I. A MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE.
"Oh! 't is hard, 't is hard to be working The whole of the live-long day, When all the neighbours about one Are off to their jaunts and play.
"There's Richard he carries his baby, And Mary takes little Jane, And lovingly they'll be wandering Through fields and briery lane." --MANCHESTER SONG.
There are some fields near Manchester, well known to the inhabitantsas "Green Heys Fields," through which runs a public footpath to alittle village about two miles distant. In spite of these fieldsbeing flat, and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the greatand usual recommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charmabout them which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainousdistrict, who sees and feels the effect of contrast in thesecommonplace but thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustlingmanufacturing town he left but half-an-hour ago. Here and there anold black and white farmhouse, with its rambling outbuildings,speaks of other times and other occupations than those which nowabsorb the population of the neighbourhood. Here in their seasonsmay be seen the country business of haymaking, ploughing, etc.,which are such pleasant mysteries for townspeople to watch: andhere the artisan, deafened with noise of tongues and engines, maycome to listen awhile to the delicious sounds of rural life: thelowing of cattle, the milkmaid's call, the clatter and cackle ofpoultry in the farmyards. You cannot wonder, then, that thesefields are popular places of resort at every holiday time; and youwould not wonder, if you could see, or I properly describe, thecharm of one particular stile, that it should be, on such occasions,a crowded halting place. Close by it is a deep, clear pond,reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy trees that bend overit to exclude the sun. The only place where its banks are shelvingis on the side next to a rambling farmyard, belonging to one ofthose old world, gabled, black and white houses I named above,overlooking the field through which the public footpath leads. Theporch of this farmhouse is covered by a rose-tree; and the littlegarden surrounding it is crowded with a medley of old-fashionedherbs and flowers, planted long ago, when the garden was the onlydruggist's shop within reach, and allowed to grow in scrambling andwild luxuriance--roses, lavender, sage, balm (for tea), rosemary,pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most republican andindiscriminate order. This farmhouse and garden are within ahundred yards of the stile of which I spoke, leading from the largepasture field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge of hawthorn andblackthorn; and near this stile, on the further side, there runs atale that primroses may often be found, and occasionally the bluesweet violet on the grassy hedge bank.
I do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, ora holiday seized in right of Nature and her beautiful spring time bythe workmen, but one afternoon (now ten or a dozen years ago) thesefields were much thronged. It was an early May evening--the Aprilof the poets; for heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and theround, soft, white clouds which were blown by a west wind over thedark blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and morethreatening. The softness of the day tempted forth the young greenleaves, which almost visibly fluttered into life; and the willows,which that morning had had only a brown reflection in the waterbelow, were now of that tender grey-green which blends so delicatelywith the spring harmony of colours.
Groups of merry and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages mightrange from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. They weremost of them factory girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress ofthat particular class of maidens; namely, a shawl, which at middayor in fine weather was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towardsevening, if the day was chilly, became a sort of Spanish mantilla orScotch plaid, and was brought over the head and hung loosely down,or was pinned under the chin in no unpicturesque fashion.
Their faces were not remarkable for beauty; indeed, they were belowthe average, with one or two exceptions; they had dark hair, neatlyand classically arranged, dark eyes, but sallow complexions andirregular features. The only thing to strike a passer-by was anacuteness and intelligence of countenance, which has often beennoticed in a manufacturing population.
There were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, rambling amongthese fields, ready to bandy jokes with any one, and particularlyready to enter into conversation with the girls, who, however, heldthemselves aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent way,assuming an indifferent manner to the noisy wit or obstreperouscompliments of the lads. Here and there came a sober, quiet couple,either whispering lovers, or husband and wife, as the case might be;and if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by an infant,carried for the most part by the father, while occasionally eventhree or four little toddlers had been carried or dragged thus far,in order that the whole family might enjoy the delicious Mayafternoon together.
Some time in the course of that afternoon, two working men met withfriendly greeting at the stile so often named. One was a thoroughspecimen of a Manchester man; born of factory workers, and himselfbred up in youth, and living in manhood, among the mills. He wasbelow the middle size and slightly made; there was almost a stuntedlook about him; and his wan, colourless face gave you the idea, thatin his childhood he had suffered from the scanty living consequentupon bad times and improvident habits. His features were stronglymarked, though not irregular, and their expression was extremeearnestness; resolute either for good or evil, a sort of latentstern enthusiasm. At the time of which I write, the goodpredominated over the bad in the countenance, and he was one fromwhom a stranger would have asked a favour with tolerable faith thatit would be granted. He was accompanied by his wife, who might,without exaggeration, have been called a lovely woman, although nowher face was swollen with crying, and often hidden behind her apron.She had the fresh beauty of the agricultural districts; and somewhatof the deficiency of sense in her countenance, which is likewisecharacteristic of the rural inhabitants in comparison with thenatives of the manufacturing towns. She was far advanced inpregnancy, which perhaps occasioned the overpowering and hystericalnature of her grief. The friend whom they met was more handsome andless sensible-looking than the man I have just described; he seemedhearty and hopeful, and although his age was greater, yet there wasfar more of youth's buoyancy in his appearance. He was tenderlycarrying a baby in arms, while his wife, a delicate, fragile-lookingwoman, limping in her gait, bore another of the same age; little,feeble twins, inheriting the frail appearance of their mother.
The last-mentioned man was the first to speak, while a sudden lookof sympathy dimmed his gladsome face. "Well, John, how goes it withyou?" and in a lower voice, he added, "Any news of Esther yet?"Meanwhile the wives greeted each other like old friends, the softand plaintive voice of the mother of the twins seeming to call forthonly fresh sobs from Mrs. Barton.
"Come, women," said John Barton, "you've both walked far enough. MyMary expects to have her bed in three weeks; and as for you, Mrs.Wilson, you know you are but a cranky sort of a body at the best oftimes." This was said so kindly, that no offence could be taken."Sit you down here; the grass is well nigh dry by this time; andyou're neither of you nesh* folk about taking cold. Stay," headded, with some tenderness, "here's my pocket-handkerchief tospread under you to save the gowns women always think so much onand now, Mrs. Wilson, give me the baby, I may as well carry him,while you talk and comfort my wife; poor thing, she takes on sadlyabout Esther."
*Nesh; Anglo-Saxon, nesc, tender.
These arrangements were soon completed; the two women sat down onthe blue cotton handkerchiefs of their husbands, and the latter,each carrying a baby, set off for a further walk; but as soon asBarton had turned his back upon his wife, his countenance fell backinto an expression of gloom.
"Then you've heard nothing of Esther, poor lass?" asked Wilson.
"No, nor shan't, as I take it. My mind is, she's gone off withsomebody. My wife frets and thinks she's drowned herself, but Itell her, folks don't care to put on their best clothes t
o drownthemselves; and Mrs. Bradshaw (where she lodged, you know) says thelast time she set eyes on her was last Tuesday, when she camedownstairs, dressed in her Sunday gown, and with a new ribbon in herbonnet, and gloves on her hands, like the lady she was so fond ofthinking herself."
"She was as pretty a creature as ever the sun shone on."
"Ay, she was a farrantly* lass; more's the pity now," added Barton,with a sigh. "You see them Buckinghamshire people as comes to workhere has quite a different look with them to us Manchester folk.You'll not see among the Manchester wenches such fresh rosy cheeks,or such black lashes to grey eyes (making them look like black), asmy wife and Esther had. I never seed two such pretty women forsisters; never. Not but what beauty is a sad snare. Here wasEsther so puffed up, that there was no holding her in. Her spiritwas always up, if I spoke ever so little in the way of advice toher; my wife spoiled her, it is true, for you see she was so mucholder than Esther, she was more like a mother to her, doingeverything for her."
*Farrantly; comely, pleasant-looking.
"I wonder she ever left you," observed his friend.
"That's the worst of factory work for girls. They can earn so muchwhen work is plenty, that they can maintain themselves anyhow. MyMary shall never work in a factory, that I'm determined on. You seeEsther spent her money in dress, thinking to set off her prettyface; and got to come home so late at night, that at last I told hermy mind; my missis thinks I spoke crossly, but I meant right, for Iloved Esther, if it was only for Mary's sake. Says I, 'Esther, Isee what you'll end at with your artificials, and your fly-awayveils, and stopping out when honest women are in their beds:you'll be a street-walker, Esther, and then, don't you go to thinkI'll have you darken my door, though my wife is your sister?' Sosays she, 'Don't trouble yourself, John, I'll pack up and be offnow, for I'll never stay to hear myself called as you call me.' Sheflushed up like a turkey-cock, and I thought fire would come out ofher eyes; but when she saw Mary cry (for Mary can't abide words in ahouse), she went and kissed her, and said she was not so bad as Ithought her. So we talked more friendly, for, as I said, I likedthe lass well enough, and her pretty looks, and her cheery ways.But she said (and at that time I thought there was sense in what shesaid) we should be much better friends if she went into lodgings,and only came to see us now and then."
"Then you still were friendly. Folks said you'd cast her off, andsaid you'd never speak to her again."
"Folks always make one a deal worse than one is," said John Bartontestily. "She came many a time to our house after she left offliving with us. Last Sunday se'nnight--no! it was this very lastSunday, she came to drink a cup of tea with Mary; and that was thelast time we set eyes on her."
"Was she any ways different in her manner?" asked Wilson.
"Well, I don't know. I have thought several times since, that shewas a bit quieter, and more womanly-like; more gentle, and moreblushing, and not so riotous and noisy. She comes in towards fouro'clock, when afternoon church was loosing, and she goes and hangsher bonnet up on the old nail we used to call hers, while she livedwith us. I remember thinking what a pretty lass she was, as she saton a low stool by Mary, who was rocking herself, and in rather apoor way. She laughed and cried by turns, but all so softly andgently, like a child, that I couldn't find in my heart to scold her,especially as Mary was fretting already. One thing I do remember Idid say, and pretty sharply too. She took our little Mary by thewaist and"--
"Thou must leave off calling her 'little' Mary, she's growing upinto as fine a lass as one can see on a summer's day; more of hermother's stock than thine," interrupted Wilson.
"Well, well, I call her 'little' because her mother's name is Mary.But, as I was saying, she takes Mary in a coaxing sort of way, and'Mary,' says she, 'what should you think if I sent for you some dayand made a lady of you?' So I could not stand such talk as that tomy girl, and I said, 'Thou'd best not put that nonsense i' thegirl's head I can tell thee; I'd rather see her earning her bread bythe sweat of brow, as the Bible tells her she should do, ay, thoughshe never got butter to her bread, than be like a do-nothing lady,worrying shopmen all morning, and screeching at her pianny allafternoon, and going to bed without having done a good turn to anyone of God's creatures but herself.'"
"Thou never could abide the gentlefolk," said Wilson, half amused athis friend's vehemence.
"And what good have they ever done me that I should like them?"asked Barton, the latent fire lighting up his eye: and burstingforth he continued, "If I am sick do they come and nurse me? If mychild lies dying (as poor Tom lay, with his white wan lipsquivering, for want of better food than I could give him), does therich man bring the wine or broth that might save his life? If I amout of work for weeks in the bad times, and winter comes, with blackfrost, and keen east wind, and there is no coal for the grate, andno clothes for the bed, and the thin bones are seen through theragged clothes, does the rich man share his plenty with me, as heought to do, if his religion wasn't a humbug? When I lie on mydeath-bed and Mary (bless her!) stands fretting, as I know she willfret," and here his voice faltered a little, "will a rich lady comeand take her to her own home if need be, till she can look round,and see what best to do? No, I tell you it's the poor, and the pooronly, as does such things for the poor. Don't think to come over mewith th' old tale, that the rich know nothing of the trials of thepoor; I say, if they don't know, they ought to know. We're theirslaves as long as we can work; we pile up their fortunes with thesweat of our brows, and yet we are to live as separate as if we werein two worlds; ay, as separate as Dives and Lazarus, with a greatgulf betwixt us: but I know who was best off then," and he woundup his speech with a low chuckle that had no mirth in it.
"Well, neighbour," said Wilson, "all that may be very true, but whatI want to know now is about Esther--when did you last hear of her?"
"Why, she took leave of us that Sunday night in a very loving way,kissing both wife Mary, and daughter Mary (if I must not call her'little'), and shaking hands with me; but all in a cheerful sort ofmanner, so we thought nothing about her kisses and shakes. But onWednesday night comes Mrs. Bradshaw's son with Esther's box, andpresently Mrs. Bradshaw follows with the key; and when we began totalk, we found Esther told her she was coming back to live with us,and would pay her week's money for not giving notice; and on Tuesdaynight she carried off a little bundle (her best clothes were on herback, as I said before) and told Mrs. Bradshaw not to hurry herselfabout the big box, but bring it when she had time. So, of course,she thought she should find Esther with us; and when she told herstory, my missis set up such a screech, and fell down in a deadswoon. Mary ran up with water for her mother, and I thought so muchabout my wife, I did not seem to care at all for Esther. But thenext day I asked all the neighbours (both our own and Bradshaw's)and they'd none of 'em heard or seen nothing of her. I even went toa policeman, a good enough sort of man, but a fellow I'd neverspoken to before because of his livery, and I asks him if his'cuteness could find anything out for us. So I believe he asksother policemen; and one on 'em had seen a wench, like our Esther,walking very quickly, with a bundle under her arm, on Tuesday night,toward eight o'clock, and get into a hackney coach, near HulmeChurch, and we don't know th' number, and can't trace it no further.I'm sorry enough for the girl, for bad's come over her, one way oranother, but I'm sorrier for my wife. She loved her next to me andMary, and she's never been the same body since poor Tom's death.However, let's go back to them; your old woman may have done hergood."
As they walked homewards with a brisker pace, Wilson expressed awish that they still were the near neighbours they once had been.
"Still our Alice lives in the cellar under No. 14, in Barber Street,and if you'd only speak the word she'd be with you in five minutesto keep your wife company when she's lonesome. Though I'm Alice'sbrother, and perhaps ought not to say it, I will say there's nonemore ready to help with heart or hand than she is. Though she mayhave done a hard day's wash, there's not a child ill within thestr
eet, but Alice goes to offer to sit up, and does sit up, too,though may be she's to be at her work by six next morning."
"She's a poor woman, and can feel for the poor, Wilson," wasBarton's reply; and then he added, "Thank you kindly for your offer,and mayhap I may trouble her to be a bit with my wife, for while I'mat work, and Mary's at school, I know she frets above a bit. See,there's Mary!" and the father's eye brightened, as in the distance,among a group of girls, he spied his only daughter, a bonny lass ofthirteen or so, who came bounding along to meet and to greet herfather, in a manner that showed that the stern-looking man had atender nature within. The two men had crossed the last stile, whileMary loitered behind to gather some buds of the coming hawthorn,when an overgrown lad came past her, and snatched a kiss,exclaiming, "For old acquaintance sake, Mary."
"Take that for old acquaintance sake, then," said the girl, blushingrosy red, more with anger than shame, as she slapped his face. Thetones of her voice called back her father and his friend, and theaggressor proved to be the eldest son of the latter, the senior byeighteen years of his little brothers.
"Here, children, instead o' kissing and quarrelling, do ye each takea baby, for if Wilson's arms be like mine they are heartily tired."
Mary sprang forward to take her father's charge, with a girl'sfondness for infants, and with some little foresight of the eventsoon to happen at home; while young Wilson seemed to lose his rough,cubbish nature as he crowed and cooed to his little brother.
"Twins is a great trial to a poor man, bless 'em," said the half-proud, half-weary father, as he bestowed a smacking kiss on the babeere he parted with it.