VI. POVERTY AND DEATH.
"How little can the rich man know Of what the poor man feels, When Want, like some dark demon foe, Nearer and nearer steals!
"HE never tramp'd the weary round, A stroke of work to gain, And sicken'd at the dreaded sound Which tells he seeks in vain.
"Foot-sore, heart-sore, HE never came Back through the winter's wind, To a dank cellar, there no flame, No light, no food, to find.
"HE never saw his darlings lie Shivering, the flags their bed HE never heard that maddening cry, 'Daddy, a bit of bread!'" --MANCHESTER SONG.
John Barton was not far wrong in his idea that the Messrs. Carsonwould not be over-much grieved for the consequences of the fire intheir mill. They were well insured; the machinery lacked theimprovements of late years, and worked but poorly in comparison withthat which might now be procured. Above all, trade was very slack;cottons could find no market, and goods lay packed and piled in manya warehouse. The mills were merely worked to keep the machinery,human and metal, in some kind of order and readiness for bettertimes. So this was an excellent opportunity, Messrs. Carsonthought, for refitting their factory with first-rate improvements,for which the insurance money would amply pay. They were in nohurry about the business, however. The weekly drain of wages givenfor labour, useless in the present state of the market, was stopped.The partners had more leisure than they had known for years; andpromised wives and daughters all manner of pleasant excursions, assoon as the weather should become more genial. It was a pleasantthing to be able to lounge over breakfast with a review or newspaperin hand; to have time for becoming acquainted with agreeable andaccomplished daughters, on whose education no money had been spared,but whose fathers, shut up during a long day with calicoes andaccounts, had so seldom had leisure to enjoy their daughters'talents. There were happy family evenings, now that the men ofbusiness had time for domestic enjoyments. There is another side tothe picture. There were homes over which Carsons' fire threw adeep, terrible gloom; the homes of those who would fain work, and noman gave unto them--the homes of those to whom leisure was a curse.There, the family music was hungry wails, when week after weekpassed by, and there was no work to be had, and consequently nowages to pay for the bread the children cried aloud for in theiryoung impatience of suffering. There was no breakfast to loungeover; their lounge was taken in bed, to try and keep warmth in themthat bitter March weather, and, by being quiet, to deaden thegnawing wolf within. Many a penny that would have gone little wayenough in oatmeal or potatoes, bought opium to still the hungrylittle ones, and make them forget their uneasiness in heavy troubledsleep. It was mother's mercy. The evil and the good of our naturecame out strongly then. There were desperate fathers; there werebitter-tongued mothers (O God! what wonder!); there were recklesschildren; the very closest bonds of nature were snapt in that timeof trial and distress. There was Faith such as the rich can neverimagine on earth; there was "Love strong as death"; and self-denial,among rude, coarse men, akin to that of Sir Philip Sidney's mostglorious deed. The vices of the poor sometimes astound us HERE; butwhen the secrets of all hearts shall be made known, their virtueswill astound us in far greater degree. Of this I am certain.
As the cold, bleak spring came on (spring, in name alone), andconsequently as trade continued dead, other mills shortened hours,turned off hands, and finally stopped work altogether.
Barton worked short hours. Wilson, of course, being a hand inCarsons' factory, had no work at all. But his son, working at anengineer's, and a steady man, obtained wages enough to maintain allthe family in a careful way. Still it preyed on Wilson's mind to beso long indebted to his son. He was out of spirits, and depressed.Barton was morose, and soured towards mankind as a body, and therich in particular. One evening, when the clear light at sixo'clock contrasted strangely with the Christmas cold, and when thebitter wind piped down every entry, and through every cranny, Bartonsat brooding over his stinted fire, and listening for Mary's step,in unacknowledged trust that her presence would cheer him. The doorwas opened, and Wilson came breathless in.
"You've not got a bit o' money by you, Barton?" asked he.
"Not I; who has now, I'd like to know. Whatten you want it for?"
"I donnot* want it for mysel', tho' we've none to spare. But don yeknow Ben Davenport as worked at Carsons? He's down wi' the fever,and ne'er a stick o' fire nor a cowd** potato in the house."
*"Don" is constantly used in Lancashire for "do"; as it was by our older writers. "And that may non Hors DON."--SIR J. MANDEVILLE. "But for th' entent to DON this sinne."--CHAUCER. **Cowd; cold. Teut., kaud. Dutch, koud.
"I han got no money, I tell ye," said Barton. Wilson lookeddisappointed. Barton tried not to be interested, but he could nothelp it in spite of his gruffness. He rose, and went to thecupboard (his wife's pride long ago). There lay the remains of hisdinner, hastily put by ready for supper. Bread, and a slice of coldfat boiled bacon. He wrapped them in his handkerchief, put them inthe crown of his hat, and said, "Come, let us be going."
"Going--art thou going to work this time o' day?"
"No, stupid, to be sure not. Going to see the chap thou spoke on."So they put on their hats and set out. On the way Wilson saidDavenport was a good fellow, though too much of the Methodee; thathis children were too young to work, but not too young to be coldand hungry; that they had sunk lower and lower, and pawned thingafter thing, and that they now lived in a cellar in Berry Street,off Store Street. Barton growled inarticulate words of nobenevolent import to a large class of mankind, and so they wentalong till they arrived in Berry Street. It was unpaved: and downthe middle a gutter forced its way, every now and then forming poolsin the holes with which the street abounded. Never was the oldEdinburgh cry of Gardez l'eau! more necessary than in this street.As they passed, women from their doors tossed household slops ofEVERY description into the gutter; they ran into the next pool,which overflowed and stagnated. Heaps of ashes were thestepping-stones, on which the passer-by, who cared in the least forcleanliness, took care not to put his foot. Our friends were notdainty, but even they picked their way, till they got to some stepsleading down to a small area, where a person standing would have hishead about one foot below the level of the street, and might at thesame time, without the least motion of his body, touch the window ofthe cellar and the damp muddy wall right opposite. You went downone step even from the foul area into the cellar in which a familyof human beings lived. It was very dark inside. The window-panes,many of them, were broken and stuffed with rags, which was reasonenough for the dusky light that pervaded the place even at midday.After the account I have given of the state of the street, no onecan be surprised that on going into the cellar inhabited byDavenport, the smell was so foetid as almost to knock the two mendown. Quickly recovering themselves, as those inured to such thingsdo, they began to penetrate the thick darkness of the place, and tosee three or four little children rolling on the damp, nay wet brickfloor, through which the stagnant, filthy moisture of the streetoozed up; the fire-place was empty and black; the wife sat on herhusband's lair, and cried in the dark loneliness.
"See, missis, I'm back again.--Hold your noise, children, and don'tmither* your mammy for bread; here's a chap as has got some foryou."
*Mither; to trouble and perplex. "I'm welly mithered"--I'm well-nigh crazed.
In that dim light, which was darkness to strangers, they clusteredround Barton, and tore from him the food he had brought with him.It was a large hunch of bread, but it vanished in an instant.
"We mun do summut for 'em," said he to Wilson. "Yo stop here, andI'll be back in half-an-hour."
So he strode, and ran, and hurried home. He emptied into theever-useful pocket-handkerchief the little meal remaining in themug. Mary would have her tea at Miss Simmonds'; her food for theday was safe. Then he went upstairs for his b
etter coat, and hisone, gay red-and-yellow silk pocket-handkerchief--his jewels, hisplate, his valuables, these were. He went to the pawn-shop; hepawned them for five shillings; he stopped not, nor stayed, till hewas once more in London Road, within five minutes' walk of BerryStreet--then he loitered in his gait, in order to discover the shopshe wanted. He bought meat, and a loaf of bread, candles, chips, andfrom a little retail yard he purchased a couple of hundredweights ofcoal. Some money still remained--all destined for them, but he didnot yet know how best to spend it. Food, light, and warmth, he hadinstantly seen were necessary; for luxuries he would wait. Wilson'seyes filled with tears when he saw Barton enter with his purchases.He understood it all, and longed to be once more in work that hemight help in some of these material ways, without feeling that hewas using his son's money. But though "silver and gold he hadnone," he gave heart-service and love--works of far more value. Norwas John Barton behind in these. "The fever" was (as it usually isin Manchester) of a low, putrid, typhoid kind; brought on bymiserable living, filthy neighbourhood, and great depression of mindand body. It is virulent, malignant, and highly infectious. Butthe poor are fatalists with regard to infection! and well for themit is so, for in their crowded dwellings no invalid can be isolated.Wilson asked Barton if he thought he should catch it, and waslaughed at for his idea.
The two men, rough, tender nurses as they were, lighted the fire,which smoked and puffed into the room as if it did not know the wayup the damp, unused chimney. The very smoke seemed purifying andhealthy in the thick clammy air. The children clamoured again forbread; but this time Barton took a piece first to the poor,helpless, hopeless woman, who still sat by the side of her husband,listening to his anxious miserable mutterings. She took the bread,when it was put into her hand, and broke a bit, but could not eat.She was past hunger. She fell down on the floor with a heavyunresisting bang. The men looked puzzled. "She's wellnighclemmed," said Barton. "Folk do say one mustn't give clemmed peoplemuch to eat; but, bless us, she'll eat nought."
"I'll tell yo what I'll do," said Wilson. "I'll take these two biglads, as does nought but fight, home to my missis for tonight, andI'll get a jug o' tea. Them women always does best with tea, andsuch-like slop."
So Barton was now left alone with a little child, crying (when ithad done eating) for mammy; with a fainting, dead-like woman; andwith the sick man, whose mutterings were rising up to screams andshrieks of agonised anxiety. He carried the woman to the fire, andchafed her hands. He looked around for something to raise her head.There was literally nothing but some loose bricks. However, thosehe got; and taking off his coat he covered them with it as well ashe could. He pulled her feet to the fire, which now began to emitsome faint heat. He looked round for water, but the poor woman hadbeen too weak to drag herself out to the distant pump, and waterthere was none. He snatched the child, and ran up the area-steps tothe room above, and borrowed their only saucepan with some water init. Then he began, with the useful skill of a working-man, to makesome gruel; and when it was hastily made, he seized a battered irontable-spoon (kept when many other little things had been sold in alot, in order to feed baby), and with it he forced one or two dropsbetween her clenched teeth. The mouth opened mechanically toreceive more, and gradually she revived. She sat up and lookedround; and recollecting all, fell down again in weak and passivedespair. Her little child crawled to her, and wiped with itsfingers the thick-coming tears which she now had strength to weep.It was now high time to attend to the man. He lay on straw, so dampand mouldy, no dog would have chosen it in preference to flags; overit was a piece of sacking, coming next to his worn skeleton of abody; above him was mustered every article of clothing that could bespared by mother or children this bitter weather; and in addition tohis own, these might have given as much warmth as one blanket, couldthey have been kept on him; but as he restlessly tossed to and fro,they fell off and left him shivering in spite of the burning heat ofhis skin. Every now and then he started up in his naked madness,looking like the prophet of woe in the fearful plague-picture; buthe soon fell again in exhaustion, and Barton found he must beclosely watched, lest in these falls he should injure himselfagainst the hard brick floor. He was thankful when Wilsonre-appeared, carrying in both hands a jug of steaming tea, intendedfor the poor wife; but when the delirious husband saw drink, hesnatched at it with animal instinct, with a selfishness he had nevershown in health.
Then the two men consulted together. It seemed decided, without aword being spoken on the subject, that both should spend the nightwith the forlorn couple; that was settled. But could no doctor behad? In all probability, no; the next day an Infirmary order mustbe begged, but meanwhile the only medical advice they could havemust be from a druggist's. So Barton (being the moneyed man) setout to find a shop in London Road.
It is a pretty sight to walk through a street with lighted shops;the gas is so brilliant, the display of goods so much more vividlyshown than by day, and of all shops a druggist's looks the most likethe tales of our childhood, from Aladdin's garden of enchantedfruits to the charming Rosamond with her purple jar. No suchassociations had Barton yet he felt the contrast between thewell-filled, well-lighted shops and the dim gloomy cellar, and itmade him moody that such contrasts should exist. They are themysterious problem of life to more than him. He wondered if any inall the hurrying crowd had come from such a house of mourning. Hethought they all looked joyous, and he was angry with them. But hecould not, you cannot, read the lot of those who daily pass you byin the street. How do you know the wild romances of their lives;the trials, the temptations they are even now enduring, resisting,sinking under? You may be elbowed one instant by the girl desperatein her abandonment, laughing in mad merriment with her outwardgesture, while her soul is longing for the rest of the dead, andbringing itself to think of the cold flowing river as the only mercyof God remaining to her here. You may pass the criminal, meditatingcrimes at which you will to-morrow shudder with horror as you readthem. You may push against one, humble and unnoticed, the last uponearth, who in heaven will for ever be in the immediate light ofGod's countenance. Errands of mercy--errands of sin--did you everthink where all the thousands of people you daily meet are bound?Barton's was an errand of mercy; but the thoughts of his heart weretouched by sin, by bitter hatred of the happy, whom he, for thetime, confounded with the selfish.
He reached a druggist's shop, and entered. The druggist (whosesmooth manners seemed to have been salved over with his ownspermaceti) listened attentively to Barton's description ofDavenport's illness; concluded it was typhus fever, very prevalentin that neighbourhood; and proceeded to make up a bottle ofmedicine, sweet spirits of nitre, or some such innocent potion, verygood for slight colds, but utterly powerless to stop, for aninstant, the raging fever of the poor man it was intended torelieve. He recommended the same course they had previouslydetermined to adopt, applying the next morning for an Infirmaryorder; and Barton left the shop with comfortable faith in the physicgiven him; for men of his class, if they believe in physic at all,believe that every description is equally efficacious.
Meanwhile, Wilson had done what he could at Davenport's home. Hehad soothed, and covered the man many a time; he had fed and hushedthe little child, and spoken tenderly to the woman, who lay still inher weakness and her weariness. He had opened a door, but only foran instant; it led into a back cellar, with a grating instead of awindow, down which dropped the moisture from pigsties, and worseabominations. It was not paved; the floor was one mass of badsmelling mud. It had never been used, for there was not an articleof furniture in it; nor could a human being, much less a pig, havelived there many days. Yet the "back apartment" made a differencein the rent. The Davenports paid threepence more for having tworooms. When he turned round again, he saw the woman suckling thechild from her dry, withered breast.
"Surely the lad is weaned!" exclaimed he, in surprise. "Why, howold is he?"
"Going on two year," she faintly answered. "But, oh! it kee
ps himquiet when I've nought else to gi' him, and he'll get a bit of sleeplying there, if he's getten nought beside. We han done our best togi' the childer* food, howe'er we pinch ourselves."
*Wickliffe uses "childre" in his Apology, page 26.
"Han** ye had no money fra' th' town?"
**"What concord HAN light and dark."--SPENSER.
"No; my master is Buckinghamshire born; and he's feared the townwould send him back to his parish, if he went to th' board; so we'vejust borne on in hope o' better times. But I think they'll nevercome in my day," and the poor woman began her weak high-pitched cryagain.
"Here, sup* this drop o' gruel, and then try and get a bit o' sleep.John and I will watch by your master to-night."
*"And they SOUPE the brothe thereof."--SIR J. MANDEVILLE.
"God's blessing be on you."
She finished the gruel, and fell into a deep sleep. Wilson coveredher with his coat as well as he could, and tried to move lightly,for fear of disturbing her; but there need have been no such dread,for her sleep was profound and heavy with exhaustion. Once only sheroused to pull the coat round her little child.
And now Wilson's care, and Barton's to boot, was wanted to restrainthe wild mad agony of the fevered man. He started up, he yelled, heseemed infuriated by overwhelming anxiety. He cursed and swore,which surprised Wilson, who knew his piety in health, and who didnot know the unbridled tongue of delirium. At length he seemedexhausted, and fell asleep; and Barton and Wilson drew near thefire, and talked together in whispers. They sat on the floor, forchairs there were none; the sole table was an old tub turned upsidedown. They put out the candle and conversed by the flickeringfirelight.
"Han yo known this chap long?" asked Barton.
"Better nor three year. He's worked wi' Carsons that long, and werealways a steady, civil-spoken fellow, though, as I said afore,somewhat of a Methodee. I wish I'd getten a letter he'd sent hismissis, a week or two agone, when he were on tramp for work. It didmy heart good to read it; for, yo see, I were a bit grumbling mysel;it seemed hard to be sponging on Jem, and taking a' his flesh-meatmoney to buy bread for me and them as I ought to be keeping. But yoknow, though I can earn nought, I mun eat summut. Well, as I telledye, I were grumbling, when she" (indicating the sleeping woman by anod) "brought me Ben's letter, for she could na' read hersel. Itwere as good as Bible-words; ne'er a word o' repining; a' about Godbeing our Father, and that we mun bear patiently whate'er He sends."
"Don ye think He's th' masters' Father, too? I'd be loth to have'em for brothers."
"Eh, John! donna talk so; sure there's many and many a master asgood or better nor us."
"If you think so, tell me this. How comes it they're rich, andwe're poor? I'd like to know that. Han they done as they'd be doneby for us?"
But Wilson was no arguer; no speechifier, as he would have calledit. So Barton, seeing he was likely to have it his own way, wenton.
"You'll say (at least many a one does), they'n* getten capital an'we'n getten none. I say, our labour's our capital, and we ought todraw interest on that. They get interest on their capital somehowa' this time, while ourn is lying idle, else how could they all liveas they do? Besides, there's many on 'em has had nought to beginwi'; there's Carsons, and Duncombes, and Mengies, and many another,as comed into Manchester with clothes to their back, and that wereall, and now they're worth their tens of thousands, a' getten out ofour labour; why, the very land as fetched but sixty pound twentyyear agone is now worth six hundred, and that, too, is owing to ourlabour; but look at yo, and see me, and poor Davenport yonder;whatten better are we? They'n screwed us down to the lowest peg, inorder to make their great big fortunes, and build their great bighouses, and we, why we're just clemming, many and many of us. Canyou say there's nought wrong in this?"
*"They'n," contraction of "they han," they have.
"Well, Barton, I'll not gainsay ye. But Mr. Carson spoke to meafter th' fire, and says he, 'I shall ha' to retrench, and be verycareful in my expenditure during these bad times, I assure ye'; soyo see th' masters suffer too."
"Han they ever seen a child o' their'n die for want o' food?" askedBarton, in a low deep voice.
"I donnot mean," continued he, "to say as I'm so badly off. I'dscorn to speak for mysel; but when I see such men as Davenport theredying away, for very clemming, I cannot stand it. I've but gottenMary, and she keeps herself pretty much. I think we'll ha' to giveup housekeeping; but that I donnot mind."
And in this kind of talk the night, the long heavy night ofwatching, wore away. As far as they could judge, Davenportcontinued in the same state, although the symptoms variedoccasionally. The wife slept on, only roused by the cry of herchild now and then, which seemed to have power over her, when farlouder noises failed to disturb her. The watchers agreed, that assoon as it was likely Mr. Carson would be up and visible, Wilsonshould go to his house, and beg for an Infirmary order. At lengththe grey dawn penetrated even into the dark cellar. Davenportslept, and Barton was to remain there until Wilson's return; so,stepping out into the fresh air, brisk and reviving, even in thatstreet of abominations, Wilson took his way to Mr. Carson's.
Wilson had about two miles to walk before he reached Mr. Carson'shouse, which was almost in the country. The streets were not yetbustling and busy. The shopmen were lazily taking down theshutters, although it was near eight o'clock; for the day was longenough for the purchases people made in that quarter of the town,while trade was so flat. One or two miserable-looking women weresetting off on their day's begging expedition. But there were fewpeople abroad. Mr. Carson's was a good house, and furnished withdisregard to expense. But, in addition to lavish expenditure, therewas much taste shown, and many articles chosen for their beauty andelegance adorned his rooms. As Wilson passed a window which ahousemaid had thrown open, he saw pictures and gilding, at which hewas tempted to stop and look; but then he thought it would not berespectful. So he hastened on to the kitchen door. The servantsseemed very busy with preparations for breakfast; butgood-naturedly, though hastily, told him to step in, and they couldsoon let Mr. Carson know he was there. So he was ushered into akitchen hung round with glittering tins, where a roaring fire burntmerrily, and where numbers of utensils hung round, at whose natureand use Wilson amused himself by guessing. Meanwhile, the servantsbustled to and fro; an outdoor manservant came in for orders, andsat down near Wilson. The cook broiled steaks, and the kitchen-maidtoasted bread, and boiled eggs.
The coffee steamed upon the fire, and altogether the odours were somixed and appetising, that Wilson began to yearn for food to breakhis fast, which had lasted since dinner the day before. If theservants had known this, they would have willingly given him meatand bread in abundance; but they were like the rest of us, and notfeeling hunger themselves, forgot it was possible another might. SoWilson's craving turned to sickness, while they chatted on, makingthe kitchen's free and keen remarks upon the parlour.
"How late you were last night, Thomas!"
"Yes, I was right weary of waiting; they told me to be at the roomsby twelve; and there I was. But it was two o'clock before theycalled me."
"And did you wait all that time in the street?" asked the housemaid,who had done her work for the present, and come into the kitchen fora bit of gossip.
"My eye as like! you don't think I'm such a fool as to catch mydeath of cold, and let the horses catch their death too, as weshould ha' done if we'd stopped there. No! I put th' horses up inth' stables at th' Spread Eagle, and went mysel, and got a glass ortwo by th' fire. They're driving a good custom, them, wi' coachmen.There were five on us, and we'd many a quart o' ale, and gin wi' it,to keep out th' cold."
"Mercy on us, Thomas; you'll get a drunkard at last!"
"If I do, I know whose blame it will be. It will be missis's, andnot mine. Flesh and blood can't sit to be starved to death on acoach-box, waiting for folks as don't know their own mind."
A servant, semi-upper-housemaid, semi
-lady's-maid, now came downwith orders from her mistress.
"Thomas, you must ride to the fishmongers, and say missis can't giveabove half-a-crown a pound for salmon for Tuesday; she's grumblingbecause trade's so bad. And she'll want the carriage at three to goto the lecture, Thomas; at the Royal Execution, you know."
"Ay, ay, I know."
"And you'd better all of you mind your P's and Q's, for she's veryblack this morning. She's got a bad headache."
"It's a pity Miss Jenkins is not here to match her. Lord! how sheand missis did quarrel which had got the worst headaches; it wasthat Miss Jenkins left for. She would not give up having badheadaches, and missis could not abide anyone to have 'em butherself."
"Missis will have her breakfast upstairs, cook, and the coldpartridge as was left yesterday, and put plenty of cream in hercoffee, and she thinks there's a roll left, and she would like itwell buttered."
So saying, the maid left the kitchen to be ready to attend to theyoung ladies' bell when they chose to ring, after their lateassembly the night before. In the luxurious library, at thewell-spread breakfast-table, sat the two Mr. Carsons, father andson. Both were reading--the father a newspaper, the son a review--while they lazily enjoyed their nicely prepared food. The fatherwas a prepossessing-looking old man; perhaps self-indulgent youmight guess. The son was strikingly handsome, and knew it. Hisdress was neat and well appointed, and his manners far moregentlemanly than his father's. He was the only son, and his sisterswere proud of him; his father and mother were proud of him: hecould not set up his judgment against theirs; he was proud ofhimself.
The door opened and in bounded Amy, the sweet youngest daughter ofthe house, a lovely girl of sixteen, fresh and glowing, and brightas a rosebud. She was too young to go to assemblies, at which herfather rejoiced, for he had little Amy with her pretty jokes, andher bird-like songs, and her playful caresses all the evening toamuse him in his loneliness; and she was not too much tired likeSophy and Helen, to give him her sweet company at breakfast the nextmorning.
He submitted willingly while she blinded him with her hands, andkissed his rough red face all over. She took his newspaper awayafter a little pretended resistance, and would not allow her brotherHarry to go on with his review.
"I'm the only lady this morning, papa, so you know you must make agreat deal of me."
"My darling, I think you have your own way always, whether you'rethe only lady or not."
"Yes, papa, you're pretty good and obedient, I must say that; butI'm sorry to say Harry is very naughty, and does not do what I tellhim; do you, Harry?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean to accuse me of, Amy; Iexpected praise and not blame; for did not I get you that eau dePortugal from town, that you could not meet with at Hughes', youlittle ungrateful puss?"
"Did you? Oh, sweet Harry; you're as sweet as eau de Portugalyourself; you're almost as good as papa; but still you know you didgo and forget to ask Bigland for that rose, that new rose they sayhe has got."
"No, Amy, I did not forget. I asked him, and he has got the Rose,sans reproche: but do you know, little Miss Extravagance, a verysmall one is half-a-guinea?"
"Oh, I don't mind. Papa will give it me, won't you, dear father?He knows his little daughter cannot live without flowers andscents."
Mr. Carson tried to refuse his darling, but she coaxed him intoacquiescence, saying she must have it, it was one of hernecessaries. Life was not worth having without flowers.
"Then, Amy," said her brother, "try and be content with peonies anddandelions."
"Oh, you wretch! I don't call them flowers. Besides, you're everybit as extravagant. Who gave half-a-crown for a bunch of lilies ofthe valley at Yates', a month ago, and then would not let his poorlittle sister have them, though she went on her knees to beg them?Answer me that, Master Hal."
"Not on compulsion," replied her brother, smiling with his mouth,while his eyes had an irritated expression, and he went first red,then pale, with vexed embarrassment.
"If you please, sir," said a servant, entering the room, "here's oneof the mill people wanting to see you; his name is Wilson, he says."
"I'll come to him directly; stay, tell him to come in here."
Amy danced off into the conservatory which opened out of the room,before the gaunt, pale, unwashed, unshaven weaver was ushered in.There he stood at the door sleeking his hair with old country habit,and every now and then stealing a glance round at the splendour ofthe apartment.
"Well, Wilson, and what do you want to-day, man?"
"Please, sir, Davenport's ill of the fever, and I'm come to know ifyou've got an Infirmary order for him?"
"Davenport--Davenport; who is the fellow? I don't know the name."
"He's worked in your factory better nor three years, sir."
"Very likely; I don't pretend to know the names of the men I employ;that I leave to the overlooker. So he's ill, eh?"
"Ay, sir, he's very bad; we want to get him in at the Fever Wards."
"I doubt if I've an in-patient's order to spare at present; but I'llgive you an out-patient's and welcome."
So saying, he rose up, unlocked a drawer, pondered a minute, andthen gave Wilson an out-patient's order.
Meanwhile, the younger Mr. Carson had ended his review, and began tolisten to what was going on. He finished his breakfast, got up, andpulled five shillings out of his pocket, which he gave to Wilson ashe passed him, for the "poor fellow." He went past quickly, andcalling for his horse, mounted gaily, and rode away. He was anxiousto be in time to have a look and a smile from lovely Mary Barton,as she went to Miss Simmonds'. But to-day he was to bedisappointed. Wilson left the house, not knowing whether to bepleased or grieved. They had all spoken kindly to him, and whocould tell if they might not inquire into Davenport's case, and dosomething for him and his family. Besides, the cook, who, when shehad had time to think, after breakfast was sent in, had noticed hispaleness, had had meat and bread ready to put in his hand when hecame out of the parlour; and a full stomach makes every one of usmore hopeful. When he reached Berry Street, he had persuadedhimself he bore good news, and felt almost elated in his heart. Butit fell when he opened the cellar-door, and saw Barton and the wifeboth bending over the sick man's couch with awestruck, saddenedlook.
"Come here," said Barton. "There's a change comed over him sin' yoleft, is there not?"
Wilson looked. The flesh was sunk, the features prominent, bony,and rigid. The fearful clay-colour of death was over all. But theeyes were open and sensitive, though the films of the grave weresetting upon them.
"He wakened fra' his sleep, as yo left him in, and began to mutterand moan; but he soon went off again, and we never knew he wereawake till he called his wife, but now she's here he's gotten noughtto say to her."
Most probably, as they all felt, he could not speak, for hisstrength was fast ebbing. They stood round him still and silent;even the wife checked her sobs, though her heart was like to break.She held her child to her breast, to try and keep him quiet. Theireyes were all fixed on the yet living one, whose moments of lifewere passing so rapidly away. At length he brought (with jerkingconvulsive effort) his two hands into the attitude of prayer. Theysaw his lips move, and bent to catch the words, which came in gasps,and not in tones.
"O Lord God! I thank thee, that the hard struggle of living isover."
"O Ben! Ben!" wailed forth his wife, "have you no thought for me? OBen! Ben! do say one word to help me through life."
He could not speak again. The trump of the archangel would set histongue free; but not a word more would it utter till then. Yet heheard, he understood, and though sight failed, he moved his handgropingly over the covering. They knew what he meant, and guided itto her head, bowed and hidden in her hands, when she had sunk in herwoe. It rested there with a feeble pressure of endearment. Theface grew beautiful, as the soul neared God. A peace beyondunderstanding came over it. The hand was a heavy stiff weight onthe wife's head. No more grief o
r sorrow for him. They reverentlylaid out the corpse--Wilson fetching his only spare shirt to arrayit in. The wife still lay hidden in the clothes, in a stupor ofagony.
There was a knock at the door, and Barton went to open it. It wasMary, who had received a message from her father, through aneighbour, telling her where he was; and she had set out early tocome and have a word with him before her day's work; but someerrands she had to do for Miss Simmonds had detained her until now.
"Come in, wench!" said her father. "Try if thou canst comfort yonpoor, poor woman, kneeling down there. God help her!"
Mary did not know what to say, or how to comfort; but she knelt downby her, and put her arm round her neck, and in a little while fellto crying herself so bitterly that the source of tears was opened bysympathy in the widow, and her full heart was, for a time, relieved.
And Mary forgot all purposed meeting with her gay lover, HarryCarson forgot Miss Simmonds' errands, and her anger, in the anxiousdesire to comfort the poor lone woman. Never had her sweet facelooked more angelic, never had her gentle voice seemed so musical aswhen she murmured her broken sentences of comfort.
"Oh, don't cry so, dear Mrs. Davenport, pray don't take on so. Surehe's gone where he'll never know care again. Yes, I know howlonesome you must feel; but think of your children. Oh! we'll allhelp to earn food for 'em. Think how sorry HE'D be, if he sees youfretting so. Don't cry so, please don't."
And she ended by crying herself as passionately as the poor widow.
It was agreed the town must bury him; he had paid to a burial clubas long as he could, but by a few weeks' omission, he had forfeitedhis claim to a sum of money now. Would Mrs. Davenport and thelittle child go home with Mary? The latter brightened up as sheurged this plan; but no! where the poor, fondly loved remains were,there would the mourner be; and all that they could do was to makeher as comfortable as their funds would allow, and to beg aneighbour to look in and say a word at times. So she was left alonewith her dead, and they went to work that had work, and he who hadnone, took upon him the arrangements for the funeral.
Mary had many a scolding from Miss Simmonds that day for her absenceof mind. To be sure Miss Simmonds was much put out by Mary'snon-appearance in the morning with certain bits of muslin, andshades of silk which were wanted to complete a dress to be worn thatnight; but it was true enough that Mary did not mind what she wasabout; she was too busy planning how her old black gown (her bestwhen her mother died) might be sponged, and turned, and lengthenedinto something like decent mourning for the widow. And when shewent home at night (though it was very late, as a sort ofretribution for her morning's negligence), she set to work at once,and was so busy and so glad over her task, that she had, every nowand then, to check herself in singing merry ditties, which she feltlittle accorded with the sewing on which she was engaged.
So when the funeral day came, Mrs. Davenport was neatly arrayed inblack, a satisfaction to her poor heart in the midst of her sorrow.Barton and Wilson both accompanied her, as she led her two elderboys, and followed the coffin. It was a simple walking funeral,with nothing to grate on the feelings of any; far more in accordancewith its purpose, to my mind, than the gorgeous hearses, and noddingplumes, which form the grotesque funeral pomp of respectable people.There was no "rattling the bones over the stones," of the pauper'sfuneral. Decently and quietly was he followed to the grave by onedetermined to endure her woe meekly for his sake. The only mark ofpauperism attendant on the burial concerned the living and joyous,far more than the dead, or the sorrowful. When they arrived in thechurchyard, they halted before a raised and handsome tombstone; inreality a wooden mockery of stone respectabilities which adorned theburial-ground. It was easily raised in a very few minutes, andbelow was the grave in which pauper bodies were piled until within afoot or two of the surface; when the soil was shovelled over, andstamped down, and the wooden cover went to do temporary duty overanother hole.* But little recked they of this who now gave up theirdead.
*The case, to my certain knowledge, in one churchyard in Manchester. There may be more.