we help it? We cannot regulate the demand for\nlabour. No man or set of men can do it. It depends on events which\nGod alone can control. When there is no market for our goods, we\nsuffer just as much as you can do.\"\n\n\"Not as much, I'm sure, sir; though I'm not given to Political\nEconomy, I know that much. I'm wanting in learning, I'm aware; but I\ncan use my eyes. I never see the masters getting thin and haggard for\nwant of food; I hardly ever see them making much change in their way\nof living, though I don't doubt they've got to do it in bad times.\nBut it's in things for show they cut short; while for such as me,\nit's in things for life we've to stint. For sure, sir, you'll own\nit's come to a hard pass when a man would give aught in the world for\nwork to keep his children from starving, and can't get a bit, if he's\never so willing to labour. I'm not up to talking as John Barton would\nhave done, but that's clear to me at any rate.\"\n\n\"My good man, just listen to me. Two men live in solitude; one\nproduces loaves of bread, the other coats,--or what you will. Now,\nwould it not be hard if the bread-producer were forced to give bread\nfor the coats, whether he wanted them or not, in order to furnish\nemployment to the other? That is the simple form of the case; you've\nonly to multiply the numbers. There will come times of great changes\nin the occupation of thousands, when improvements in manufactures and\nmachinery are made.--It's all nonsense talking,--it must be so!\"\n\nJob Legh pondered a few moments.\n\n\"It's true it was a sore time for the hand-loom weavers when\npower-looms came in: them new-fangled things make a man's life like a\nlottery; and yet I'll never misdoubt that power-looms, and railways,\nand all such-like inventions, are the gifts of God. I have lived long\nenough, too, to see that it is part of His plan to send suffering to\nbring out a higher good; but surely it's also part of His plan that\nas much of the burden of the suffering as can be, should be lightened\nby those whom it is His pleasure to make happy, and content in their\nown circumstances. Of course it would take a deal more thought and\nwisdom than me, or any other man has, to settle out of hand how this\nshould be done. But I'm clear about this, when God gives a blessing\nto be enjoyed, He gives it with a duty to be done; and the duty of\nthe happy is to help the suffering to bear their woe.\"\n\n\"Still, facts have proved and are daily proving how much better it is\nfor every man to be independent of help, and self-reliant,\" said Mr.\nCarson, thoughtfully.\n\n\"You can never work facts as you would fixed quantities, and say,\ngiven two facts, and the product is so and so. God has given men\nfeelings and passions which cannot be worked into the problem,\nbecause they are for ever changing and uncertain. God has also made\nsome weak; not in any one way, but in all. One is weak in body,\nanother in mind, another in steadiness of purpose, a fourth can't\ntell right from wrong, and so on; or if he can tell the right, he\nwants strength to hold by it. Now to my thinking, them that is strong\nin any of God's gifts is meant to help the weak,--be hanged to the\nfacts! I ask your pardon, sir; I can't rightly explain the meaning\nthat is in me. I'm like a tap as won't run, but keeps letting it\nout drop by drop, so that you've no notion of the force of what's\nwithin.\"\n\nJob looked and felt very sorrowful at the want of power in his words,\nwhile the feeling within him was so strong and clear.\n\n\"What you say is very true, no doubt,\" replied Mr. Carson; \"but\nhow would you bring it to bear upon the masters' conduct,--on my\nparticular case?\" added he, gravely.\n\n\"I'm not learned enough to argue. Thoughts come into my head that\nI'm sure are as true as Gospel, though may be they don't follow each\nother like the Q. E. D. of a Proposition. The masters has it on their\nown conscience,--you have it on yours, sir, to answer for to God\nwhether you've done, and are doing all in your power to lighten the\nevils that seem always to hang on the trades by which you make your\nfortunes. It's no business of mine, thank God. John Barton took the\nquestion in hand, and his answer to it was NO! Then he grew bitter,\nand angry, and mad; and in his madness he did a great sin, and\nwrought a great woe; and repented him with tears as of blood; and\nwill go through his penance humbly and meekly in t'other place,\nI'll be bound. I never seed such bitter repentance as his that last\nnight.\"\n\nThere was a silence of many minutes. Mr. Carson had covered his face,\nand seemed utterly forgetful of their presence; and yet they did not\nlike to disturb him by rising to leave the room.\n\nAt last he said, without meeting their sympathetic eyes,\n\n\"Thank you both for coming,--and for speaking candidly to me. I fear,\nLegh, neither you nor I have convinced each other, as to the power,\nor want of power, in the masters to remedy the evils the men complain\nof.\"\n\n\"I'm loth to vex you, sir, just now; but it was not the want of\npower I was talking on; what we all feel sharpest is the want of\ninclination to try and help the evils which come like blights at\ntimes over the manufacturing places, while we see the masters can\nstop work and not suffer. If we saw the masters try for our sakes to\nfind a remedy,--even if they were long about it,--even if they could\nfind no help, and at the end of all could only say, 'Poor fellows,\nour hearts are sore for ye; we've done all we could, and can't find\na cure,'--we'd bear up like men through bad times. No one knows till\nthey've tried, what power of bearing lies in them, if once they\nbelieve that men are caring for their sorrows and will help if they\ncan. If fellow-creatures can give nought but tears and brave words,\nwe take our trials straight from God, and we know enough of His love\nto put ourselves blind into His hands. You say our talk has done no\ngood. I say it has. I see the view you take of things from the place\nwhere you stand. I can remember that, when the time comes for judging\nyou; I sha'n't think any longer, does he act right on my views of a\nthing, but does he act right on his own. It has done me good in that\nway. I'm an old man, and may never see you again; but I'll pray for\nyou, and think on you and your trials, both of your great wealth, and\nof your son's cruel death, many and many a day to come; and I'll ask\nGod to bless both to you now and for evermore. Amen. Farewell!\"\n\nJem had maintained a manly and dignified reserve ever since he had\nmade his open statement of all he knew. Now both the men rose and\nbowed low, looking at Mr. Carson with the deep human interest they\ncould not fail to take in one who had endured and forgiven a deep\ninjury; and who struggled hard, as it was evident he did, to bear up\nlike a man under his affliction.\n\nHe bowed low in return to them. Then he suddenly came forward and\nshook them by the hand; and thus, without a word more, they parted.\n\nThere are stages in the contemplation and endurance of great sorrow,\nwhich endow men with the same earnestness and clearness of thought\nthat in some of old took the form of Prophecy. To those who have\nlarge capability of loving and suffering, united with great power of\nfirm endurance, there comes a time in their woe, when they are lifted\nout of the contemplation of their individual case into a searching\ninquiry into the nature of their calamity, and the remedy (if remedy\nthere be) which may prevent its recurrence to others as well as to\nthemselves.\n\nHence the beautiful, noble efforts which are from time to time\nbrought to light, as being continuously made by those who have once\nhung on the cross of agony, in order that others may not suffer as\nthey have done; one of the grandest ends which sorrow can accomplish;\nthe sufferer wrestling with God's messenger until a blessing is left\nbehind, not for one alone but for generations.\n\nIt took time before the stern nature of Mr. Carson was compelled to\nthe recognition of this secret of comfort, and that same sternness\nprevented his reaping any benefit in public estimation from the\nactions he performed; for the character is more easily changed than\nthe habits and manners originally formed by that character, and to\nhis dying day Mr. Carson was considered hard and cold by those who\nonly casually saw him, or superficially knew him. But those who were\nadmitted into his confidence were aware, that the wish which lay\nnearest to his heart was that none might suffer from the cause from\nwhich he had suffered; that a perfect understanding, and complete\nconfidence and love, might exist between masters and men; that\nthe truth might be recognised that the interests of one were the\ninterests of all, and as such, required the consideration and\ndeliberation of all; that hence it was most desirable to have\neducated workers, capable of judging, not mere machines of ignorant\nmen; and to have them bound to their employers by the ties of respect\nand affection, not by mere money bargains alone; in short, to\nacknowledge the Spirit of Christ as the regulating law between both\nparties.\n\nMany of the improvements now in practice in the system of employment\nin Manchester, owe their origin to short, earnest sentences spoken\nby Mr. Carson. Many and many yet to be carried into execution, take\ntheir birth from that stern, thoughtful mind, which submitted to be\ntaught by suffering.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII.\n\nCONCLUSION.\n\n\n   \"Touch us gently, gentle Time!\n     We've not proud nor soaring wings,\n   Our ambition, our content,\n     Lies in simple things;\n   Humble voyagers are we\n   O'er life's dim unsounded sea;\n     Touch us gently, gentle Time!\"\n\n   BARRY CORNWALL.\n\n\nNot many days after John Barton's funeral was over, all was arranged\nrespecting Jem's appointment at Toronto; and the time was fixed\nfor his sailing. It was to take place almost immediately: yet much\nremained to be done; many domestic preparations were to be made; and\none great obstacle, anticipated by both Jem and Mary, to be removed.\nThis was the opposition they expected from Mrs. Wilson, to whom the\nplan had never yet been named.\n\nThey were most anxious that their home should continue ever to be\nhers, yet they feared that her dislike to a new country might be\nan insuperable objection to this. At last Jem took advantage of an\nevening of unusual placidity, as he sat alone with his mother just\nbefore going to bed, to broach the subject; and to his surprise she\nacceded willingly to his proposition of her accompanying himself and\nhis wife.\n\n\"To be sure 'Merica is a long way to flit to; beyond London a good\nbit I reckon; and quite in foreign parts; but I've never had no\nopinion of England, ever since they could be such fools as take up a\nquiet chap like thee, and clap thee in prison. Where you go, I'll go.\nPerhaps in them Indian countries they'll know a well-behaved lad when\nthey see him; ne'er speak a word more, lad, I'll go.\"\n\nTheir path became daily more smooth and easy; the present was clear\nand practicable, the future was hopeful; they had leisure of mind\nenough to turn to the past.\n\n\"Jem!\" said Mary to him, one evening as they sat in the twilight,\ntalking together in low happy voices till Margaret should come to\nkeep Mary company through the night, \"Jem! you've never yet told\nme how you came to know about my naughty ways with poor young Mr.\nCarson.\" She blushed for shame at the remembrance of her folly, and\nhid her head on his shoulder while he made answer.\n\n\"Darling, I'm almost loth to tell you; your aunt Esther told me.\"\n\n\"Ah, I remember! but how did she know? I was so put about that night\nI did not think of asking her. Where did you see her? I've forgotten\nwhere she lives.\"\n\nMary said all this in so open and innocent a manner, that Jem felt\nsure she knew not the truth respecting Esther, and he half hesitated\nto tell her. At length he replied,\n\n\"Where did you see Esther lately? When? Tell me, love, for you've\nnever named it before, and I can't make it out.\"\n\n\"Oh! it was that horrible night which is like a dream.\" And she told\nhim of Esther's midnight visit, concluding with, \"We must go and see\nher before we leave, though I don't rightly know where to find her.\"\n\n\"Dearest Mary,--\"\n\n\"What, Jem?\" exclaimed she, alarmed by his hesitation.\n\n\"Your poor aunt Esther has no home:--she's one of them miserable\ncreatures that walk the streets.\" And he in his turn told of his\nencounter with Esther, with so many details that Mary was forced to\nbe convinced, although her heart rebelled against the belief.\n\n\"Jem, lad!\" said she, vehemently, \"we must find her out,--we must\nhunt her up!\" She rose as if she was going on the search there and\nthen.\n\n\"What could we do, darling?\" asked he, fondly restraining her.\n\n\"Do! Why! what could we _not_ do, if we could but find her? She's\nnone so happy in her ways, think ye, but what she'd turn from them,\nif any one would lend her a helping hand. Don't hold me, Jem; this\nis just the time for such as her to be out, and who knows but what\nI might find her close at hand.\"\n\n\"Stay, Mary, for a minute; I'll go out now and search for her if you\nwish, though it's but a wild chase. You must not go. It would be\nbetter to ask the police to-morrow. But if I should find her, how can\nI make her come with me? Once before she refused, and said she could\nnot break off her drinking ways, come what might?\"\n\n\"You never will persuade her if you fear and doubt,\" said Mary, in\ntears. \"Hope yourself, and trust to the good that must be in her.\nSpeak to that,--she has it in her yet,--oh, bring her home, and we\nwill love her so, we'll make her good.\"\n\n\"Yes!\" said Jem, catching Mary's sanguine spirit; \"she shall go to\nAmerica with us; and we'll help her to get rid of her sins. I'll go\nnow, my precious darling, and if I can't find her, it's but trying\nthe police to-morrow. Take care of your own sweet self, Mary,\" said\nhe, fondly kissing her before he went out.\n\nIt was not to be. Jem wandered far and wide that night, but never\nmet Esther. The next day he applied to the police; and at last they\nrecognised under his description of her, a woman known to them\nunder the name of the \"Butterfly,\" from the gaiety of her dress\na year or two ago. By their help he traced out one of her haunts,\na low lodging-house behind Peter Street. He and his companion, a\nkind-hearted policeman, were admitted, suspiciously enough, by the\nlandlady, who ushered them into a large garret where twenty or\nthirty people of all ages and both sexes lay and dozed away the day,\nchoosing the evening and night for their trades of beggary, thieving,\nor prostitution.\n\n\"I know the Butterfly was here,\" said she, looking round. \"She came\nin, the night before last, and said she had not a penny to get a\nplace for shelter; and that if she was far away in the country she\ncould steal aside and die in a copse, or a clough, like the wild\nanimals; but here the police would let no one alone in the streets,\nand she wanted a spot to die in, in peace. It's a queer sort of peace\nwe have here, but that night the room was uncommon empty, and I'm not\na hard-hearted woman (I wish I were, I could ha' made a good thing\nout of it afore this if I were harder), so I sent her up,--but she's\nnot here now, I think.\"\n\n\"Was she very bad?\" asked Jem.\n\n\"Ay! nought but skin and bone, with a cough to tear her in two.\"\n\nThey made some inquiries, and found that in the restlessness of\napproaching death, she had longed to be once more in the open air,\nand had gone forth,--where, no one seemed to be able to tell.\n\nLeaving many messages for her, and directions that he was to be sent\nfor if either the policeman or the landlady obtained any clue to her\nwhere-abouts, Jem bent his steps towards Mary's house; for he had not\nseen her all that long day of search. He told her of his proceedings\nand want of success; and both were saddened at the recital, and sat\nsilent for some time.\n\nAfter a while they began talking over their plans. In a day or two,\nMary was to give up house, and go and live for a week or so with\nJob Legh, until the time of her marriage, which would take place\nimmediately before sailing; they talked themselves back into silence\nand delicious reverie. Mary sat by Jem, his arm round her waist, her\nhead on his shoulder; and thought over the scenes which had passed in\nthat home she was so soon to leave for ever.\n\nSuddenly she felt Jem start, and started too without knowing why; she\ntried to see his countenance, but the shades of evening had deepened\nso much she could read no expression there. It was turned to the\nwindow; she looked and saw a white face pressed against the panes on\nthe outside, gazing intently into the dusky chamber.\n\nWhile they watched, as if fascinated by the appearance, and unable to\nthink or stir, a film came over the bright, feverish, glittering eyes\noutside, and the form sank down to the ground without a struggle of\ninstinctive resistance.\n\n\"It is Esther!\" exclaimed they, both at once. They rushed\noutside; and, fallen into what appeared simply a heap of white or\nlight-coloured clothes, fainting or dead, lay the poor crushed\nButterfly--the once innocent Esther.\n\nShe had come (as a wounded deer drags its heavy limbs once more to\nthe green coolness of the lair in which it was born, there to die) to\nsee the place familiar to her innocence, yet once again before her\ndeath. Whether she was indeed alive or dead, they knew not now.\n\nJob came in with Margaret, for it was bed-time. He said Esther's\npulse beat a little yet. They carried her upstairs and laid her\non Mary's bed, not daring to undress her, lest any motion should\nfrighten the trembling life away; but it was all in vain.\n\nTowards midnight, she opened wide her eyes and looked around on the\nonce familiar room; Job Legh knelt by the bed praying aloud and\nfervently for her, but he stopped as he saw her roused look. She sat\nup in bed with a sudden convulsive motion.\n\n\"Has it been a dream then?\" asked she wildly. Then with a habit,\nwhich came like instinct even in that awful dying hour, her hand\nsought for a locket which hung concealed in her bosom, and, finding\nthat, she knew all was true which had befallen her since last she lay\nan innocent girl on that bed.\n\nShe fell back, and spoke word never more. She held the locket\ncontaining her child's hair still in her hand, and once or twice she\nkissed it with a long soft kiss. She cried feebly and sadly as long\nas she had any strength to cry, and then she died.\n\nThey laid her in one grave with John Barton. And there they lie\nwithout name, or initial, or date. Only this verse is inscribed upon\nthe stone which covers the remains of these two wanderers.\n\nPsalm ciii. v. 9.--\"For He will not always chide, neither will He\nkeep His anger for ever.\"\n\n\nI see a long, low, wooden house, with room enough and to spare. The\nold primeval trees are felled and gone for many a mile around; one\nalone remains to overshadow the gable-end of the cottage. There is a\ngarden around the dwelling, and far beyond that stretches an orchard.\nThe glory of an Indian summer is over all, making the heart leap at\nthe sight of its gorgeous beauty.\n\nAt the door of the house, looking towards the town, stands Mary,\nwatching for the return of her husband from his daily work; and while\nshe watches, she listens, smiling;\n\n   \"Clap hands, daddy comes,\n   With his pocket full of plums,\n   And a cake for Johnnie.\"\n\nThen comes a crow of delight from Johnnie. Then his grandmother\ncarries him to the door, and glories in seeing him resist his\nmother's blandishments to cling to her.\n\n\"English letters! 'Twas that made me so late!\"\n\n\"Oh, Jem, Jem! don't hold them so tight! What do they say?\"\n\n\"Why, some good news. Come, give a guess what it is.\"\n\n\"Oh, tell me! I cannot guess,\" said Mary.\n\n\"Then you give it up, do you? What do you say, mother?\"\n\nJane Wilson thought a moment.\n\n\"Will and Margaret are married?\" asked she.\n\n\"Not exactly,--but very near. The old woman has twice the spirit of\nthe young one. Come, Mary, give a guess!\"\n\nHe covered his little boy's eyes with his hands for an instant,\nsignificantly, till the baby pushed them down, saying in his\nimperfect way,\n\n\"Tan't see.\"\n\n\"There now! Johnnie can see. Do you guess, Mary?\"\n\n\"They've done something to Margaret to give her back her sight!\"\nexclaimed she.\n\n\"They have. She has been couched, and can see as well as ever. She\nand Will are to be married on the twenty-fifth of this month, and\nhe's bringing her out here next voyage; and Job Legh talks of coming\ntoo,--not to see you, Mary,--nor you, mother,--nor you, my little\nhero\" (kissing him), \"but to try and pick up a few specimens of\nCanadian insects, Will says. All the compliment is to the earwigs,\nyou see, mother!\"\n\n\"Dear Job Legh!\" said Mary, softly and seriously."