XIV. JEM'S INTERVIEW WITH POOR ESTHER.
"Know the temptation ere you judge the crime! Look on this tree--'t was green, and fair and graceful; Yet now, save these few shoots, how dry and rotten! Thou canst not tell the cause. Not long ago, A neighbour oak, with which its roots were twined, In falling wrenched them with such cruel force, That though we covered them again with care, Its beauty withered, and it pined away. So, could we look into the human breast, How oft the fatal blight that meets our view, Should we trace down to the torn, bleeding fibres Of a too trusting heart--where it were shame, For pitying tears, to give contempt or blame." --"STREET WALKS."
The month was over;--the honeymoon to the newly-married; theexquisite convalescence to the "living mother of a living child";"the first dark days of nothingness" to the widow and the childbereaved; the term of penance, of hard labour, and of solitaryconfinement, to the shrinking, shivering, hopeless prisoner.
"Sick, and in prison, and ye visited me." Shall you, or I, receivesuch blessing? I know one who will. An overseer of a foundry, anaged man, with hoary hair, has spent his Sabbaths, for many years,in visiting the prisoners and the afflicted in Manchester NewBailey; not merely advising and comforting, but putting means intotheir power of regaining the virtue and the peace they had lost;becoming himself their guarantee in obtaining employment, and neverdeserting those who have once asked help from him.*
*Vide Manchester Guardian of Wednesday, March 18,1846; and also the Reports of Captain Williams, prison inspector.
Esther's term of imprisonment was ended. She received a goodcharacter in the governor's books; she had picked her daily quantityof oakum, had never deserved the extra punishment of the treadmill,and had been civil and decorous in her language. And once more shewas out of prison. The door closed behind her with a ponderousclang, and in her desolation she felt as if shut out of home--fromthe only shelter she could meet with, houseless and penniless as shewas, on that dreary day.
But it was but for an instant that she stood there doubting. Onethought had haunted her both by night and by day, with monomaniacalincessancy; and that thought was how to save Mary (her dead sister'sonly child, her own little pet in the days of her innocence) fromfollowing in the same downward path to vice. To whom could shespeak and ask for aid? She shrank from the idea of addressing JohnBarton again; her heart sank within her, at the remembrance of hisfierce repulsing action, and far fiercer words. It seemed worsethan death to reveal her condition to Mary, else she sometimesthought that this course would be the most terrible, the mostefficient warning. She must speak; to that she was soul-compelled;but to whom? She dreaded addressing any of her former femaleacquaintance, even supposing they had sense, or spirit, or interestenough to undertake her mission.
To whom shall the outcast prostitute tell her tale? Who will giveher help in the day of need? Hers is the leper sin, and all standaloof dreading to be counted unclean.
In her wild night wanderings, she had noted the haunts and habits ofmany a one who little thought of a watcher in the poor forsakenwoman. You may easily imagine that a double interest was attachedby her to the ways and companionships of those with whom she hadbeen acquainted in the days which, when present, she had consideredhardly-worked and monotonous, but which now in retrospection seemedso happy and unclouded. Accordingly, she had, as we have seen,known where to meet with John Barton on that unfortunate night,which had only produced irritation in him, and a month'simprisonment to her. She had also observed that he was stillintimate with the Wilsons. She had seen him walking and talkingwith both father and son her old friends too; and she had shedunregarded, unvalued tears, when some one had casually told her ofGeorge Wilson's sudden death. It now flashed across her mind thatto the son, to Mary's playfellow, her elder brother in the days ofchildhood, her tale might be told, and listened to with interest byhim, and some mode of action suggested by which Mary might beguarded and saved.
All these thoughts had passed through her mind while yet she was inprison so when she was turned out, her purpose was clear, and shedid not feel her desolation of freedom as she would otherwise havedone.
That night she stationed herself early near the foundry where sheknew Jem worked; he stayed later than usual, being detained by somearrangements for the morrow. She grew tired and impatient; manyworkmen had come out of the door in the long, dead, brick wall, andeagerly had she peered into their faces, deaf to all insult orcurse. He must have gone home early; one more turn in the street,and she would go.
During that turn he came out, and in the quiet of that street ofworkshops and warehouses, she directly heard his steps. How herheart failed her for an instant! but still she was not daunted fromher purpose, painful as its fulfilment was sure to be. She laid herhand on his arm.
As she expected, after a momentary glance at the person who thusendeavoured to detain him, he made an effort to shake it off, andpass on. But, trembling as she was, she had provided against thisby a firm and unusual grasp.
"You must listen to me, Jem Wilson," she said, with almost an accentof command.
"Go away, missis; I've nought to do with you, either in hearkeningor talking."
He made another struggle.
"You must listen," she said again, authoritatively, "for MaryBarton's sake."
The spell of her name was as potent as that of the mariner'sglittering eye. "He listened like a three-year child."
"I know you care enough for her to wish to save her from harm."
He interrupted his earnest gaze into her face, with the exclamation--
"And who can yo be to know Mary Barton, or to know that she's aughtto me?"
There was a little strife in Esther's mind for an instant, betweenthe shame of acknowledging herself, and the additional weight to herrevelation which such acknowledgment would give. Then she spoke--
"Do you remember Esther, the sister of John Barton's wife? the auntto Mary? And the valentine I sent you last February ten years?"
"Yes, I mind her well! But yo are not Esther, are you?" He lookedagain into her face, and seeing that indeed it was his boyhood'sfriend, he took her hand, and shook it with a cordiality that forgotthe present in the past.
"Why, Esther! Where han ye been this many a year? Where han yebeen wandering that we none of us could find you out?"
The question was asked thoughtlessly, but answered with fierceearnestness.
"Where have I been? What have I been doing? Why do you torment mewith questions like these? Can you not guess? But the story of mylife is wanted to give force to my speech, afterwards I will tell ityou. Nay! don't change your fickle mind now, and say you don't wantto hear it. You must hear it, and I must tell it; and then seeafter Mary, and take care she does not become like me. As she isloving now, so did I love once: one above me far." She remarkednot, in her own absorption, the change in Jem's breathing, thesudden clutch at the wall which told the fearfully vivid interest hetook in what she said. "He was so handsome, so kind! Well, theregiment was ordered to Chester (did I tell you he was an officer?),and he could not bear to part from me, nor I from him, so he took mewith him. I never thought poor Mary would have taken it so toheart! I always meant to send for her to pay me a visit when I wasmarried; for, mark you! he promised me marriage. They all do. Thencame three years of happiness. I suppose I ought not to have beenhappy, but I was. I had a little girl, too. Oh! the sweetestdarling that ever was seen! But I must not think of her," puttingher hand wildly up to her forehead, "or I shall go mad; I shall."
"Don't tell me any more about yoursel," said Jem soothingly.
"What! you're tired already, are you? but I will tell you; as you'veasked for it, you shall hear it. I won't recall the agony of thepast for nothing. I will have the relief of telling it. Oh, howhappy I was!"--sinking her voice into a plaintive, childlike manner."It went like a shot through me when one day he came to me and toldme he was ordered to Ireland, and must leave me behind; a
t Bristolwe then were."
Jem muttered some words; she caught their meaning, and in a pleadingvoice continued--
"Oh, don't abuse him; don't speak a word against him! You don'tknow how I love him yet; yet, when I am sunk so low. You don'tguess how kind he was. He gave me fifty pounds before we parted,and I knew he could ill spare it. Don't, Jem, please," as hismuttered indignation rose again. For her sake he ceased. "I mighthave done better with the money; I see now. But I did not know thevalue of it then. Formerly I had earned it easily enough at thefactory, and as I had no more sensible wants, I spent it on dressand on eating. While I lived with him, I had it for asking; andfifty pounds would, I thought, go a long way. So I went back toChester, where I'd been so happy, and set up a small-ware shop, andhired a room near. We should have done well, but alas! alas! mylittle girl fell ill, and I could not mind my shop and her too:and things grew worse and worse. I sold my goods anyhow to getmoney to buy her food and medicine; I wrote over and over again toher father for help, but he must have changed his quarters, for Inever got an answer. The landlord seized the few bobbins and tapesI had left, for shop-rent; and the person to whom the mean littleroom, to which we had been forced to remove, belonged, threatened toturn us out unless his rent was paid; it had run on many weeks, andit was winter, cold bleak winter; and my child was so ill, so ill,and I was starving. And I could not bear to see her suffer, andforgot how much better it would be for us to die together;--oh, hermoans, her moans, which money could give the means of relieving! SoI went out into the street one January night--Do you think God willpunish me for that?" she asked with wild vehemence, almost amountingto insanity, and shaking Jem's arm in order to force an answer fromhim.
But before he could shape his heart's sympathy into words, her voicehad lost its wildness, and she spoke with the quiet of despair.
"But it's no matter! I've done that since, which separates us asfar asunder as heaven and hell can be." Her voice rose again to thesharp pitch of agony. "My darling! my darling! even after death Imay not see thee, my own sweet one! she was so good--like a littleangel. What is that text, I don't remember,--the text mother usedto teach me when I sat on her knee long ago; it begins, 'Blessed arethe pure'"--
"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."
"Ay, that's it! It would break mother's heart if she knew what I amnow--it did break Mary's heart, you see. And now I recollect it wasabout her child I wanted to see you, Jem. You know Mary Barton,don't you?" said she, trying to collect her thoughts.
Yes, Jem knew her. How well, his beating heart could testify.
"Well, there's something to do for her; I forget what; wait aminute! She is so like my little girl," said she, raising her eyesglistening with unshed tears, in search of the sympathy of Jem'scountenance.
He deeply pitied her; but oh! how he longed to recall her mind tothe subject of Mary, and the lover above her in rank, and theservice to be done for her sake. But he controlled himself tosilence. After awhile, she spoke again, and in a calmer voice.
"When I came to Manchester (for I could not stay in Chester afterher death), I found you all out very soon. And yet I never thoughtmy poor sister was dead. I suppose I would not think so. I used towatch about the court where John lived, for many and many a night,and gather all I could about them from the neighbours' talk; for Inever asked a question. I put this and that together, and followedone, and listened to another; many's the time I've watched thepoliceman off his beat, and peeped through the chink of thewindow-shutter to see the old room, and sometimes Mary or her fathersitting up late for some reason or another. I found out Mary wentto learn dressmaking, and I began to be frightened for her; for it'sa bad life for a girl to be out late at night in the streets, andafter many an hour of weary work, they're ready to follow after anynovelty that makes a little change. But I made up my mind, that badas I was, I could watch over Mary, and perhaps keep her from harm. SoI used to wait for her at nights, and follow her home, often when shelittle knew any one was near her. There was one of her companions Inever could abide, and I'm sure that girl is at the bottom of somemischief. By-and-by Mary's walks homewards were not alone. She wasjoined soon after she came out by a man; a gentleman. I began tofear for her, for I saw she was light-hearted, and pleased with hisattentions; and I thought worse of him for having such long talkswith that bold girl I told you of. But I was laid up for a longtime with spitting of blood; and could do nothing. I'm sure it mademade me worse, thinking about what might be happening to Mary. Andwhen I came out, all was going on as before, only she seemed fonderof him than ever; and oh! Jem, her father won't listen to me, andit's you must save Mary! You're like a brother to her, and maybecould give her advice and watch over her, and at any rate John willhearken to you; only he's so stern, and so cruel." She began to crya little at the remembrance of his harsh words; but Jem cut her shortby his hoarse, stern inquiry--
"Who is this spark that Mary loves? Tell me his name!"
"It's young Carson, old Carson's son, that your father worked for."
There was a pause. She broke the silence--
"O Jem, I charge you with the care of her! I suppose it would bemurder to kill her, but it would be better for her to die than tolive to lead such a life as I do. Do you hear me, Jem?"
"Yes, I hear you. It would be better. Better we were all dead."This was said as if thinking aloud; but he immediately changed histone and continued--
"Esther, you may trust to my doing all I can for Mary. That I havedetermined on. And now listen to me. You loathe the life you lead,else you would not speak of it as you do. Come home with me. Cometo my mother. She and my aunt Alice live together. I will see thatthey give you a welcome. And to-morrow I will see if some honestway of living cannot be found for you. Come home with me."
She was silent for a minute, and he hoped he had gained his point.Then she said--
"God bless you, Jem, for the words you have just spoken. Some yearsago you might have saved me, as I hope and trust you will yet saveMary. But, it is too late now;--too late," she added, with accentsof deep despair.
Still he did not relax his hold. "Come home," he said.
"I tell you, I cannot. I could not lead a virtuous life if I would.I should only disgrace you. If you will know all," said she, as hestill seemed inclined to urge her, "I must have drink. Such as livelike me could not bear life if they did not drink. It's the onlything to keep us from suicide. If we did not drink, we could notstand the memory of what we have been, and the thought of what weare, for a day. If I go without food, and without shelter, I musthave my dram. Oh! you don't know the awful nights I have had inprison for want of it," said she, shuddering, and glaring round withterrified eyes, as if dreading to see some spiritual creature, withdim form, near her.
"It is so frightful to see them," whispering in tones of wildness,although so low spoken. "There they go round and round my bed thewhole night through. My mother, carrying little Annie (I wonder howthey got together) and Mary--and all looking at me with their sad,stony eyes; O Jem! it is so terrible! They don't turn back either,but pass behind the head of the bed, and I feel their eyes on meeverywhere. If I creep under the clothes I still see them; and whatis worse," hissing out her words with fright, "they see me. Don'tspeak to me of leading a better life--I must have drink. I cannotpass to-night without a dram; I dare not."
Jem was silent from deep sympathy. Oh! could he, then, do nothingfor her! She spoke again, but in a less excited tone, although itwas thrillingly earnest.
"You are grieved for me! I know it better than if you told me inwords. But you can do nothing for me. I am past hope. You can yetsave Mary. You must. She is innocent, except for the great errorof loving one above her in station. Jem! you WILL save her?"
With heart and soul, though in few words, Jem promised that if aughtearthly could keep her from falling, he would do it. Then sheblessed him, and bade him good-night.
"Stay a mi
nute," said he, as she was on the point of departure. "Imay want to speak to you again. I mun know where to find you--wheredo you live?"
She laughed strangely. "And do you think one sunk so low as I amhas a home? Decent, good people have homes. We have none. No; ifyou want me, come at night and look at the corners of the streetsabout here. The colder, the bleaker, the more stormy the night, themore certain you will be to find me. For then," she added, with aplaintive fall in her voice, "it is so cold sleeping in entries, andon door-steps, and I want a dram more than ever."
Again she rapidly turned off, and Jem also went on his way. Butbefore he reached the end of the street, even in the midst of thejealous anguish that filled his heart, his conscience smote him. Hehad not done enough to save her. One more effort, and she mighthave come. Nay, twenty efforts would have been well rewarded by heryielding. He turned back, but she was gone. In the tumult of hisother feelings, his self-reproach was deadened for the time. Butmany and many a day afterwards he bitterly regretted his omission ofduty; his weariness of well-doing.
Now, the great thing was to reach home, and solitude. Mary lovedanother! Oh! how should he bear it? He had thought her rejectionof him a hard trial, but that was nothing now. He only rememberedit, to be thankful that he had not yielded to the temptation oftrying his fate again, not in actual words, but in a meeting, whereher manner should tell far more than words, that her sweet smiles,her dainty movements, her pretty household ways, were all to bereserved to gladden another's eyes and heart. And he must live onthat seemed the strangest. That a long life (and he knew men didlive long, even with deep, biting sorrow corroding at their hearts)must be spent without Mary; nay, with the consciousness she wasanother's! That hell of thought he would reserve for the quiet ofhis own room, the dead stillness of night. He was on the thresholdof home now.
He entered. There were the usual faces, the usual sights. Heloathed them, and then he cursed himself because he loathed them.His mother's love had taken a cross turn, because he had kept thetempting supper she had prepared for him waiting until it was nearlyspoilt. Alice, her dulled senses deadening day by day, sat mutelynear the fire: her happiness bounded by the consciousness of thepresence of her foster-child, knowing that his voice repeated whatwas passing to her deafened ear, that his arm removed each littleobstacle to her tottering steps. And Will, out of the very kindnessof his heart, talked more and more merrily than ever. He saw Jemwas downcast, and fancied his rattling might cheer him; at any rate,it drowned his aunt's muttered grumblings, and in some measureconcealed the blank of the evening. At last, bed-time came; andWill withdrew to his neighbouring lodging; and Jane and Alice Wilsonhad raked the fire, and fastened doors and shutters, and patteredupstairs, with their tottering footsteps and shrill voices. Jem,too, went to the closet termed his bedroom. There was no bolt tothe door; but by one strong effort of his right arm a heavy chestwas moved against it, and he could sit down on the side of his bed,and think.
Mary loved another! That idea would rise uppermost in his mind, andhad to be combated in all its forms of pain. It was, perhaps, nogreat wonder that she should prefer one so much above Jem in theexternal things of life. But the gentleman; why did he, with hisrange of choice among the ladies of the land, why did he stoop downto carry off the poor man's darling? With all the glories of thegarden at his hand, why did he prefer to cull the wild-rose,--Jem'sown fragrant wild-rose?
His OWN! Oh! never now his own!--Gone for evermore.
Then uprose the guilty longing for blood!--the frenzy ofjealousy!--Some one should die. He would rather Mary were dead,cold in her grave, than that she were another's. A vision of herpale, sweet face, with her bright hair all bedabbled with gore,seemed to float constantly before his aching eyes. But hers wereever open, and contained, in their soft, deathly look, such mutereproach! What had she done to deserve such cruel treatment fromhim? She had been wooed by one whom Jem knew to be handsome, gay,and bright, and she had given him her love. That was all! It wasthe wooer who should die. Yes, die, knowing the cause of his death.Jem pictured him (and gloated on the picture), lying smitten, yetconscious; and listening to the upbraiding accusation of hismurderer. How he had left his own rank, and dared to love a maidenof low degree! and oh! stinging agony of all--how she, in return,had loved him! Then the other nature spoke up, and bade himremember the anguish he should so prepare for Mary! At first herefused to listen to that better voice; or listened only to pervert.He would glory in her wailing grief! he would take pleasure in herdesolation of heart!
No! he could not, said the still small voice. It would be worse,far worse, to have caused such woe, than it was now to bear hispresent heavy burden.
But it was too heavy, too grievous to be borne, and live. He wouldslay himself and the lovers should love on, and the sun shinebright, and he with his burning, woeful heart would be at rest."Rest that is reserved for the people of God."
Had he not promised, with such earnest purpose of soul as makeswords more solemn than oaths, to save Mary from becoming such asEsther? Should he shrink from the duties of life, into thecowardliness of death? Who would then guard Mary, with her love andher innocence? Would it not be a goodly thing to serve her,although she loved him not; to be her preserving angel, through theperils of life; and she, unconscious all the while?
He braced up his soul, and said to himself, that with God's help hewould be that earthly keeper.
And now the mists and the storms seemed clearing away from his path,though it still was full of stinging thorns. Having done the dutynearest to him (of reducing the tumult of his own heart to somethinglike order), the second became more plain before him.
Poor Esther's experience had led her, perhaps too hastily, to theconclusion that Mr. Carson's intentions were evil towards Mary; atleast she had given no just ground for the fears she entertainedthat such was the case. It was possible, nay, to Jem's heart veryprobable, that he might only be too happy to marry her. She was alady by right of nature, Jem thought; in movement, grace, andspirit. What was birth to a Manchester manufacturer, many of whomglory, and justly too, in being the architects of their ownfortunes? And, as far as wealth was concerned, judging another byhimself, Jem could only imagine it a great privilege to lay it atthe feet of the loved one. Harry Carson's mother had been a factorygirl; so, after all, what was the great reason for doubting hisintentions towards Mary?
There might probably be some little awkwardness about the affair atfirst; Mary's father having such strong prejudices on the one hand;and something of the same kind being likely to exist on the part ofMr. Carson's family. But Jem knew he had power over John Barton'smind; and it would be something to exert that power in promotingMary's happiness, and to relinquish all thought of self in so doing.
Oh! why had Esther chosen him for this office? It was beyond hisstrength to act rightly! Why had she singled him out?
The answer came when he was calm enough to listen for it: BecauseMary had no other friend capable of the duty required of him; theduty of a brother, as Esther imagined him to be in feeling, from hislong friendship. He would be unto her as a brother.
As such, he ought to ascertain Harry Carson's intentions towards herin winning her affections. He would ask him straightforwardly, asbecame man speaking to man, not concealing, if need were, theinterest he felt in Mary.
Then, with the resolve to do his duty to the best of his power,peace came into his soul; he had left the windy storm and tempestbehind.
Two hours before day-dawn he fell asleep.