From _Mary Barton_.
“Then we’d the stout little babby to bring home. We’d not overmuch money
left; but it were fine weather, and we thought we’d take th’ coach to
Brummagem, and walk on. It were a bright May morning when I last saw
London town, looking back from a big hill a mile or two off. And in that
big mass o’ a place I were leaving my blessed child asleep—in her last
sleep. Well, God’s will be done! She’s gotten to heaven afore me; but I
shall get there at last, please God, though it’s a long while first.
“The babby had been fed afore we set out, and th’ coach moving kept it
asleep, bless its little heart! But when th’ coach stopped for dinner it
were awake, and crying for its pobbies. So we asked for some bread and
milk, and Jennings took it first for to feed it; but it made its mouth
like a square, and let it run out at each o’ the four corners. ‘Shake it,
Jennings,’ says I; ‘that’s the way they make water run through a funnel,
when it’s o’er full; and a child’s mouth is broad end o’ th’ funnel,
and th’ gullet the narrow one.’ So he shook it, but it only cried th’
more. ‘Let me have it,’ says I, thinking he were an awkward oud chap.
But it were just as bad wi’ me. By shaking the babby we got better nor
a gill into its mouth, but more nor that came up again, wetting a’ th’
nice dry clothes landlady had put on. Well, just as we’d gotten to th’
dinner-table, and help oursels, and eaten two mouthfuls, came in th’
guard, and a fine chap wi’ a sample o’ calico flourishing in his hand.
‘Coach is ready!’ says one; ‘Half a crown your dinner!’ says the other.
Well, we thought it a deal for both our dinners, when we’d hardly tasted
’em; but, bless your life, it were half a crown apiece and a shilling for
th’ bread and milk as were posseted all over babby’s clothes. We spoke
up again it; but everybody said it were the rule, so what could two poor
oud chaps like us do again’ it? Well, poor babby cried without stopping
to take breath, fra’ that time till we got to Brummagem for the night. My
heart ached for the little thing. It caught wi’ its wee mouth at our coat
sleeves and at our mouths, when we tried t’ comfort it by talking to it.
Poor little wench; it wanted its mammy, as were lying cold in th’ grave.
‘Well,’ says I, ‘it’ll be clemmed to death, if it lets out its supper as
it did its dinner. Let’s get some woman to feed it; it comes natural to
women to do for babbies.’ So we asked for the chambermaid at the inn, and
she took quite kindly to it; and we got a good supper, and grew rare and
sleepy, what wi’ th’ warmth and wi’ our long ride i’ the open air. Th’
chambermaid said she would like t’ have it t’ sleep wi’ her, only missis
would scold so; but it looked so quiet and smiling like, as it lay in her
arms, that we thought ’twould be no trouble to have it wi’ us. I says,
‘See, Jennings, how women folk do quieten babbies; it’s just as I said.’
He looked grave; he were always thoughtful-looking, though I never heard
him say anything very deep. At last says he:
“‘Young woman! have you gotten a spare nightcap?’
“‘Missis always keeps nightcaps for gentlemen as does not like to
unpack,’ says she, rather quick.
“‘Aye, but, young woman, it’s one of your nightcaps I want. Th’ babby
seems to have taken a mind to yo; and maybe in the dark it might take me
for yo if I’d getten your nightcap on.’
“The chambermaid smirked and went for a cap, but I laughed outright at
th’ oud bearded chap thinking he’d make hissel like a woman just by
putting on a woman’s cap. Howe’er, he’d not be laughed out on’t, so I
held th’ babby till he were in bed. Such a night as we had on it! Babby
began to scream o’ th’ oud fashion, and we took it turn and turn about
to sit up and rock it. My heart were very sore for the little one, as
it groped about wi’ its mouth; but for a’ that I could scarce keep
fra’ smiling at th’ thought o’ us two oud chaps, th’ one wi’ a woman’s
nightcap on sitting on our hinder ends for half the night, hushabying a
babby as wouldn’t be hushabied. Toward morning, poor little wench! it
fell asleep, fairly tired out wi’ crying, but even in its sleep it gave
such pitiful sobs, quivering up fra’ the very bottom of its little heart,
that once or twice I almost wished it lay on its mother’s breast, at
peace for ever. Jennings fell asleep too; but I began for to reckon up
our money. It were little enough we had left, our dinner the day afore
had ta’en so much. I didn’t know what our reckoning would be for that
night lodging, and supper, and breakfast. Doing a sum always sent me
asleep ever sin’ I were a lad; so I fell sound in a short time, and were
only awakened by chambermaid tapping at th’ door, to say she’d dress the
babby before her missis were up if we liked. But bless yo’ we’d never
thought o’ undressing it the night afore, and now it were sleeping so
sound, and we were so glad o’ the peace and quietness, that we thought it
were no good to waken it up to screech again.
“Well! (there’s Mary asleep for a good listener!) I suppose you’re
getting weary of my tale, so I’ll not be long over ending it. Th’
reckoning left us very bare, and we thought we’d best walk home, for it
were only sixty mile, they telled us, and not stop again for nought save
victuals. So we left Brummagem (which is as black a place as Manchester,
without looking so like home), and walked a’ that day, carrying babby
turn and turn about. It were well fed by chambermaid afore we left, and
th’ day were fine, and folk began to have some knowledge o’ th’ proper
way o’ speaking, and we were more cheery at thought o’ home (though mine,
God knows, were lonesome enough). We stopped none for dinner, but at
baggin-time we getten a good meal at a public-house, an’ fed th’ babby as
well as we could, but that were but poorly. We got a crust too for it to
suck—chambermaid put us up to that. That night, whether we were tired or
whatten, I don’t know, but it were dree work, and th’ poor little wench
had slept out her sleep, and began th’ cry as wore my heart out again.
Says Jennings, says he:
“‘We should na ha’ set out so like gentlefolk a top o’ the coach
yesterday.’
“‘Nay, lad! We should ha’ had more to walk if we had na ridden, and I’m
sure both you and I’se weary of tramping.’
“So he were quiet a bit. But he were one o’ them as were sure to find
out somewhat had been done amiss when there were no going back to undo
it. So presently he coughs, as if he were going to speak, and I says to
myself, ‘At it again, my lad.’ Says he:
“‘I ax pardon, neighbour, but it strikes me it would ha’ been better for
my son if he had never begun to keep company wi’ your daughter.’
“Well! that put me up, and my heart got very full, and but that I were
carrying _her_ babby, I think I should ha’ struck him. At last I could
hold in no longer, and says I:
“‘Better say at once it would ha’ been better for God never to ha’ made
th’ world, for then we’d never ha’ been in it, to have had th’ weary
hearts we have now.’
“Well! he said that were rank blasphemy; but I thought his way of casting
up again’ th’ events God had pleased to send, were worse blasphemy.
Howe’er, I said nought more angry, for th’ little babby’s sake, as were
th’ child o’ his dead son, as well as o’ my dead daughter.
“Th’ longest lane will have a turning, and that night came to an end at
last; and we were footsore and tired enough, and to my mind the babby
were getting weaker and weaker, and it wrung my heart to hear its little
wail! I’d ha’ given my right hand for one of yesterday’s hearty cries.
We were wanting our breakfasts, and so were it too, motherless babby!
We could see no public-houses, so about six o’clock (only we thought
it were later) we stopped at a cottage where a woman were moving about
near th’ open door. Says I, ‘Good woman, may we rest us a bit?’ ‘Come
in,’ says she, wiping a chair, as looked bright enough afore, wi’ her
apron. It were a cheery, clean room; and we were glad to sit down again,
though I thought my legs would never bend at th’ knees. In a minute
she fell a noticin’ the babby, and took it in her arms, and kissed it
again and again. ‘Missis,’ says I, ‘we’re not without money, and if
yo’d give us somewhat for breakfast, we’d pay yo honest, and if yo would
wash and dress that poor babby, and get some pobbies down its throat,
for it’s wellnigh clemmed, I’d pray for you till my dying day.’ So she
said nought, but gived me th’ babby back, and afore you could say Jack
Robinson, she’d a pan on th’ fire, and bread and cheese on th’ table.
When she turned round, her face looked red, and her lips were tight
pressed together. Well! we were right down glad on our breakfast, and God
bless and reward that woman for her kindness that day! She fed th’ poor
babby as gently and softly, and spoke to it as tenderly as its own poor
mother could ha’ done. It seemed as if that stranger and it had known
each other afore, maybe in heaven, where folks’ spirits come from, they
say; th’ babby looked up so lovingly in her eyes, and made little noises
more like a dove than aught else. Then she undressed it (poor darling!
it were time), touching it so softly, and washed it from head to foot;
and as many on its clothes were dirty, and what bits o’ things its mother
had gotten ready for it had been sent by th’ carrier fra’ London, she
put ’em aside; and wrapping little naked babby in her apron, she pulled
out a key, as were fastened to a black ribbon, and hung down her breast,
and unlocked a drawer in th’ dresser. I were sorry to be prying, but I
could na’ help seeing in that drawer some little child’s clothes, all
strewed wi’ lavender, and lying by ’em a little whip an’ a broken rattle.
I began to have an insight into that woman’s heart then. She took out a
thing or two, and locked the drawer, and went on dressing babby. Just
about then come her husband down, a great big fellow as didn’t look half
awake, though it were getting late; but he’d heard all as had been said
downstairs, as were plain to be seen; but he were a gruff chap. We’d
finished our breakfast, and Jennings were looking hard at th’ woman as
she were getting the babby to sleep wi’ a sort of rocking way. At length
says he, ‘I ha’ learnt the way now; it’s two jiggits and a shake, two
jiggits and a shake. I can get that babby asleep now myself.’
“The man had nodded cross enough to us, and had gone to th’ door, and
stood there whistling wi’ his hands in his breeches pockets, looking
abroad. But at last turns and says, quite sharp—
“‘I say, missis, I’m to have no breakfast to-day, I s’pose.’
“So wi’ that she kissed th’ child, a long, soft kiss; and looking in my
face to see if I could take her meaning, gave me th’ babby without a
word. I were loath to stir, but I saw it were better to go. So giving
Jennings a sharp nudge (for he’d fallen asleep), I says, ‘Missis, what’s
to pay?’ pulling out my money wi’ a jingle that she might na guess we
were at all bare o’ cash. So she looks at her husband, who said ne’er a
word, but were listening with all his ears nevertheless; and when she saw
he would na say, she said, hesitatingly, as if pulled two ways, by her
fear o’ him,’ Should you think sixpence over much?’ It were so different
to public-house reckoning, for we’d eaten a main deal afore the chap came
down. So says I, ‘And, missis, what should we gi’ you for the babby’s
bread and milk?’ (I had it once in my mind to say ‘and for a’ your
trouble with it,’ but my heart would na let me say it, for I could read
in her ways how it had been a work o’ love.) So says she, quite quick,
and stealing a look at her husband’s back, as looked all ear, if ever
a back did, ‘Oh, we could take naught for the little babby’s food, if
it had eaten twice as much, bless it.’ Wi’ that he looked at her; such
a scowling look! She knew what he meant, and stepped softly across the
floor to him, and put her hand on his arm. He seemed as though he’d shake
it off by a jerk on his elbow, but she said quite low, ‘For poor little
Johnnie’s sake, Richard.’ He did not move or speak again, and after
looking in his face for a minute, she turned away, swallowing deep in her
throat. She kissed the sleeping babby as she passed, when I paid her. To
quieten th’ gruff husband, and stop him if he rated her, I could na help
slipping another sixpence under th’ loaf, and then we set off again. Last
look I had o’ that woman she were quietly wiping her eyes wi’ the corner
of her apron, as she went about her husband’s breakfast. But I shall know
her in heaven.”