III. JOHN BARTONS GREAT TROUBLE.
"But when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed--she had Another morn than ours." --HOOD.
In the middle of that same night a neighbour of the Bartons wasroused from her sound, well-earned sleep, by a knocking, which hadat first made part of her dream; but starting up, as soon as shebecame convinced of its reality, she opened the window, and askedwho was there?
"Me--John Barton," answered he, in a voice tremulous with agitation."My missis is in labour, and, for the love of God, step in while Irun for th' doctor, for she's fearful bad."
While the woman hastily dressed herself, leaving the window stillopen, she heard the cries of agony, which resounded in the littlecourt in the stillness of the night. In less than five minutes shewas standing by Mrs. Barton's bedside, relieving the terrified Mary,who went about where she was told like an automaton her eyestearless, her face calm, though deadly pale, and uttering no sound,except when her teeth chattered for very nervousness.
The cries grew worse.
The doctor was very long in hearing the repeated rings at hisnight-bell, and still longer in understanding who it was that madethis sudden call upon his services; and then he begged Barton justto wait while he dressed himself, in order that no time might belost in finding the court and house. Barton absolutely stamped withimpatience, outside the doctor's door, before he came down; andwalked so fast homewards, that the medical man several times askedhim to go slower.
"Is she so very bad?" asked he.
"Worse, much worser than I ever saw her before," replied John.
No! she was not--she was at peace. The cries were still for ever.John had no time for listening. He opened the latched door, stayednot to light a candle for the mere ceremony of showing his companionup the stairs, so well known to himself; but, in two minutes, was inthe room, where lay the dead wife, whom he had loved with all thepower of his strong heart. The doctor stumbled upstairs by thefire-light, and met the awe-struck look of the neighbour, which atonce told him the state of things. The room was still, as he, withhabitual tiptoe step, approached the poor frail body, that nothingnow could more disturb. Her daughter knelt by the bedside, her faceburied in the clothes, which were almost crammed into her mouth, tokeep down the choking sobs. The husband stood like one stupefied.The doctor questioned the neighbour in whispers, and thenapproaching Barton, said, "You must go downstairs. This is a greatshock, but bear it like a man. Go down."
He went mechanically and sat down on the first chair. He had nohope. The look of death was too clear upon her face. Still, whenhe heard one or two unusual noises, the thought burst on him that itmight only be a trance, a fit, a--he did not well know what--but notdeath! Oh, not death! And he was starting up to go up-stairsagain, when the doctor's heavy cautious creaking footstep was heardon the stairs. Then he knew what it really was in the chamberabove.
"Nothing could have saved her--there has been some shock to thesystem"--and so he went on, but to unheeding ears, which yetretained his words to ponder on words not for immediate use inconveying sense, but to be laid by, in the store-house of memory,for a more convenient season. The doctor, seeing the state of thecase, grieved for the man; and, very sleepy, thought it best to go,and accordingly wished him good-night--but there was no answer, sohe let himself out; and Barton sat on, like a stock or a stone, sorigid, so still. He heard the sounds above, too, and knew what theymeant. He heard the stiff unseasoned drawer, in which his wife kepther clothes, pulled open. He saw the neighbour come down, andblunder about in search of soap and water. He knew well what shewanted, and WHY she wanted them, but he did not speak nor offer tohelp. At last she went, with some kindly meant words (a text ofcomfort, which fell upon a deafened ear), and something about"Mary," but which Mary, in his bewildered state, he could not tell.
He tried to realise it--to think it possible. And then his mindwandered off to other days, to far different times. He thought oftheir courtship; of his first seeing her, an awkward beautifulrustic, far too shiftless for the delicate factory work to which shewas apprenticed; of his first gift to her, a bead necklace, whichhad long ago been put by, in one of the deep drawers of the dresser,to be kept for Mary. He wondered if it was there yet, and with astrange curiosity he got up to feel for it; for the fire by thistime was well nigh out, and candle he had none. His groping handfell on the piled-up tea-things, which at his desire she had leftunwashed till morning--they were all so tired. He was reminded ofone of the daily little actions, which acquire such power when theyhave been performed for the last time by one we love. He began tothink over his wife's daily round of duties: and something in theremembrance that these would never more be done by her, touched thesource of tears, and he cried aloud. Poor Mary, meanwhile, hadmechanically helped the neighbour in all the last attentions to thedead; and when she was kissed and spoken to soothingly, tears stolequietly down her cheeks; but she reserved the luxury of a full burstof grief till she should be alone. She shut the chamber-doorsoftly, after the neighbour was gone, and then shook the bed bywhich she knelt with her agony of sorrow. She repeated, over andover again, the same words; the same vain, unanswered address to herwho was no more. "Oh, mother! mother, are you really dead! Oh,mother, mother!"
At last she stopped, because it flashed across her mind that herviolence of grief might disturb her father. All was still below.She looked on the face so changed, and yet so strangely like. Shebent down to kiss it. The cold unyielding flesh struck a shudder toher heart, and hastily obeying her impulse, she grasped the candle,and opened the door. Then she heard the sobs of her father's grief;and quickly, quietly stealing down the steps, she knelt by him, andkissed his hand. He took no notice at first; for his burst of griefwould not be controlled. But when her shriller sobs, her terrifiedcries (which she could not repress), rose upon his ear, he checkedhimself.
"Child, we must be all to one another, now SHE is gone," whisperedhe.
"Oh, father, what can I do for you? Do tell me! I'll do anything."
"I know thou wilt. Thou must not fret thyself ill, that's the firstthing I ask. Thou must leave me and go to bed now, like a good girlas thou art."
"Leave you, father! oh, don't say so."
"Ay, but thou must: thou must go to bed, and try and sleep;thou'lt have enough to do and to bear, poor wench, tomorrow."
Mary got up, kissed her father, and sadly went upstairs to thelittle closet, where she slept. She thought it was of no useundressing, for that she could never, never sleep, so threw herselfon her bed in her clothes, and before ten minutes had passed away,the passionate grief of youth had subsided into sleep.
Barton had been roused by his daughter's entrance, both from hisstupor and from his uncontrollable sorrow. He could think on whatwas to be done, could plan for the funeral, could calculate thenecessity of soon returning to his work, as the extravagance of thepast night would leave them short of money if he long remained awayfrom the mill. He was in a club, so that money was provided for theburial. These things settled in his own mind, he recalled thedoctor's words, and bitterly thought of the shock his poor wife hadso recently had, in the mysterious disappearance of her cherishedsister. His feelings towards Esther almost amounted to curses. Itwas she who had brought on all this sorrow. Her giddiness, herlightness of conduct had wrought this woe. His previous thoughtsabout her had been tinged with wonder and pity, but now he hardenedhis heart against her for ever.
One of the good influences over John Barton's life had departed thatnight. One of the ties which bound him down to the gentlehumanities of earth was loosened, and henceforward the neighboursall remarked he was a changed man. His gloom and his sternnessbecame habitual instead of occasional. He was more obstinate. Butnever to Mary. Between the father and the daughter there existed infull force that mysterious bond which unites those who have beenloved by one who is now dead and gone. While he was har
sh andsilent to others, he humoured Mary with tender love: she had moreof her own way than is common in any rank with girls of her age.Part of this was the necessity of the case; for of course all themoney went through her hands, and the household arrangements wereguided by her will and pleasure. But part was her father'sindulgence, for he left her, with full trust in her unusual senseand spirit, to choose her own associates, and her own times forseeing them.
With all this, Mary had not her father's confidence in the matterswhich now began to occupy him, heart and soul; she was aware that hehad joined clubs, and become an active member of the Trades' Union,but it was hardly likely that a girl of Mary's age (even when two orthree years had elapsed since her mother's death) should care muchfor the differences between the employers and the employed--aneternal subject for agitation in the manufacturing districts, which,however it may be lulled for a time, is sure to break forth againwith fresh violence at any depression of trade, showing that in itsapparent quiet, the ashes had still smouldered in the breasts of afew.
Among these few was John Barton. At all times it is a bewilderingthing to the poor weaver to see his employer removing from house tohouse, each one grander than the last, till he ends in building onemore magnificent than all, or withdraws his money from the concern,or sells his mill, to buy an estate in the country, while all thetime the weaver, who thinks he and his fellows are the real makersof this wealth, is struggling on for bread for his children, throughthe vicissitudes of lowered wages, short hours, fewer handsemployed, etc. And when he knows trade is bad, and could understand(at least partially) that there are not buyers enough in the marketto purchase the goods already made, and consequently that there isno demand for more; when he would bear and endure much withoutcomplaining, could he also see that his employers were bearing theirshare; he is, I say, bewildered and (to use his own word)"aggravated" to see that all goes on just as usual with themillowners. Large houses are still occupied, while spinners' andweavers' cottages stand empty, because the families that once filledthem are obliged to live in rooms or cellars. Carriages still rollalong the streets, concerts are still crowded by subscribers, theshops for expensive luxuries still find daily customers, while theworkman loiters away his unemployed time in watching these things,and thinking of the pale, uncomplaining wife at home, and thewailing children asking in vain for enough of food--of the sinkinghealth, of the dying life of those near and dear to him. Thecontrast is too great. Why should he alone suffer from bad times?
I know that this is not really the case; and I know what is thetruth in such matters; but what I wish to impress is what theworkman feels and thinks. True, that with child-like improvidence,good times will often dissipate his grumbling, and make him forgetall prudence and foresight.
But there are earnest men among these people, men who have enduredwrongs without complaining, but without ever forgetting or forgivingthose whom (they believe) have caused all this woe.
Among these was John Barton. His parents had suffered; his motherhad died from absolute want of the necessaries of life. He himselfwas a good, steady workman, and, as such, pretty certain of steadyemployment. But he spent all he got with the confidence (you mayalso call it improvidence) of one who was willing, and believedhimself able, to supply all his wants by his own exertions. Andwhen his master suddenly failed, and all hands in the mill wereturned back, one Tuesday morning, with the news that Mr. Hunter hadstopped, Barton had only a few shillings to rely on but he had goodheart of being employed at some other mill, and accordingly, beforereturning home, he spent some hours in going from factory tofactory, asking for work. But at every mill was some sign ofdepression of trade! some were working short hours, some wereturning off hands, and for weeks Barton was out of work, living oncredit. It was during this time that his little son, the apple ofhis eye, the cynosure of all his strong power of love, fell ill ofthe scarlet fever. They dragged him through the crisis, but hislife hung on a gossamer thread. Everything, the doctor said,depended on good nourishment, on generous living, to keep up thelittle fellow's strength, in the prostration in which the fever hadleft him. Mocking words! when the commonest food in the house wouldnot furnish one little meal. Barton tried credit; but it was wornout at the little provision shops, which were now suffering in theirturn. He thought it would be no sin to steal, and would havestolen; but he could not get the opportunity in the few days thechild lingered. Hungry himself, almost to an animal pitch ofravenousness, but with the bodily pain swallowed up in anxiety forhis little sinking lad, he stood at one of the shop windows whereall edible luxuries are displayed; haunches of venison, Stiltoncheeses, moulds of jelly--all appetising sights to the commonpasser-by. And out of this shop came Mrs. Hunter! She crossed toher carriage, followed by the shopman loaded with purchases for aparty. The door was quickly slammed to, and she drove away; andBarton returned home with a bitter spirit of wrath in his heart tosee his only boy a corpse!
You can fancy, now, the hoards of vengeance in his heart against theemployers. For there are never wanting those who, either in speechor in print, find it their interest to cherish such feelings in theworking classes; who know how and when to rouse the dangerous powerat their command; and who use their knowledge with unrelentingpurpose to either party.
So while Mary took her own way, growing more spirited every day, andgrowing in her beauty too, her father was chairman at many a Trades'Union meeting; a friend of delegates, and ambitious of being adelegate himself; a Chartist, and ready to do anything for hisorder.
But now times were good; and all these feelings were theoretical,not practical. His most practical thought was getting Maryapprenticed to a dressmaker; for he had never left off disliking afactory life for a girl, on more accounts than one.
Mary must do something. The factories being, as I said, out of thequestion, there were two things open--going out to service and thedressmaking business; and against the first of these, Mary setherself with all the force of her strong will. What that will mighthave been able to achieve had her father been against her, I cannottell; but he disliked the idea of parting with her, who was thelight of his hearth; the voice of his otherwise silent home.Besides, with his ideas and feelings towards the higher classes, heconsidered domestic servitude as a species of slavery; a pamperingof artificial wants on the one side, a giving up of every right ofleisure by day and quiet rest by night on the other. How far hisstrong exaggerated feelings had any foundation in truth, it is foryou to judge. I am afraid that Mary's determination not to go toservice arose from far less sensible thoughts on the subject thanher father's. Three years of independence of action (since hermother's death such a time had now elapsed) had little inclined herto submit to rules as to hours and associates, to regulate her dressby a mistress's ideas of propriety, to lose the dear feminineprivileges of gossiping with a merry neighbour, and working nightand day to help one who was sorrowful. Besides all this, thesayings of her absent, the mysterious aunt Esther, had anunacknowledged influence over Mary. She knew she was very pretty;the factory people as they poured from the mills, and in theirfreedom told the truth (whatever it might be) to every passer-by,had early let Mary into the secret of her beauty. If their remarkshad fallen on an unheeding ear, there were always young men enough,in a different rank from her own, who were willing to compliment thepretty weaver's daughter as they met her in the streets. Besides,trust a girl of sixteen for knowing it well if she is pretty;concerning her plainness she may be ignorant. So with thisconsciousness she had early determined that her beauty should makeher a lady; the rank she coveted the more for her father's abuse;the rank to which she firmly believed her lost aunt Esther hadarrived. Now, while a servant must often drudge and be dirty, mustbe known as his servant by all who visited at her master's house, adressmaker's apprentice must (or so Mary thought) be always dressedwith a certain regard to appearances; must never soil her hands, andneed never redden or dirty her face with hard labour. Before mytelling you so truly what folly Mary felt or thought
, injures herwithout redemption in your opinion, think what are the silly fanciesof sixteen years of age in every class, and under all circumstances.The end of all the thoughts of father and daughter was, as I saidbefore, Mary was to be a dressmaker; and her ambition prompted herunwilling father to apply at all the first establishments, to knowon what terms of painstaking and zeal his daughter might be admittedinto ever so humble a workwoman's situation. But high premiums wereasked at all; poor man! he might have known that without giving up aday's work to ascertain the fact. He would have been indignant,indeed, had he known that if Mary had accompanied him, the casemight have been rather different, as her beauty would have made herdesirable as a show-woman. Then he tried second-rate places; at allthe payment of a sum of money was necessary, and money he had none.Disheartened and angry, he went home at night, declaring it was timelost; that dressmaking was at all events a troublesome business, andnot worth learning. Mary saw that the grapes were sour, and thenext day she set out herself, as her father could not afford to loseanother day's work; and before night (as yesterday's experience hadconsiderably lowered her ideas) she had engaged herself asapprentice (so called, though there were no deeds or indentures tothe bond) to a certain Miss Simmonds, milliner and dressmaker, in arespectable little street leading off Ardwick Green, where herbusiness was duly announced in gold letters on a black ground,enclosed in a bird's-eye maple frame, and stuck in the front-parlourwindow; where the workwomen were called "her young ladies"; andwhere Mary was to work for two years without any remuneration, onconsideration of being taught the business; and where afterwards shewas to dine and have tea, with a small quarterly salary (paidquarterly because so much more genteel than by the week), a VERYsmall one, divisible into a minute weekly pittance. In summer shewas to be there by six, bringing her day's meals during the firsttwo years; in winter she was not to come till after breakfast. Hertime for returning home at night must always depend upon thequantity of work Miss Simmonds had to do.
And Mary was satisfied; and seeing this, her father was contentedtoo, although his words were grumbling and morose; but Mary knew hisways, and coaxed and planned for the future so cheerily, that bothwent to bed with easy if not happy hearts.