JOHN BARTON'S 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 was
roused from her sound, well-earned sleep, by a knocking, which had at
first made part of her dream; but starting up, as soon as she became
convinced of its reality, she opened the window, and asked who 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 I
run for th' doctor, for she's fearful bad."
While the woman hastily dressed herself, leaving the window still
open, she heard cries of agony, which resounded in the little court
in the stillness of the night. In less than five minutes she was
standing by Mrs. Barton's bed-side, relieving the terrified Mary, who
went about, where she was told, like an automaton; her eyes tearless,
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 his
night-bell, and still longer in understanding who it was that made
this sudden call upon his services; and then he begged Barton just
to wait while he dressed himself, in order that no time might be
lost in finding the court and house. Barton absolutely stamped with
impatience, outside the doctor's door, before he came down; and
walked so fast homewards, that the medical man several times asked
him to go slower.
"Is she so very bad?" asked he.
"Worse, much worser than ever I 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, stayed
not to light a candle for the mere ceremony of showing his companion
up the stairs, so well known to himself; but, in two minutes was
in the room, where lay the dead wife, whom he had loved with all
the power of his strong heart. The doctor stumbled up stairs by the
fire-light, and met the awe-struck look of the neighbour, which at
once told him the state of things. The room was still, as he, with
habitual tip-toe step, approached the poor frail body, whom nothing
now could more disturb. Her daughter knelt by the bed-side, her face
buried in the clothes, which were almost crammed into her mouth, to
keep down the choking sobs. The husband stood like one stupified. The
doctor questioned the neighbour in whispers, and then approaching
Barton, said, "You must go down stairs. This is a great shock, but
bear it like a man. Go down."
He went mechanically and sat down on the first chair. He had no hope.
The look of death was too clear upon her face. Still, when he heard
one or two unusual noises, the thought burst on him that it might
only be a trance, a fit, a--he did not well know what,--but not
death! Oh, not death! And he was starting up to go up stairs again,
when the doctor's heavy cautious creaking footstep was heard on the
stairs. Then he knew what it really was in the chamber above.
"Nothing could have saved her--there has been some shock to the
system--" and so he went on; but, to unheeding ears, which yet
retained his words to ponder on; words not for immediate use in
conveying sense, but to be laid by, in the store-house of memory, for
a more convenient season. The doctor seeing the state of the case,
grieved for the man; and, very sleepy, thought it best to go, and
accordingly wished him good-night--but there was no answer, so he let
himself out; and Barton sat on, like a stock or a stone, so rigid,
so still. He heard the sounds above too, and knew what they meant.
He heard the stiff, unseasoned drawer, in which his wife kept her
clothes, pulled open. He saw the neighbour come down, and blunder
about in search of soap and water. He knew well what she wanted, and
_why_ she wanted them, but he did not speak, nor offer to help. At
last she went, with some kindly-meant words (a text of comfort, 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 mind
wandered off to other days, to far different times. He thought of
their courtship; of his first seeing her, an awkward, beautiful
rustic, far too shiftless for the delicate factory work to which she
was apprenticed; of his first gift to her, a bead necklace, which had
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 a strange
curiosity he got up to feel for it; for the fire by this time was
well-nigh out, and candle he had none. His groping hand fell on
the piled-up tea things, which at his desire she had left unwashed
till morning--they were all so tired. He was reminded of one of the
daily little actions, which acquire such power when they have been
performed for the last time, by one we love. He began to think over
his wife's daily round of duties; and something in the remembrance
that these would never more be done by her, touched the source of
tears, and he cried aloud. Poor Mary, meanwhile, had mechanically
helped the neighbour in all the last attentions to the dead; and when
she was kissed, and spoken to soothingly, tears stole quietly down
her cheeks: but she reserved the luxury of a full burst of grief till
she should be alone. She shut the chamber-door softly, after the
neighbour had gone, and then shook the bed by which she knelt, with
her agony of sorrow. She repeated, over and over again, the same
words; the same vain, unanswered address to her who was no more. "Oh,
mother! mother, are you really dead! Oh, mother, mother!"
At last she stopped, because it flashed across her mind that her
violence of grief might disturb her father. All was still below. She
looked on the face so changed, and yet so strangely like. She bent
down to kiss it. The cold, unyielding flesh struck a shudder to her
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, and
kissed his hand. He took no notice at first, for his burst of grief
would not be controlled. But when her shriller sobs, her terrified
cries (which she could not repress), rose upon his ear, he checked
himself.
"Child, we must be all to one another, now _she_ is gone," whispered
he.
"Oh, father, what can I do for you? Do tell me! I'll do any thing."
"I know thou wilt. Thou must not fret thyself ill, that's the first
thing I ask. Thou must leave me, and go to bed now, like a good girl
as 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, to-morrow."
Mary got up, kissed her father, and sadly went up stairs to the
little closet, where she slept. She thought it was of no use
undressing, for that she could never, never sleep, so threw herself
on 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 his
stupor and from his uncontrollable sorrow. He could think on what was
to be done, could plan for the funeral, could calculate the necessity
of soon returning to his work, as the extravagance of the past night
would leave them short of money, if he long remained away from the
mill. He was in a club, so that money was provided for the burial.
These things settled in his own mind, he recalled the doctor's words,
and bitterly thought of the shock his poor wife had so recently had,
in the mysterious disappearance of her cherished sister. His feelings
towards Esther almost amounted to curses. It was she who had brought
on all this sorrow. Her giddiness, her lightness of conduct, had
wrought this woe. His previous thoughts about her had been tinged
with wonder and pity, but now he hardened his heart against her for
ever.
One of the good influences over John Barton's life had departed that
night. One of the ties which bound him down to the gentle humanities
of earth was loosened, and henceforward the neighbours all remarked
he was a changed man. His gloom and his sternness became habitual
instead of occasional. He was more obstinate. But never to Mary.
Between the father and the daughter there existed in full force that
mysterious bond which unites those who have been loved by one who
is now dead and gone. While he was harsh and silent to others, he
humoured Mary with tender love; she had more of 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 the money went through
her hands, and the household arrangements were guided by her will
and pleasure. But part was her father's indulgence, for he left her,
with full trust in her unusual sense and spirit, to choose her own
associates, and her own times for seeing them.
With all this, Mary had not her father's confidence in the matters
which now began to occupy him, heart and soul; she was aware that
he had joined clubs, and become an active member of a trades' union,
but it was hardly likely that a girl of Mary's age (even when two or
three years had elapsed since her mother's death) should care much
for the differences between the employers and the employed,--an
eternal subject for agitation in the manufacturing districts, which,
however it may be lulled for a time, is sure to break forth again
with fresh violence at any depression of trade, showing that in its
apparent quiet, the ashes had still smouldered in the breasts of a
few.
Among these few was John Barton. At all times it is a bewildering
thing to the poor weaver to see his employer removing from house to
house, each one grander than the last, till he ends in building one
more magnificent than all, or withdraws his money from the concern,
or sells his mill to buy an estate in the country, while all the time
the weaver, who thinks he and his fellows are the real makers of this
wealth, is struggling on for bread for their children, through the
vicissitudes of lowered wages, short hours, fewer hands employed,
&c. And when he knows trade is bad, and could understand (at least
partially) that there are not buyers enough in the market to purchase
the goods already made, and consequently that there is no demand for
more; when he would bear and endure much without complaining, could
he also see that his employers were bearing their share; he is, I
say, bewildered and (to use his own word) "aggravated" to see that
all goes on just as usual with the mill-owners. Large houses are
still occupied, while spinners' and weavers' cottages stand empty,
because the families that once occupied them are obliged to live in
rooms or cellars. Carriages still roll along the streets, concerts
are still crowded by subscribers, the shops for expensive luxuries
still find daily customers, while the workman loiters away his
unemployed time in watching these things, and thinking of the pale,
uncomplaining wife at home, and the wailing children asking in vain
for enough of food, of the sinking health, of the dying life of those
near and dear to him. The contrast 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 the truth
in such matters: but what I wish to impress is what the workman feels
and thinks. True, that with child-like improvidence, good times will
often dissipate his grumbling, and make him forget all prudence and
foresight.
But there are earnest men among these people, men who have endured
wrongs without complaining, but without ever forgetting or forgiving
those whom (they believe) have caused all this woe.
Among these was John Barton. His parents had suffered, his mother
had died from absolute want of the necessaries of life. He himself
was a good, steady workman, and, as such, pretty certain of steady
employment. But he spent all he got with the confidence (you may also
call it improvidence) of one who was willing, and believed himself
able, to supply all his wants by his own exertions. And when his
master suddenly failed, and all hands in that mill were turned back,
one Tuesday morning, with the news that Mr. Hunter had stopped,
Barton had only a few shillings to rely on; but he had good heart of
being employed at some other mill, and accordingly, before returning
home, he spent some hours in going from factory to factory, asking
for work. But at every mill was some sign of depression of trade;
some were working short hours, some were turning off hands, and for
weeks Barton was out of work, living on credit. It was during this
time his little son, the apple of his eye, the cynosure of all his
strong power of love, fell ill of the scarlet fever. They dragged him
through the crisis, but his life hung on a gossamer thread. Every
thing, the doctor said, depended on good nourishment, on generous
living, to keep up the little fellow's strength, in the prostration
in which the fever had left him. Mocking words! when the commonest
food in the house would not furnish one little meal. Barton tried
credit; but it was worn out at the little provision shops, which were
now suffering in their turn. He thought it would be no sin to steal,
and would have stolen; but he could not get the opportunity in the
few days the child lingered. Hungry himself, almost to an animal
pitch of ravenousness, but with the bodily pain swallowed up in
anxiety for his little sinking lad, he stood at one of the shop
windows where all edible luxuries are displayed; haunches of venison,
Stilton cheeses, moulds of jelly--all appetising sights to the common
passer by. And out of this shop came Mrs. Hunter! She crossed to her
carriage, followed by the shopman loaded with purchases for a party.
The door was quickly slammed to, and she drove away; and Barton
returned home with a bitter spirit of wrath in his heart, to see his
only boy a corpse!
You can fancy, now, the hoards of vengeance in his heart against the
employers. For there are never wanting those who, either in speech
or in print, find it their interest to cherish such feelings in the
working classes; who know how and when to rouse the dangerous power
at their command; and who use their knowledge with unrelenting
purpose to either party.
So while Mary took her own way, growing more spirited every day, and
growing in her beauty too, her father was chairman at many a trades'
union meeting; a friend of delegates, and ambitious of being a
delegate himself; a Chartist, and ready to do any thing for his
order.
But now times were good; and all these feelings were theoretical, not
practical. His most practical thought was getting Mary apprenticed to
a dressmaker; for he had never left off disliking a factory life for
a girl, on more accounts than one.
Mary must do something. The factories being, as I said, out of the
question, there were two things open--going out to service, and
the dressmaking business; and against the first of these, Mary set
herself with all the force of her strong will. What that will might
have been able to achieve had her father been against her, I cannot
tell; but he disliked the idea of parting with her, who was the light
of his hearth, the voice of his otherwise silent home. Besides, with
his ideas and feelings towards the higher classes, he considered
domestic servitude as a species of slavery; a pampering of artificial
wants on the one side, a giving-up of every right of leisure by day
and quiet rest by night on the other. How far his strong exaggerated
feelings had any foundation in truth, it is for you to judge. I am
afraid that Mary's determination not to go to service arose from far
less sensible thoughts on the subject than her father's. Three years
of independence of action (since her mother's death such a time
had now elapsed) had little inclined her to submit to rules as to
hours and associates, to regulate her dress by a mistress's ideas
of propriety, to lose the dear feminine privileges of gossiping
with a merry neighbour, and working night and day to help one who
was sorrowful. Besides all this, the sayings of her absent, her
mysterious aunt, Esther, had an unacknowledged influence over Mary.
She knew she was very pretty; the factory people as they poured from
the mills, and in their freedom told the truth (whatever it might be)
to every passer-by, had early let Mary into the secret of her beauty.
If their remarks had fallen on an unheeding ear, there were always
young men enough, in a different rank from her own, who were willing
to compliment the pretty weaver's daughter as they met her in the
streets. Besides, trust a girl of sixteen for knowing well if she is
pretty; concerning her plainness she may be ignorant. So with this
consciousness she had early determined that her beauty should make
her a lady; the rank she coveted the more for her father's abuse; the
rank to which she firmly believed her lost aunt Esther had arrived.
Now, while a servant must often drudge and be dirty, must be known as
a servant by all who visited at her master's house, a dressmaker's
apprentice must (or so Mary thought) be always dressed with a certain
regard to appearance; must never soil her hands, and need never
redden or dirty her face with hard labour. Before my telling you so
truly what folly Mary felt or thought, injures her without redemption
in your opinion, think what are the silly fancies of sixteen years of
age in every class, and under all circumstances. The end of all the
thoughts of father and daughter was, as I said before, Mary was to be
a dressmaker; and her ambition prompted her unwilling father to apply
at all the first establishments, to know on what terms of painstaking
and zeal his daughter might be admitted into ever so humble a
workwoman's situation. But high premiums were asked at all; poor man!
he might have known that without giving up a day's work to ascertain
the fact. He would have been indignant, indeed, had he known that if
Mary had accompanied him, the case might have been rather different,
as her beauty would have made her desirable as a show-woman. Then he
tried second-rate places; at all the payment of a sum of money was
necessary, and money he had none. Disheartened and angry he went home
at night, declaring it was time lost; that dressmaking was at all
events a toilsome business, and not worth learning. Mary saw that the
grapes were sour, and the next day set out herself, as her father
could not afford to lose another day's work; and before night (as
yesterday's experience had considerably lowered her ideas) she had
engaged herself as apprentice (so called, though there were no deeds
or indentures to the bond) to a certain Miss Simmonds, milliner and
dressmaker, in a respectable little street leading off Ardwick Green,
where her business was duly announced in gold letters on a black
ground, enclosed in a bird's-eye maple frame, and stuck in the front
parlour window; where the workwomen were called "her young ladies;"
and where Mary was to work for two years without any remuneration,
on consideration of being taught the business; and where afterwards
she was to dine and have tea, with a small quarterly salary (paid
quarterly, because so much more genteel than by the week), a _very_
small one, divisible into a minute weekly pittance. In summer she was
to be there by six, bringing her day's meals during the first two
years; in winter she was not to come till after breakfast. Her time
for returning home at night must always depend upon the quantity of
work Miss Simmonds had to do.
And Mary was satisfied; and seeing this, her father was contented
too, although his words were grumbling and morose; but Mary knew his
ways, and coaxed and planned for the future so cheerily, that both
went to bed with easy if not happy hearts.