XXXVI. JEM'S INTERVIEW WITH MR. DUNCOMBE.
"The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress." --BYRON.
Although Mary had hardly been conscious of her thoughts, and it hadbeen more like a secret instinct informing her soul, than the resultof any process of reasoning, she had felt for some time (ever sinceher return from Liverpool, in fact), that for her father there wasbut one thing to be desired and anticipated, and that was death!
She had seen that Conscience had given the mortal wound to hisearthly frame; she did not dare to question of the infinite mercy ofGod, what the Future Life would be to him.
Though at first desolate and stunned by the blow which had fallen onherself, she was resigned and submissive as soon as she recoveredstrength enough to ponder and consider a little; and you may be surethat no tenderness or love was wanting on Jem's part, and noconsideration and sympathy on that of Job and Margaret to soothe andcomfort the girl who now stood alone in the world as far as bloodrelations were concerned.
She did not ask or care to know what arrangements they were makingin whispered tones with regard to the funeral. She put herself intotheir hands with the trust of a little child; glad to be undisturbedin the reveries and remembrances which filled her eyes with tears,and caused them to fall quietly, down her pale cheeks.
It was the longest day she had ever known in her life; every changeand every occupation was taken away from her: but perhaps thelength of quiet time thus afforded was really good, although itsduration weighed upon her; for by this means she contemplated hersituation in every light, and fully understood that the morning'sevent had left her an orphan; and thus she was spared the pangscaused to us by the occurrence of death in the evening, just beforewe should naturally, in the usual course of events, lie down toslumber. For in such case, worn out by anxiety, and it may be bymuch watching, our very excess of grief rocks itself to sleep,before we have had time to realise its cause; and we waken, with astart of agony like a fresh stab, to the consciousness of the oneawful vacancy, which shall never, while the world endures, be filledagain.
The day brought its burden of duty to Mrs. Wilson. She felt boundby regard, as well as by etiquette, to go and see her futuredaughter-in-law. And by an old association of ideas (perhaps ofdeath with churchyards, and churches with Sunday) she thought itnecessary to put on her best, and latterly unused clothes, theairing of which on a little clothes-horse before the fire seemed togive her a not unpleasing occupation.
When Jem returned home late in the evening succeeding John Barton'sdeath, weary and oppressed with the occurrences and excitements ofthe day, he found his mother busy about her mourning, and muchinclined to talk. Although he longed for quiet, he could not avoidsitting down and answering her questions.
"Well, Jem, he's gone at last, is he?"
"Yes. How did you hear, mother?"
"Oh, Job came over here, and telled me, on his way to theundertaker's. Did he make a fine end?"
It struck Jem that she had not heard of the confession which hadbeen made by John Barton on his death-bed; he remembered Job Legh'sdiscretion, and he determined that if it could be avoided his mothershould never hear of it. Many of the difficulties to be anticipatedin preserving the secret would be obviated, if he could induce hismother to fall into the plan he had named to Mary of emigrating toCanada. The reasons which rendered this secrecy desirable relatedto the domestic happiness he hoped for. With his mother's irritabletemper he could hardly expect that all allusion to the crime of JohnBarton would be for ever restrained from passing her lips, and heknew the deep trial which such references would be to Mary.Accordingly he resolved as soon as possible in the morning to go toJob and beseech his silence; he trusted that secrecy in thatquarter, even if the knowledge had been extended to Margaret, mightbe easily secured.
But what would be Mr. Carson's course?
Were there any means by which he might be persuaded to spare JohnBarton's memory?
He was roused up from this train of thought by his mother's moreirritated tone of voice.
"Jem!" she was saying, "thou mightst just as well never be at adeath-bed again, if thou cannot bring off more news about it; herehave I been by mysel all day (except when oud Job came in), butthinks I when Jem comes he'll be sure to be good company, seeing hewas in the house at the very time of the death; and here thou art,without a word to throw at a dog, much less thy mother: it's nouse thy going to a death-bed if thou cannot carry away any of thesayings!"
"He did not make any, mother," replied Jem.
"Well, to be sure! So fond as he used to be of holding forth, tomiss such a fine opportunity that will never come again! Did he dieeasy?"
"He was very restless all night long," said Jem, reluctantlyreturning to the thoughts of that time.
"And in course thou plucked the pillow away? Thou didst not! Well!with thy bringing up, and thy learning, thou mightst have known thatwere the only help in such a case. There were pigeons' feathers inthe pillow, depend on't. To think of two grown-up folk like you andMary, not knowing death could never come easy to a person lying on apillow with pigeons' feathers in!"
Jem was glad to escape from all this talking, to the solitude andquiet of his own room, where he could lie and think uninterruptedlyof what had happened and remained to be done.
The first thing was to seek an interview with Mr. Duncombe, hisformer master. Accordingly, early the next morning Jem set off onhis walk to the works, where for so many years his days had beenspent; where for so long a time his thoughts had been thought, hishopes and fears experienced. It was not a cheering feeling toremember that henceforward he was to be severed from all thesefamiliar places; nor were his spirits enlivened by the evidentfeelings of the majority of those who had been his fellow-workmen.As he stood in the entrance to the foundry, awaiting Mr. Duncombe'sleisure, many of those employed in the works passed him on theirreturn from breakfast; and, with one or two exceptions, without anyacknowledgment of former acquaintance beyond a distant nod at theutmost.
"It is hard," said Jem to himself, with a bitter and indignantfeeling rising in his throat, "that let a man's life be what it may,folk are so ready to credit the first word against him. I couldlive it down if I stayed in England; but then what would not Maryhave to bear? Sooner or later the truth would out; and then shewould be a show to folk for many a day as John Barton's daughter.Well! God does not judge as hardly as man, that's one comfort forall of us!"
Mr. Duncombe did not believe in Jem's guilt, in spite of the silencein which he again this day heard the imputation of it; but he agreedthat under the circumstances it was better he should leave thecountry.
"We have been written to by Government, as I think I told youbefore, to recommend an intelligent man, well acquainted withmechanics, as instrument-maker to the Agricultural College they areestablishing at Toronto, in Canada. It is a comfortableappointment,--house,--land,--and a good percentage on theinstruments made. I will show you the particulars if I can lay myhand on the letter, which I believe I must have left at home."
"Thank you, sir. No need for seeing the letter to say I'll acceptit. I must leave Manchester; and I'd as lief quit England at oncewhen I'm about it."
"Of course, Government will give you your passage; indeed, I believean allowance would be made for a family if you had one; but you arenot a married man, I believe?"
"No, sir, but"--Jem hung back from a confession with the awkwardnessof a girl.
"But"--said Mr. Duncombe, smiling, "you would like to be a marriedman before you go, I suppose; eh, Wilson?"
"If you please, sir. And there's my mother, too. I hope she'll gowith us. But I can pay her passage; no need to trouble Government."
"Nay, nay! I'll write to-day and recommend you; and say that youhave a family of two. They'll never ask if the family goes upwardsor downwards. I shall see you again before you sail, I hope,Wilson though I believe they'll not allow you long to wait. C
ometo my house next time; you'll find it pleasanter, I dare say. Thesemen are so wrong-headed. Keep up your heart!"
Jem felt that it was a relief to have this point settled; and thathe need no longer weigh reasons for and against his emigration.
And with his path growing clearer and clearer before him the longerhe contemplated it, he went to see Mary, and if he judged it fit, totell her what he had decided upon. Margaret was sitting with her.
"Grandfather wants to see you!" said she to Jem on his entrance.
"And I want to see him," replied Jem, suddenly remembering his lastnight's determination to enjoin secrecy on Job Legh.
So he hardly stayed to kiss poor Mary's sweet woe-begone face, buttore himself away from his darling to go to the old man, who awaitedhim impatiently.
"I've getten a note from Mr. Carson," exclaimed Job the moment hesaw Jem; "and, man alive, he wants to see thee and me! For sure,there's no more mischief up, is there?" said he, looking at Jem withan expression of wonder. But if any suspicion mingled for aninstant with the thoughts that crossed Job's mind, it wasimmediately dispelled by Jem's honest, fearless, open countenance.
"I can't guess what he's wanting, poor old chap," answered he."Maybe there's some point he's not yet satisfied on maybe--but it'sno use guessing; let's be off."
"It wouldn't be better for thee to be scarce a bit, would it, andleave me to go and find out what's up? He has, perhaps, getten somecrotchet into his head thou'rt an accomplice, and is laying a trapfor thee."
"I'm not afeard!" said Jem; "I've done nought wrong, and know noughtwrong, about yon poor dead lad; though I'll own I had evil thoughtsonce on a time. Folk can't mistake long if once they'll search intothe truth. I'll go and give the old gentleman all the satisfactionin my power, now it can injure no one. I'd my reasons for wantingto see him besides, and it all falls in right enough for me."
Job was a little reassured by Jem's boldness; but still, if thetruth must be told, he wished the young man would follow his advice,and leave him to sound Mr. Carson's intentions.
Meanwhile Jane Wilson had donned her Sunday suit of black, and setoff on her errand of condolence. She felt nervous and uneasy at theidea of the moral sayings and texts which she fancied were expectedfrom visitors on occasions like the present; and prepared many agood set speech as she walked towards the house of mourning.
As she gently opened the door, Mary, sitting idly by the fire,caught a glimpse of her,--of Jem's mother,--of the early friend ofher dead parents,--of the kind minister to many a little want indays of childhood,--and rose and came and fell about her neck, withmany a sob and moan, saying--
"Oh, he's gone--he's dead--all gone--all dead, and I am left alone!"
"Poor wench! poor, poor wench!" said Jane Wilson, tenderly kissingher. "Thou'rt not alone; so donnot take on so. I'll say nought ofHim who's above, for thou knowest He is ever the orphan's friend;but think on Jem! nay, Mary, dear, think on me! I'm but a frabbitwoman at times, but I've a heart within me through all my temper,and thou shalt be as a daughter henceforward,--as mine own ewe-lamb.Jem shall not love thee better in his way, than I will in mine; andthou'lt bear with my turns, Mary, knowing that in my soul God seesthe love that shall ever be thine, if thou'lt take me for thymother, and speak no more of being alone."
Mrs. Wilson was weeping herself long before she had ended thisspeech, which was so different to all she had planned to say, andfrom all the formal piety she had laid in store for the visit; forthis was heart's piety, and needed no garnish of texts to make ittrue religion, pure and undefiled.
They sat together on the same chair, their arms encircling eachother; they wept for the same dead; they had the same hope, andtrust, and overflowing love in the living.
From that time forward, hardly a passing cloud dimmed the happyconfidence of their intercourse; even by Jem would his mother'stemper sooner be irritated than by Mary; before the latter sherepressed her occasional nervous ill-humour till the habit ofindulging it was perceptibly decreased.
Years afterwards, in conversation with Jem, he was startled by achance expression which dropped from his mother's lips; it implied aknowledge of John Barton's crime. It was many a long day since theyhad seen any Manchester people who could have revealed the secret(if indeed it was known in Manchester, against which Jem had guardedin every possible way). And he was led to inquire first as to theextent, and then as to the source of her knowledge. It was Maryherself who had told all.
For on the morning to which this chapter principally relates, asMary sat weeping, and as Mrs. Wilson comforted her by everytenderest word and caress, she revealed, to the dismayed andastonished Jane, the sting of her deep sorrow; the crime whichstained her dead father's memory.
She was quite unconscious that Jem had kept it secret from hismother; she had imagined it bruited abroad as the suspicion againsther lover had been; so word after word (dropped from her lips in thesupposition that Mrs. Wilson knew all) had told the tale andrevealed the cause of her deep anguish; deeper than is ever causedby death alone.
On large occasions like the present, Mrs. Wilson's innate generositycame out. Her weak and ailing frame imparted its irritation to herconduct in small things, and daily trifles; but she had deep andnoble sympathy with great sorrows, and even at the time that Maryspoke she allowed no expression of surprise or horror to escape herlips. She gave way to no curiosity as to the untold details; shewas as secret and trustworthy as her son himself; and if in years tocome her anger was occasionally excited against Mary, and she, onrare occasions, yielded to ill-temper against her daughter-in-law,she would upbraid her for extravagance, or stinginess, orover-dressing, or under-dressing, or too much mirth or too muchgloom, but never, never in her most uncontrolled moments did sheallude to any one of the circumstances relating to Mary's flirtationwith Harry Carson, or his murderer; and always when she spoke ofJohn Barton, named him with the respect due to his conduct beforethe last, miserable, guilty month of his life.
Therefore it came like a blow to Jem, when, after years had passedaway, he gathered his mother's knowledge of the whole affair. Fromthe day when he learnt (not without remorse) what hidden depths ofself-restraint she had in her soul, his manner to her, always tenderand respectful, became reverential; and it was more than ever aloving strife between him and Mary which should most contributetowards the happiness of the declining years of their mother.
But I am speaking of the events which have occurred only lately,while I have yet many things to tell you that happened six or sevenyears ago.
XXXVII. DETAILS CONNECTED WITH THE MURDER.
"The rich man dines, while the poor man pines, And eats his heart away; 'They teach us lies,' he sternly cries, 'Would BROTHERS do as they?'" --The Dream.
Mr. Carson stood at one of the breathing-moments of life. Theobject of the toils, the fears, and the wishes of his past years,was suddenly hidden from his sight,--vanished into the deep mysterywhich circumscribes existence. Nay, even the vengeance which he hadcherished, taken away from before his eyes, as by the hand of God.
Events like these would have startled the most thoughtless intoreflection, much more such a man as Mr. Carson, whose mind, if notenlarged, was energetic; indeed, whose very energy, having beenhitherto the cause of the employment of his powers in only onedirection, had prevented him from becoming largely andphilosophically comprehensive in his views.
But now the foundations of his past life were razed to the ground,and the place they had once occupied was sown with salt, to berebuilt no more for ever. It was like the change from this Life tothat other hidden one, when so many of the motives which haveactuated all our earthly existence, will have become more fleetingthan the shadows of a dream. With a wrench of his soul from thepast, so much of which was as nothing, and worse than nothing to himnow, Mr. Carson took some hours, after he had witnessed the death ofhis son's murderer, to consider his situation.
But suddenly, while he was
deliberating, and searching for motiveswhich should be effective to compel him to exertion and action oncemore; while he contemplated the desire after riches, socialdistinction, a name among the merchant-princes amidst whom he moved,and saw these false substances fade away into the shadows they trulyare, and one by one disappear into the grave of his son,--suddenly,I say, the thought arose within him that more yet remained to belearned about the circumstances and feelings which had prompted JohnBarton's crime; and when once this mournful curiosity was excited,it seemed to gather strength in every moment that its gratificationwas delayed. Accordingly he sent a message to summon Job Legh andJem Wilson, from whom he promised himself some elucidation of whatwas as yet unexplained; while he himself set forth to call on Mr.Bridgnorth, whom he knew to have been Jem's attorney, with aglimmering suspicion intruding on his mind, which he strove torepel, that Jem might have had some share in his son's death.
He had returned before his summoned visitors arrived; and had timeenough to recur to the evening on which John Barton had made hisconfession. He remembered with mortification how he had forgottenhis proud reserve, and his habitual concealment of his feelings, andhad laid bare his agony of grief in the presence of these two menwho were coming to see him by his desire; and he entrenched himselfbehind stiff barriers of self-control, through which he hoped noappearance of emotion would force its way in the conversation heanticipated.
Nevertheless, when the servant announced that two men were there byappointment to speak to him, and he had desired that they might beshown into the library where he sat, any watcher might haveperceived by the trembling hands, and shaking head, not only howmuch he was aged by the occurrences of the last few weeks, but alsohow much he was agitated at the thought of the impending interview.
But he so far succeeded in commanding himself at first, as to appearto Jem Wilson and Job Legh one of the hardest and most haughty menthey had ever spoken to, and to forfeit all the interest which hehad previously excited in their minds by his unreserved display ofdeep and genuine feeling.
When he had desired them to be seated, he shaded his face with hishand for an instant before speaking.
"I have been calling on Mr. Bridgnorth this morning," said he, atlast; "as I expected, he can give me but little satisfaction on somepoints respecting the occurrence on the 18th of last month which Idesire to have cleared up. Perhaps you two can tell me what I wantto know. As intimate friends of Barton's you probably know, or canconjecture a good deal. Have no scruple as to speaking the truth.What you say in this room shall never be named again by me.Besides, you are aware that the law allows no one to be tried twicefor the same offence."
He stopped for a minute, for the mere act of speaking was fatiguingto him after the excitement of the last few days.
Job Legh took the opportunity of speaking.
"I'm not going to be affronted either for myself or Jem at whatyou've just now been saying about the truth. You don't know us, andthere's an end on't; only it's as well for folk to think others goodand true until they're proved contrary. Ask what you like, sir,I'll answer for it we'll either tell truth or hold our tongues."
"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Carson, slightly bowing his head."What I wish to know was," referring to a slip of paper he held inhis hand, and shaking so much he could hardly adjust his glasses tohis eyes, "whether you, Wilson, can explain how Barton camepossessed of your gun. I believe you refused this explanation toMr. Bridgnorth?"
"I did, sir! If I had said what I knew then, I saw it wouldcriminate Barton, and so I refused telling aught. To you, sir, nowI will tell everything and anything; only it is but little. The gunwas my father's before it was mine, and long ago he and John Bartonhad a fancy for shooting at the gallery; and they used always totake this gun, and brag that though it was old-fashioned it wassure."
Jem saw with self-upbraiding pain how Mr. Carson winced at theselast words, but at each irrepressible and involuntary evidence offeeling, the hearts of the two men warmed towards him. Jem went onspeaking.
"One day in the week--I think it was on the Wednesday,--yes, itwas--it was on St. Patrick's day, I met John just coming out of ourhouse, as I were going to my dinner. Mother was out, and he'd foundno one in. He said he'd come to borrow the old gun, and that he'dhave made bold, and taken it, but it was not to be seen. Mother wasafraid of it, so after father's death (for while he were alive, sheseemed to think he could manage it) I had carried it to my own room.I went up and fetched it for John, who stood outside the door allthe time."
"What did he say he wanted it for?" asked Mr. Carson hastily.
"I don't think he spoke when I gave it him. At first he mutteredsomething about the shooting gallery, and I never doubted but thatit was for practice there, as I knew he had done years before."
Mr. Carson had strung up his frame to an attitude of uprightattention while Jem was speaking; now the tension relaxed, and hesank back in his chair, weak and powerless.
He rose up again, however, as Jem went on, anxious to give everyparticular which could satisfy the bereaved father.
"I never knew for what he wanted the gun till I was taken up,--I donot know yet why he wanted it. No one would have had me get out ofthe scrape by implicating an old friend,--my father's old friend,and the father of the girl I loved. So I refused to tell Mr.Bridgnorth aught about it, and would not have named it now to anyone but you."
Jem's face became very red at the allusion he made to Mary, but hishonest, fearless eyes had met Mr. Carson's penetrating gazeunflinchingly, and had carried conviction of his innocence andtruthfulness. Mr. Carson felt certain that he had heard all thatJem could tell. Accordingly he turned to Job Legh.
"You were in the room the whole time while Barton was speaking tome, I think?"
"Yes, sir," answered Job.
"You'll excuse my asking plain and direct questions; the informationI am gaining is really a relief to my mind, I don't know how, but itis,--will you tell me if you had any idea of Barton's guilt in thismatter before?"
"None whatever, so help me God!" said Job solemnly. "To tell truth(and axing your forgiveness, Jem), I had never got quite shut of thenotion that Jem here had done it. At times I was as clear of hisinnocence as I was of my own; and whenever I took to reasoning aboutit, I saw he could not have been the man that did it. Still I neverthought of Barton."
"And yet by his confession he must have been absent at the time,"said Mr. Carson, referring to his slip of paper.
"Ay, and for many a day after,--I can't rightly say how long. Butstill, you see, one's often blind to many a thing that lies rightunder one's nose, till it's pointed out. And till I heard what JohnBarton had to say yon night, I could not have seen what reason hehad for doing it; while in the case of Jem, any one who looked atMary Barton might have seen a cause for jealousy clear enough."
"Then you believe that Barton had no knowledge of my son'sunfortunate"--he looked at Jem--"of his attentions to Mary Barton.This young man, Wilson, has heard of them, you see."
"The person who told me said clearly she neither had, nor would tellMary's father," interposed Jem. "I don't believe he'd ever heard ofit; he weren't a man to keep still in such a matter, if he had."
"Besides," said Job, "the reason he gave on his death-bed, so tospeak, was enough; 'specially to those who knew him."
"You mean his feelings regarding the treatment of the workmen by themasters; you think he acted from motives of revenge, in consequenceof the part my son had taken in putting down the strike?"
"Well, sir," replied Job, "it's hard to say: John Barton was nota man to take counsel with people; nor did he make many words abouthis doings. So I can only judge from his way of thinking andtalking in general, never having heard him breathe a syllableconcerning this matter in particular. You see he were sadly putabout to make great riches and great poverty square with Christ'sGospel"--Job paused, in order to try and express what was clearenough in his own mind, as to the effect produced on John Barton bythe great and mocki
ng contrasts presented by the varieties of humancondition. Before he could find suitable words to explain hismeaning, Mr. Carson spoke. "You mean he was an Owenite; all forequality and community of goods, and that kind of absurdity."
"No, no! John Barton was no fool. No need to tell him that wereall men equal to-night, some would get the start by rising an hourearlier to-morrow. Nor yet did he care for goods, nor wealth--noman less, so that he could get daily bread for him and his; but whathurt him sore, and rankled in him as long as I knew him (and, sir,it rankles in many a poor man's heart far more than the want of anycreature-comforts, and puts a sting into starvation itself), wasthat those who wore finer clothes, and eat better food, and had moremoney in their pockets, kept him at arm's length, and cared notwhether his heart was sorry or glad; whether he lived or died,--whether he was bound for heaven or hell. It seemed hard to him thata heap of gold should part him and his brother so far asunder. Forhe was a loving man before he grew mad with seeing such as he wasslighted, as if Christ Himself had not been poor. At one time, I'veheard him say, he felt kindly towards every man, rich or poor,because he thought they were all men alike. But latterly he grewaggravated with the sorrows and suffering that he saw, and which hethought the masters might help if they would."
"That's the notion you've all of you got," said Mr. Carson. "Now,how in the world can we help it? We cannot regulate the demand forlabour. No man or set of men can do it. It depends on events whichGod alone can control. When there is no market for our goods, wesuffer just as much as you can do."
"Not as much, I'm sure, sir; though I'm not given to PoliticalEconomy, I know that much. I'm wanting in learning, I'm aware; butI can use my eyes. I never see the masters getting thin and haggardfor want of food; I hardly ever see them making much change in theirway of living, though I don't doubt they've got to do it in badtimes. But it's in things for show they cut short; while for suchas me, it's in things for life we've to stint. For sure, sir,you'll own it's come to a hard pass when a man would give aught inthe world for work to keep his children from starving, and can't geta bit, if he's ever so willing to labour. I'm not up to talking asJohn Barton would have done, but that's clear to me at any rate."
"My good man, just listen to me. Two men live in solitude; oneproduces loaves of bread, the other coats,--or what you will. Now,would it not be hard if the bread-producer were forced to give breadfor the coats, whether he wanted them or not, in order to furnishemployment to the other? That is the simple form of the case;you've only to multiply the numbers. There will come times of greatchanges in the occupation of thousands, when improvements inmanufactures and machinery are made. It's all nonsense talking,--itmust be so!"
Job Legh pondered a few moments.
"It's true it was a sore time for the hand-loom weavers whenpower-looms came in: them new-fangled things make a man's lifelike a lottery; and yet I'll never misdoubt that power-looms andrailways, and all such-like inventions, are the gifts of God. Ihave lived long enough, too, to see that it is a part of His plan tosend suffering to bring out a higher good; but surely it's also apart of His plan that so much of the burden of the suffering as canbe should be lightened by those whom it is His pleasure to makehappy, and content in their own circumstances. Of course it wouldtake a deal more thought and wisdom than me, or any other man has,to settle out of hand how this should be done. But I'm clear aboutthis, when God gives a blessing to be enjoyed, He gives it with aduty to be done; and the duty of the happy is to help the sufferingto bear their woe."
"Still facts have proved, and are daily proving, how much better itis for every man to be independent of help, and self-reliant," saidMr. Carson thoughtfully.
"You can never work facts as you would fixed quantities, and say,given two facts, and the product is so and so. God has given menfeelings and passions which cannot be worked into the problem,because they are for ever changing and uncertain. God has also madesome weak; not in any one way, but in all. One is weak in body,another in mind, another in steadiness of purpose, a fourth can'ttell right from wrong, and so on or if he can tell the right, hewants strength to hold by it. Now, to my thinking, them that isstrong in any of God's gifts is meant to help the weak,--be hangedto the facts! I ask your pardon, sir; I can't rightly explain themeaning that is in me. I'm like a tap as won't run, but keepsletting it out drop by drop, so that you've no notion of the forceof what's within."
Job looked and felt very sorrowful at the want of power in hiswords, while the feeling within him was so strong and clear.
"What you say is very true, no doubt," replied Mr. Carson "but howwould you bring it to bear upon the masters' conduct,--on myparticular case?" added he gravely.
"I'm not learned enough to argue. Thoughts come into my head thatI'm sure are as true as Gospel, though maybe they don't follow eachother like the Q.E.D. of a Proposition. The masters has it on theirown conscience,--you have it on yours, sir, to answer for to Godwhether you've done, and are doing all in your power to lighten theevils that seem always to hang on the trades by which you make yourfortunes. It's no business of mine, thank God. John Barton tookthe question in hand, and his answer to it was NO! Then he grewbitter, and angry, and mad; and in his madness he did a great sin,and wrought a great woe; and repented him with tears of blood, andwill go through his penance humbly and meekly in t'other place, I'llbe bound. I never seed such bitter repentance as his that lastnight."
There was a silence of many minutes. Mr. Carson had covered hisface, and seemed utterly forgetful of their presence; and yet theydid not like to disturb him by rising to leave the room.
At last he said, without meeting their sympathetic eyes--
"Thank you both for coming,--and for speaking candidly to me. Ifear, Legh, neither you nor I have convinced each other, as to thepower, or want of power, in the masters to remedy the evils the mencomplain of."
"I'm loth to vex you, sir, just now; but it was not the want ofpower I was talking on what we all feel sharpest is the want ofinclination to try and help the evils which come like blights attimes over the manufacturing places, while we see the masters canstop work and not suffer. If we saw the masters try for our sakesto find a remedy,--even if they were long about it,--even if theycould find no help, and at the end of all could only say, 'Poorfellows, our hearts are sore for ye; we've done all we could, andcan't find a cure,'--we'd bear up like men through bad times. Noone knows till they have tried, what power of bearing lies in them,if once they believe that men are caring for their sorrows and willhelp if they can. If fellow-creatures can give nought but tears andbrave words, we take our trials straight from God, and we knowenough of His love to put ourselves blind into His hands. You sayour talk has done no good. I say it has. I see the view you takeof things from the place where you stand. I can remember that, whenthe time comes for judging you; I shan't think any longer, does heact right on my views of a thing, but does he act right on his own.It has done me good in that way. I'm an old man, and may never seeyou again; but I'll pray for you, and think on you and your trials,both of your great wealth, and of your son's cruel death, many andmany a day to come; and I'll ask God to bless both to you now andfor evermore. Amen. Farewell!"
Jem had maintained a manly and dignified reserve ever since he hadmade his open statement of all he knew. Now both the men rose andbowed low, looking at Mr. Carson with the deep human interest theycould not fail to take in one who had endured and forgiven a deepinjury; and who struggled hard, as it was evident he did, to bear uplike a man under his affliction.
He bowed low in return to them. Then he suddenly came forward andshook them by the hand; and thus, without a word more, they parted.
There are stages in the contemplation and endurance of great sorrow,which endow men with the same earnestness and clearness of thoughtthat in some of old took the form of Prophecy. To those who havelarge capability of loving and suffering, united with great power offirm endurance, there comes a time in their woe, when they arelifted
out of the contemplation of their individual case into asearching inquiry into the nature of their calamity, and the remedy(if remedy there be) which may prevent its recurrence to others aswell as to themselves.
Hence the beautiful, noble efforts which are from time to timebrought to light, as being continuously made by those who have oncehung on the cross of agony, in order that others may not suffer asthey have done; one of the grandest ends which sorrow canaccomplish; the sufferer wrestling with God's messenger until ablessing is left behind, not for one alone but for generations.
It took time before the stern nature of Mr. Carson was compelled tothe recognition of this secret of comfort, and that same sternnessprevented his reaping any benefit in public estimation from theactions he performed; for the character is more easily changed thanthe habits and manners originally formed by that character, and tohis dying day Mr. Carson was considered hard and cold by those whoonly casually saw him or superficially knew him. But those who wereadmitted into his confidence were aware, that the wish that laynearest to his heart was that none might suffer from the cause fromwhich he had suffered; that a perfect understanding, and completeconfidence and love, might exist between masters and men; that thetruth might be recognised that the interests of one were theinterests of all, and, as such, required the consideration anddeliberation of all; that hence it was most desirable to haveeducated workers, capable of judging, not mere machines of ignorantmen: and to have them bound to their employers by the ties ofrespect and affection, not by mere money bargains alone; in short,to acknowledge the Spirit of Christ as the regulating law betweenboth parties.
Many of the improvements now in practice in the system of employmentin Manchester, owe their origin to short, earnest sentences spokenby Mr. Carson. Many and many yet to be carried into execution, taketheir birth from that stern, thoughtful mind, which submitted to betaught by suffering.
XXXVIII. CONCLUSION.
"Touch us gently, gentle Time! We've not proud nor soaring wings, Our ambition, our content, Lies in simple things; Humble voyagers are we O'er life's dim unsounded sea; Touch us gently, gentle Time !" --BARRY CORNWALL.
Not many days after John Barton's funeral was over, all was arrangedrespecting Jem's appointment at Toronto; and the time was fixed forhis sailing. It was to take place almost immediately: yet muchremained to be done; many domestic preparations were to be made; andone great obstacle, anticipated by both Jem and Mary, to be removed.This was the opposition they expected from Mrs. Wilson, to whom theplan had never yet been named.
They were most anxious that their home should continue ever to behers, yet they feared that her dislike to a new country might be aninsuperable objection to this. At last Jem took advantage of anevening of unusual placidity, as he sat alone with his mother justbefore going to bed, to broach the subject; and to his surprise sheacceded willingly to his proposition of her accompanying himself andhis wife.
"To be sure 'Merica is a long way to flit to; beyond London a goodbit I reckon and quite in foreign parts; but I've never had noopinion of England, ever since they could be such fools as to takeup a quiet chap like thee, and clap thee in prison. Where you go,I'll go. Perhaps in them Indian countries they'll know awell-behaved lad when they see him; ne'er speak a word more, lad,I'll go."
Their path became daily more smooth and easy; the present was clearand practicable, the future was hopeful; they had leisure of mindenough to turn to the past.
"Jem!" said Mary to him, one evening as they sat in the twilight,talking together in low happy voices till Margaret should come tokeep Mary company through the night, "Jem! you've never yet told mehow you came to know about my naughty ways with poor young Mr.Carson." She blushed for shame at the remembrance of her folly, andhid her head on his shoulder while he made answer.
"Darling, I'm almost loth to tell you; your aunt Esther told me."
"Ah, I remember! but how did she know? I was so put about thatnight I did not think of asking her. Where did you see her? I'veforgotten where she lives."
Mary said all this in so open and innocent a manner, that Jem feltsure she knew not the truth respecting Esther, and he half hesitatedto tell her. At length he replied--
"Where did you see Esther lately? When? Tell me, love, for you'venever named it before, and I can't make it out."
"Oh! it was that horrible night, which is like a dream." And shetold him of Esther's midnight visit, concluding with, "We must goand see her before we leave, though I don't rightly know where tofind her."
"Dearest Mary"--
"What, Jem?" exclaimed she, alarmed by his hesitation.
"Your poor aunt Esther has no home:--she's one of them miserablecreatures that walk the streets." And he in his turn told of hisencounter with Esther, with so many details that Mary was forced tobe convinced, although her heart rebelled against the belief.
"Jem, lad!" said she vehemently, "we must find her out--we must hunther up!" She rose as if she was going on the search there and then.
"What could we do, darling?" asked he, fondly restraining her.
"Do! Why! what could we NOT do, if we could but find her? She'snone so happy in her ways, think ye, but what she'd turn from them,if any one would lend her a helping hand. Don't hold me, Jem; thisis just the time for such as her to be out, and who knows but what Imight find her close to hand."
"Stay, Mary, for a minute; I'll go out now and search for her if youwish, though it's but a wild chase. You must not go. It would bebetter to ask the police to-morrow. But if I should find her, howcan I make her come with me? Once before she refused, and said shecould not break off her drinking ways, come what might?"
"You never will persuade her if you fear and doubt," said Mary, intears. "Hope yourself, and trust to the good that must be in her.Speak to that,--she has it in her yet,--oh, bring her home, and wewill love her so, we'll make her good."
"Yes!" said Jem, catching Mary's sanguine spirit; "she shall go toAmerica with us: and we'll help her to get rid of her sins. I'llgo now, my precious darling, and if I can't find her, it's buttrying the police to-morrow. Take care of your own sweet self,Mary," said he, fondly kissing her before he went out.
It was not to be. Jem wandered far and wide that night, but nevermet Esther. The next day he applied to the police; and at last theyrecognised under his description of her, a woman known to them underthe name of the "Butterfly," from the gaiety of her dress a year ortwo ago. By their help he traced out one of her haunts, a lowlodging-house behind Peter-street. He and his companion, akind-hearted policeman, were admitted, suspiciously enough, by thelandlady, who ushered them into a large garret where twenty orthirty people of all ages and both sexes lay and dosed away the day,choosing the evening and night for their trades of beggary,thieving, or prostitution.
"I know the Butterfly was here," said she, looking round. "She camein, the night before last, and said she had not a penny to get aplace for shelter; and that if she was far away in the country shecould steal aside and die in a copse, or a clough, like the wildanimals; but here the police would let no one alone in the streets,and she wanted a spot to die in, in peace. It's a queer sort ofpeace we have here, but that night the room was uncommon empty, andI'm not a hard-hearted woman (I wish I were, I could ha' made a goodthing out of it afore this if I were harder), so I sent her up--butshe's not here now, I think."
"Was she very bad?" asked Jem.
"Ay! nought but skin and bone, with a cough to tear her in two."
They made some inquiries, and found that in the restlessness ofapproaching death, she had longed to be once more in the open air,and had gone forth--where, no one seemed to be able to tell.Leaving many messages for her, and directions that he was to be sentfor if either the policeman or the landlady obtained any clue to herwhereabouts, Jem bent his steps towards Mary's house; for he had notseen her all that long day of search. He told her of hisproceedings and want of success; and both
were saddened at therecital, and sat silent for some time.
After awhile they began talking over their plans. In a day or two,Mary was to give up house, and go and live for a week or so with JobLegh, until the time of her marriage, which would take placeimmediately before sailing; they talked themselves back into silenceand delicious reverie. Mary sat by Jem, his arm around her waist,her head on his shoulder; and thought over the scenes which hadpassed in that home she was so soon to leave for ever.
Suddenly she felt Jem start, and started too without knowing why;she tried to see his countenance, but the shades of evening haddeepened so much she could read no expression there. It was turnedto the window; she looked and saw a white face pressed against thepanes on the outside, gazing intently into the dusky chamber. Whilethey watched, as if fascinated by the appearance, and unable tothink or stir, a film came over the bright, feverish, glitteringeyes outside, and the form sank down to the ground without astruggle of instinctive resistance.
"It is Esther!" exclaimed they, both at once. They rushed outside;and, fallen into what appeared simply a heap of white orlight-coloured clothes, fainting or dead, lay the poor crushedButterfly--the once innocent Esther. She had come (as a woundeddeer drags its heavy limbs once more to the green coolness of thelair in which it was born, there to die) to see the place familiarto her innocence, yet once again before her death. Whether she wasindeed alive or dead, they knew not now.
Job came in with Margaret, for it was bedtime. He said Esther'spulse beat a little yet. They carried her upstairs and laid her onMary's bed, not daring to undress her, lest any motion shouldfrighten the trembling life away; but it was all in vain.
Towards midnight, she opened wide her eyes and looked around on theonce familiar room; Job Legh knelt by the bed praying aloud andfervently for her, but he stopped as he saw her roused look. Shesat up in bed with a sudden convulsive motion.
"Has it been a dream, then?" asked she wildly. Then with a habit,which came like instinct even in that awful dying hour, her handsought for a locket which hung concealed in her bosom, and, findingthat, she knew all was true which had befallen her since last shelay an innocent girl on that bed.
She fell back, and spoke word never more. She held the locketcontaining her child's hair still in her hand, and once or twice shekissed it with a long soft kiss. She cried feebly and sadly as longas she had any strength to cry, and then she died.
They laid her in one grave with John Barton. And there they liewithout name, or initial, or date. Only this verse is inscribedupon the stone which covers the remains of these two wanderers.
Psalm ciii. v. 9.--"For He will not always chide, neither will Hekeep His anger for ever."
I see a long, low, wooden house, with room enough and to spare. Theold primeval trees are felled and gone for many a mile around; onealone remains to overshadow the gable-end of the cottage. There isa garden around the dwelling, and far beyond that stretches anorchard. The glory of an Indian summer is over all, making theheart leap at the sight of its gorgeous beauty.
At the door of the house, looking towards the town, stands Mary,watching the return of her husband from his daily work; and whileshe watches, she listens, smiling--
"Clap hands, daddy comes, With his pocket full of plums, And a cake for Johnnie."
Then comes a crow of delight from Johnnie. Then his grandmothercarries him to the door, and glories in seeing him resist hismother's blandishments to cling to her.
"English letters! 'Twas that made me so late!"
"O Jem, Jem! don't hold them so tight! What do they say?"
"Why, some good news. Come, give a guess what it is."
"Oh, tell me! I cannot guess," said Mary.
"Then you give it up, do you? What do you say, mother?"
Jane Wilson thought a moment.
"Will and Margaret are married?" asked she.
"Not exactly,--but very near. The old woman has twice the spirit ofthe young one. Come, Mary, give a guess?"
He covered his little boy's eyes with his hands for an instant,significantly, till the baby pushed them down, saying in hisimperfect way--
"Tan't see."
"There now! Johnnie can see. Do you guess, Mary?"
"They've done something to Margaret to give her back her sight!"exclaimed she.
"They have. She has been couched, and can see as well as ever. Sheand Will are to be married on the twenty-fifth of this month, andhe's bringing her out next voyage; and Job Legh talks of comingtoo,--not to see you, Mary,--nor you, mother,--nor you, my littlehero" (kissing him), "but to try and pick up a few specimens ofCanadian insects, Will says. All the compliment is to the earwigs,you see, mother!"
"Dear Job Legh!" said Mary, softly and seriously.
End
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