NIGHT AND MORNING.
“How is Martha?” was Allen’s first inquiry on meeting his wife at the
head of the stairs. Martha had been asleep when he had returned in the
middle of the day; for it was now her turn for night-work at the
factory, and what rest she had must be taken in the day. Her mother said
that her lameness was much the same; that she had seen Mr. Dawson, the
apothecary, who pronounced that rest was what her weak limbs most
required; and that as perfect rest was out of the question, her mother
must bandage the joints while the child was at her work, and keep her
laid on her bed at home. Here was the difficulty, her mother said,
especially while Hannah was with her, for they were both fond of play
when poor Martha was not too tired to stir. She was now gone to her work
for the night.
The little girl repaired to the factory, sighing at the thought of the
long hours that must pass before she could sit down or breathe the fresh
air again. She had been as willing a child at her work as could be till
lately: but since she had grown sickly, a sense of hardship had come
over her, and she was seldom happy. She was very industrious, and
disposed to be silent at her occupation; so that she was liked by her
employers, and had nothing more to complain of than the necessary
fatigue and disagreeableness of the work. She would not have minded it
for a few hours of the day; but to be shut up all day, or else all
night, without any time to nurse the baby or play with her companions,
was too much for a little girl of eight years old. She had never been so
sensible of this as since her renewed acquaintance with Hannah. This
night, when the dust from the cotton made her cough, when the smell and
the heat brought on sickness and faintness, and the incessant whizzing
and whirling of the wheels gave her the feeling of being in a dream, she
remembered that a part of Hannah’s business was to walk on broad roads
or through green fields by her father’s side, listening to the stories
he amused her with, and to sit on a stile or under a tree to practice a
new tune, or get a better dinner than poor Martha often saw. She forgot
that Hannah was sometimes wet through, or scorched by the sun, as her
complexion, brown as a gipsy’s, showed; and that Hannah had no home and
no mother, and very hard and unpleasant work to do at fairs, and on
particular occasions. About midnight, when Martha remembered that all at
home were probably sound asleep, she could not resist the temptation of
resting her aching limbs, and sat down, trusting to make up afterwards
for lost time, and taking care to be on her feet when the overlooker
passed, or when any one else was likely to watch her. It is a dangerous
thing, however, to take rest with the intention of rousing oneself from
time to time; and so Martha found. She fairly fell asleep after a time,
and dreamed that she was attending very diligently to her work; and so
many things besides passed through her mind during the two minutes that
she slept, that when the overlooker laid his hand upon her shoulder, she
started and was afraid she was going to be scolded for a long fit of
idleness. But she was not harshly spoken to.
“Come, come, child; how long have you been asleep?”
“I don’t know. I thought I was awake all the time.” And Martha began to
cry.
“Well, don’t cry. I was past just now, and you were busy enough; but
don’t sit down; better not, for fear you should drop asleep again.”
Martha thought she had escaped very well; and winking and rubbing her
eyes, she began to limp forward and use her trembling hands. The
overlooker watched her for a few moments, and told her she was so
industrious in general that he should be sorry to be hard upon her; but
she knew that if she was seen flagging over her work, the idle ones
would make it an excuse to do so too. Martha curtsied, and put new
vigour into her work at this praise. Before he went on in his rounds,
the overlooker pointed to the window and told her morning was come.
It was a strange scene that the dawn shone upon. As the grey light from
the east mingled with the flickering, yellow glare of the lamps, it gave
a mottled dirty appearance to everything; to the pale-faced children, to
the unshaved overlooker, to the loaded atmosphere, and even to the
produce of the wheels.
When a bright sunbeam shone in through the window, thickened with the
condensed breath of the work-people, and showed the oily steam rising
through the heated room, the lamps were extinguished, to the great
relief of those who found the place growing too like an oven to be much
longer tolerable. The sunbeams rested now on the ceiling, and Martha
knew that they must travel down to the floor and be turned full on her
frame and some way past it, before she could be released; but still it
was a comfort that morning was come.
She observed that the overlooker frequently went out and came back
again, and that there was a great deal of consultation among her betters
as the hours drew on. A breath of fresh air came in now and then from
below, and news went round that the gates were already open, two hours
earlier than usual. Presently the tramp of heavy feet was heard, like
that of the weavers and spinners coming to their daily work. Martha
looked up eagerly to the clock, supposing that the time had passed
quicker than she had been aware of; but it was only four o’clock. What
could bring the people to their work so early? They could scarcely have
mistaken the hour from the brightness of the morning, for it had now
clouded over, and was raining a soaking shower. More news went round.
Those who had arrived had barely escaped being waylaid and punished for
coming to work after a strike had been proclaimed. They had been pursued
to the gates and very nearly caught, and must now stay where they were
till nightfall, as they could not safely appear in broad daylight, going
to and returning from their dinners. Many wondered that they had
ventured at all, and all prophesied that they must give up to the will
of the Union if they wished to be safe. The overlooker, finding much
excitement prevailing on the circulation of the news, commanded silence,
observing that it was no concern of any of the children present. There
was no strike of the children, and they would be permitted to go and
come without hinderance. Martha determined to get away the first moment
she could, and to meet her father, if possible, that he might not
encounter any troublesome people for her sake.
Allen was watching the moment of release as anxiously for his little
daughter as she could have done for herself, and he was to the full as
weary as she. On the previous evening he had carried home paper and
pens, preferring to write the necessary letters at his own dwelling to
spending the night at the Spread-Eagle. He got his wife to clear and
wipe down the deal table, when she had put all the children to bed; and
then he sat down to compose a pattern letter, stating the circumstances
which had led to a strike, and urging an appeal to their fellow-workmen
in distant places for aid in the struggle which might be deemed a
peculiarly important one. Having tolerably well satisfied himself that
the letter was the proper thing, he read it to his admiring wife, who by
turns smiled because she was proud of her husband, and sighed to think
how perilous an office he had undertaken. She then went to bed and was
soothed to sleep by the scratching of his nicely-mended pen. From this
time all was silence in the apartment, except the occasional crackle
when Allen folded his paper, or the cautious taking up and laying down
of the snuffers when the long candle-wick craved snuffing, or the
passing squalls of the baby, who, however, allowed himself to be so
quickly hushed as not materially to disturb the scribe.
When nearly twenty copies of his letter had been written, each varying a
little from the original, according to the differing circumstances of
those to whom it was addressed, Allen was so weary that he could write
no longer without some refreshment. He put out his light, and opened the
window for a minute to breathe the fresh air. The pattering of the rain
wakened his wife, who roused herself to fret over the weather and wonder
how Martha was to get home. Her husband told her he meant to go for the
child, and would carry a shawl to wrap her up in. If Mary had known what
lions were in her husband’s path, she would not have let him go.
There was but one man visible when Allen went forth, and he was walking
rapidly at some distance. It was Hare,—who, having never been well
disposed towards a turn-out, and being supported in his dislike of it by
his wife, hoped to avoid mischief and continue his earnings by going to
the factory before people should be looking for him, and doing his work
as usual, without talking about wages to anybody. Such devices did not
suit the purposes of the Union, and were guarded against, as in all
similar cases. Hare thought it just possible that he might meet with
opposition, and looked as far before him as his eyes could reach; but he
did not suspect an ambush on either hand. When he continued in the same
direction, however, so as to render it certain that he was making for
the factory, six men issued, one by one, from opposite alleys, and
formed a line across the street. Hare’s name was shouted to some one
still concealed, coupled with a question whether he was under contract.
Having received their answer, they coolly told their trembling
fellow-workman that as he had not the pretence of any contract, and was
nevertheless going to work at an unfair price, he must be ducked. They
had a rope ready, and would deliver him up to be dragged through the
river.
Hare turned from one to another with as large a variety of excuses as he
could invent at the moment. Among the rest, he vowed that he came to
watch who would be wicked enough to go to work at this same factory
after having sworn to strike. He was laughed at, let off with a roll in
the kennel and with being hunted part of the way home, whither he ran to
seek refuge with his wife in panting terror, and presenting a woeful
spectacle of disgrace. He perhaps owed it to his known cowardice that he
fared no worse; as his companions were well assured he was sufficiently
daunted not to attempt to cheat them a second time.
Allen proceeded at his best pace while this judgment was being inflicted
on Hare, never supposing that he could be suspected of taking work
unfairly; but, like all eminent men, he had his enemies, and these chose
to take for granted that he could not be going to the factory with any
honest design. He was seized, girded with the dreadful rope, and hauled
towards the river, though he produced the shawl, demanded time to call
witnesses, and used all the eloquence he could command. His last
resource was to explain that the supplies from a distance must be
delayed if any harm happened to him. This occasioned a short pause,
during which the night-children came forth from the factory. One of the
ambush, who had some sense of justice, and wished to find out the truth
about Allen, ran up to Martha, as soon as she appeared, and before she
could know what had happened, and asked her whether her father was not
late in coming to work this morning?
“He is not coming to work at all,” said the child; “but he said he would
come for me. Perhaps the rain made him stay at home.”
This testimony released Allen, and disappointed some of the lads who
stood round of a frolic, which they had desired to fill up the time till
they could proceed to a frolic of a different kind. They looked up at
the clouds, and hoped the rain would not make the parson cheat them.
They were going to be married. Several had begun to think of this some
time before (as lads and lasses that work together in factories are wont
to do); and this seemed the very time, when they had a holiday they did
not know what to do with, and were sure, they believed, of ten shillings
a week as long as the turn-out should last. So, amid the warning looks
of elderly friends, and the remonstrances of parents who justly thought
this the worst possible time to take new burdens upon them, several
thoughtless young couples went laughing through the rain to the altar,
and snapped their fingers at the clergyman behind his back because his
careful enquiries brought to light no cause why the solemnization of
matrimony should not proceed.
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