POVERTY AND DEATH.
"How little can the rich man know
Of what the poor man feels,
When Want, like some dark dæmon 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
Telling him 'twas in vain.
Foot-sore, heart-sore, _he_ never came
Back through the winter's wind,
To a dark 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. Carson
would not be over much grieved for the consequences of the fire
in their mill. They were well insured; the machinery lacked the
improvements of late years, and worked but poorly in comparison with
that which might now be procured. Above all, trade was very slack;
cottons could find no market, and goods lay packed and piled in many
a warehouse. The mills were merely worked to keep the machinery,
human and metal, in some kind of order and readiness for better
times. So this was an excellent opportunity, Messrs. Carson thought,
for refitting their factory with first-rate improvements, for which
the insurance money would amply pay. They were in no hurry about
the business, however. The weekly drain of wages given for labour,
useless in the present state of the market, was stopped. The partners
had more leisure than they had known for years; and promised wives
and daughters all manner of pleasant excursions, as soon as the
weather should become more genial. It was a pleasant thing to be
able to lounge over breakfast with a review or newspaper in hand; to
have time for becoming acquainted with agreeable and accomplished
daughters, on whose education no money had been spared, but whose
fathers, shut up during a long day with calicoes and accounts, had
so seldom had leisure to enjoy their daughters' talents. There were
happy family evenings, now that the men of business had time for
domestic enjoyments. There is another side to the picture. There were
homes over which Carsons' fire threw a deep, terrible gloom; the
homes of those who would fain work, and no man gave unto them--the
homes of those to whom leisure was a curse. There, the family music
was hungry wails, when week after week passed by, and there was no
work to be had, and consequently no wages to pay for the bread the
children cried aloud for in their young impatience of suffering.
There was no breakfast to lounge over; their lounge was taken in bed,
to try and keep warmth in them that bitter March weather, and, by
being quiet, to deaden the gnawing wolf within. Many a penny that
would have gone little way enough in oatmeal or potatoes, bought
opium to still the hungry little ones, and make them forget their
uneasiness in heavy troubled sleep. It was mother's mercy. The
evil and the good of our nature came out strongly then. There were
desperate fathers; there were bitter-tongued mothers (O God! what
wonder!); there were reckless children; the very closest bonds of
nature were snapt in that time of trial and distress. There was Faith
such as the rich can never imagine on earth; there was "Love strong
as death;" and self-denial, among rude, coarse men, akin to that
of Sir Philip Sidney's most glorious deed. The vices of the poor
sometimes astound us _here_; but when the secrets of all hearts shall
be made known, their virtues will astound us in far greater degree.
Of this I am certain.
As the cold bleak spring came on (spring, in name alone), and
consequently 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 in
Carsons' factory, had no work at all. But his son, working at an
engineer's, and a steady man, obtained wages enough to maintain all
the family in a careful way. Still it preyed on Wilson's mind to be
so long indebted to his son. He was out of spirits and depressed.
Barton was morose, and soured towards mankind as a body, and the
rich in particular. One evening, when the clear light at six o'clock
contrasted strangely with the Christmas cold, and when the bitter
wind piped down every entry, and through every cranny, Barton sat
brooding over his stinted fire, and listening for Mary's step, in
unacknowledged trust that her presence would cheer him. The door was
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 [11] want it for mysel, tho' we've none to spare. But don
ye know Ben Davenport as worked at Carsons'? He's down wi' the fever,
and ne'er a stick o' fire, nor a cowd [12] potato in the house."
[Footnote 11: "Don" is constantly used in Lancashire for "do;"
as it was by our older writers. "And that may
non Hors _don_."--_Sir J. Mondeville._ "But for
th' entent to _don_ this sinne."--_Chaucer._]
[Footnote 12: "Cowd," cold. Teut., _kaud_. Dutch, _koud_.]
"I han got no money, I tell ye," said Barton. Wilson looked
disappointed. Barton tried not to be interested, but he could not
help it in spite of his gruffness. He rose, and went to the cupboard
(his wife's pride long ago). There lay the remains of his dinner,
hastily put by ready for supper. Bread, and a slice of cold fat
boiled bacon. He wrapped them in his handkerchief, put them in the
crown of his hat, and said--"Come, let's be going."
"Going--art thou going to work this time o' day?"
"No, stupid, to be sure not. Going to see the fellow thou spoke
on." So they put on their hats and set out. On the way Wilson said
Davenport was a good fellow, though too much of the Methodee; that
his children were too young to work, but not too young to be cold and
hungry; that they had sunk lower and lower, and pawned thing after
thing, and that now they lived in a cellar in Berry Street, off Store
Street. Barton growled inarticulate words of no benevolent import to
a large class of mankind, and so they went along till they arrived
in Berry Street. It was unpaved; and down the middle a gutter forced
its way, every now and then forming pools in the holes with which the
street abounded. Never was the Old Edinburgh cry of "Gardez l'eau"
more necessary than in this street. As they passed, women from their
doors tossed household slops of _every_ description into the gutter;
they ran into the next pool, which overflowed and stagnated. Heaps of
ashes were the stepping-stones, on which the passer-by, who cared in
the least for cleanliness, took care not to put his foot. Our friends
were not dainty, but even they picked their way till they got to some
steps leading down into a small area, where a person standing would
have his head about one foot below the level of the street, and
might at the same time, without the least motion of his body, touch
the window of the cellar and the damp muddy wall right opposite.
You went down one step even from the foul area into the cellar in
which a family of human beings lived. It was very dark inside. The
window-panes were, many of them, broken and stuffed with rags, which
was reason enough for the dusky light that pervaded the place even at
mid-day. After the account I have given of the state of the street,
no one can be surprised that on going into the cellar inhabited by
Davenport, the smell was so foetid as almost to knock the two men
down. Quickly recovering themselves, as those inured to such things
do, they began to penetrate the thick darkness of the place, and to
see three or four little children rolling on the damp, nay wet, brick
floor, through which the stagnant, filthy moisture of the street
oozed up; the fire-place was empty and black; the wife sat on her
husband's lair, and cried in the dank loneliness.
"See, missis, I'm back again.--Hold your noise, children, and don't
mither [13] your mammy for bread; here's a chap as has got some for
you."
[Footnote 13: "Mither," to trouble and perplex. "I'm welly
mithered"--I'm well nigh crazed.]
In that dim light, which was darkness to strangers, they clustered
round 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, and
I'll be back in half-an-hour."
So he strode, and ran, and hurried home. He emptied into the
ever-useful pocket-handkerchief the little meal remaining in the mug.
Mary would have her tea at Miss Simmonds'; her food for the day was
safe. Then he went up-stairs for his better coat, and his one, gay,
red-and-yellow silk pocket-handkerchief--his jewels, his plate, his
valuables, these were. He went to the pawn-shop; he pawned them for
five shillings; he stopped not, nor stayed, till he was once more
in London Road, within five minutes' walk of Berry Street--then he
loitered in his gait, in order to discover the shops he wanted. He
bought meat, and a loaf of bread, candles, chips, and from a little
retail yard he purchased a couple of hundredweights of coals. Some
money yet remained--all destined for them, but he did not yet know
how best to spend it. Food, light, and warmth, he had instantly seen
were necessary; for luxuries he would wait. Wilson's eyes filled with
tears when he saw Barton enter with his purchases. He understood
it all, and longed to be once more in work, that he might help in
some of these material ways, without feeling that he was using his
son's money. But though "silver and gold he had none," he gave
heart-service and love works of far more value. Nor was John Barton
behind in these. "The fever" was (as it usually is in Manchester) of
a low, putrid, typhoid kind; brought on by miserable living, filthy
neighbourhood, and great depression of mind and body. It is virulent,
malignant, and highly infectious. But the poor are fatalists with
regard to infection; and well for them it is so, for in their crowded
dwellings no invalid can be isolated. Wilson asked Barton if he
thought he should catch it, and was laughed 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 way
up the damp, unused chimney. The very smoke seemed purifying and
healthy in the thick clammy air. The children clamoured again for
bread; 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 heavy unresisting bang. The
men looked puzzled. "She's well-nigh clemmed," said Barton. "Folk
do say one mustn't give clemmed people much to eat; but, bless us,
she'll eat nought."
"I'll tell yo what I'll do," said Wilson. "I'll take these two big
lads, as does nought but fight, home to my missis's for to-night,
and I'll get a jug o' tea. Them women always does best with tea and
such-like slop."
So Barton was now left alone with a little child, crying (when it had
done eating) for mammy; with a fainting, dead-like woman; and with
the sick man, whose mutterings were rising up to screams and shrieks
of agonised anxiety. He carried the woman to the fire, and chafed her
hands. He looked around for something to raise her head. There was
literally nothing but some loose bricks. However, those he got; and
taking off his coat he covered them with it as well as he could. He
pulled her feet to the fire, which now began to emit some faint heat.
He looked round for water, but the poor woman had been too weak to
drag herself out to the distant pump, and water there was none. He
snatched the child, and ran up the area-steps to the room above, and
borrowed their only saucepan with some water in it. Then he began,
with the useful skill of a working-man, to make some gruel; and when
it was hastily made he seized a battered iron table-spoon (kept when
many other little things had been sold in a lot), in order to feed
baby, and with it he forced one or two drops between her clenched
teeth. The mouth opened mechanically to receive more, and gradually
she revived. She sat up and looked round; and recollecting all, fell
down again in weak and passive despair. Her little child crawled to
her, and wiped with its fingers 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 damp and mouldy no dog would have chosen it in
preference to flags; over it was a piece of sacking, coming next to
his worn skeleton of a body; above him was mustered every article
of clothing that could be spared by mother or children this bitter
weather; and in addition to his own, these might have given as much
warmth as one blanket, could they 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 of his skin. Every now and then he started
up in his naked madness, looking like the prophet of woe in the
fearful plague-picture; but he soon fell again in exhaustion, and
Barton found he must be closely watched, lest in these falls he
should injure himself against the hard brick floor. He was thankful
when Wilson re-appeared, carrying in both hands a jug of steaming
tea, intended for the poor wife; but when the delirious husband saw
drink, he snatched at it with animal instinct, with a selfishness he
had never shown in health.
Then the two men consulted together. It seemed decided, without a
word being spoken on the subject, that both should spend the night
with the forlorn couple; that was settled. But could no doctor be
had? In all probability, no; the next day an infirmary order might be
begged, but meanwhile the only medical advice they could have must be
from a druggist's. So Barton (being the moneyed man) set out 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 vividly shown
than by day, and of all shops a druggist's looks the most like the
tales of our childhood, from Aladdin's garden of enchanted fruits
to the charming Rosamond with her purple jar. No such associations
had Barton; yet he felt the contrast between the well-filled,
well-lighted shops and the dim gloomy cellar, and it made him moody
that such contrasts should exist. They are the mysterious problem of
life to more than him. He wondered if any in all the hurrying crowd
had come from such a house of mourning. He thought they all looked
joyous, and he was angry with them. But he could not, you cannot,
read the lot of those who daily pass you by in 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 desperate in her abandonment,
laughing in mad merriment with her outward gesture, while her soul
is longing for the rest of the dead, and bringing itself to think
of the cold-flowing river as the only mercy of God remaining to her
here. You may pass the criminal, meditating crimes at which you will
to-morrow shudder with horror as you read them. You may push against
one, humble and unnoticed, the last upon earth, who in Heaven will
for ever be in the immediate light of God's countenance. Errands of
mercy--errands of sin--did you ever think where all the thousands of
people you daily meet are bound? Barton's was an errand of mercy; but
the thoughts of his heart were touched by sin, by bitter hatred of
the happy, whom he, for the time, confounded with the selfish.
He reached a druggist's shop, and entered. The druggist (whose smooth
manners seemed to have been salved over with his own spermaceti)
listened attentively to Barton's description of Davenport's illness;
concluded it was typhus fever, very prevalent in that neighbourhood;
and proceeded to make up a bottle of medicine, sweet spirits of
nitre, or some such innocent potion, very good for slight colds, but
utterly powerless to stop, for an instant, the raging fever of the
poor man it was intended to relieve. He recommended the same course
they had previously determined to adopt, applying the next morning
for an infirmary order; and Barton left the shop with comfortable
faith in the physic given 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. He
had soothed, and covered the man many a time; he had fed and hushed
the little child, and spoken tenderly to the woman, who lay still
in her weakness and her weariness. He had opened a door, but only
for an instant; it led into a back cellar, with a grating instead
of a window, down which dropped the moisture from pigsties, and
worse abominations. It was not paved; the floor was one mass of bad
smelling mud. It had never been used, for there was not an article of
furniture in it; nor could a human being, much less a pig, have lived
there many days. Yet the "back apartment" made a difference in the
rent. The Davenports paid threepence more for having two rooms. When
he turned round again, he saw the woman suckling the child from her
dry, withered breast.
"Surely the lad is weaned!" exclaimed he, in surprise. "Why, how old
is he?"
"Going on two year," she faintly answered. "But, oh! it keeps him
quiet when I've nought else to gi' him, and he'll get a bit of sleep
lying there, if he's getten [14] nought beside. We han done our best
to gi' the childer [15] food, howe'er we pinched ourselves."
[Footnote 14: "For he had _geten_ him yet no benefice."--_Prologue
to Canterbury Tales._]
[Footnote 15: Wicklife uses "_childre_" in his Apology, page 26.]
"Han [16] ye had no money fra th' town?"
[Footnote 16: "What concord _han_ light and dark."--_Spenser._]
"No; my master is Buckinghamshire born; and he's feared the town
would send him back to his parish, if he went to th' board; so we've
just borne on in hope o' better times. But I think they'll never come
in my day;" and the poor woman began her weak high-pitched cry again.
"Here, sup [17] this drop o' gruel, and then try and get a bit o'
sleep. John and I'll watch by your master to-night."
[Footnote 17: "And thay _soupe_ the brothe thereof."--_Sir J.
Mandeville._]
"God's blessing be on you!"
She finished the gruel, and fell into a deep sleep. Wilson covered
her 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 she
roused to pull the coat round her little child.
And now all Wilson's care, and Barton's to boot, was wanted to
restrain the wild mad agony of the fevered man. He started up, he
yelled, he seemed infuriated by overwhelming anxiety. He cursed and
swore, which surprised Wilson, who knew his piety in health, and who
did not know the unbridled tongue of delirium. At length he seemed
exhausted, and fell asleep; and Barton and Wilson drew near the fire,
and talked together in whispers. They sat on the floor, for chairs
there were none; the sole table was an old tub turned upside-down.
They put out the candle and conversed by the flickering fire-light.
"Han yo known this chap long?" asked Barton.
"Better nor three year. He's worked wi' Carsons that long, and
were alway a steady, civil-spoken fellow, though, as I said afore,
somewhat of a Methodee. I wish I'd gotten a letter he sent his
missis, a week or two agone, when he were on tramp for work. It did
my heart good to read it; for, yo see, I were a bit grumbling mysel;
it seemed hard to be spunging on Jem, and taking a' his flesh-meat
money to buy bread for me and them as I ought to be keeping. But, yo
know, though I can earn nought, I mun eat summut. Well, as I telled
ye, I were grumbling, when she (indicating the sleeping woman by a
nod) brought me Ben's letter, for she could na read hersel. It were
as good as Bible-words; ne'er a word o' repining; a' about God being
our Father, and that we mun bear patiently whate'er He sends."
"Don ye think He's th' masters' Father, too? I'd be loath to have 'em
for brothers."
"Eh, John! donna talk so; sure there's many and many a master as good
or better nor us."
"If you think so, tell me this. How comes it they're rich, and we're
poor? I'd like to know that. Han they done as they'd be done by for
us?"
But Wilson was no arguer; no speechifier as he would have called it.
So Barton, seeing he was likely to have it his own way, went on.
"You'll say (at least many a one does), they'n [18] getten capital
an' we'n getten none. I say, our labour's our capital and we ought
to draw interest on that. They get interest on their capital somehow
a' this time, while ourn is lying idle, else how could they all live
as they do? Besides, there's many on 'em as had nought to begin wi';
there's Carsons, and Duncombes, and Mengies, and many another, as
comed into Manchester with clothes to their back, and that were all,
and now they're worth their tens of thousands, a' getten out of
our labour; why the very land as fetched but sixty pound twenty
year agone is now worth six hundred, and that, too, is owing to
our labour: but look at yo, and see me, and poor Davenport yonder;
whatten better are we? They'n screwed us down to th' lowest peg, in
order to make their great big fortunes, and build their great big
houses, and we, why we're just clemming, many and many of us. Can you
say there's nought wrong in this?"
[Footnote 18: "They'n," contraction of "they han," they have.]
"Well, Barton, I'll not gainsay ye. But Mr. Carson spoke to me after
th' fire, and says he, 'I shall ha' to retrench, and be very careful
in my expenditure during these bad times, I assure ye;' so yo see th'
masters suffer too."
"Han they ever seen a child o' their'n die for want o' food?" asked
Barton, in a low, deep voice.
"I donnot mean," continued he, "to say as I'm so badly off. I'd
scorn to speak for mysel; but when I see such men as Davenport there
dying away, for very clemming, I cannot stand it. I've but gotten
Mary, and she keeps hersel pretty much. I think we'll ha' to give up
house-keeping; but that I donnot mind."
And in this kind of talk the night, the long heavy night of watching,
wore away. As far as they could judge, Davenport continued in the
same state, although the symptoms varied occasionally. The wife slept
on, only roused by a cry of her child now and then, which seemed to
have power over her, when far louder noises failed to disturb her.
The watchers agreed, that as soon as it was likely Mr. Carson would
be up and visible, Wilson should go to his house, and beg for an
Infirmary order. At length the gray dawn penetrated even into the
dark cellar. Davenport slept, and Barton was to remain there until
Wilson's return; so stepping out into the fresh air, brisk and
reviving, even in that street of abominations, Wilson took his way to
Mr. Carson's.
Wilson had about two miles to walk before he reached Mr. Carson's
house, which was almost in the country. The streets were not yet
bustling and busy. The shopmen were lazily taking down the shutters,
although it was near eight o'clock; for the day was long enough for
the purchases people made in that quarter of the town, while trade
was so flat. One or two miserable-looking women were setting off on
their day's begging expedition. But there were few people abroad. Mr.
Carson's was a good house, and furnished with disregard to expense.
But in addition to lavish expenditure, there was much taste shown,
and many articles chosen for their beauty and elegance adorned
his rooms. As Wilson passed a window which a housemaid had thrown
open, he saw pictures and gilding, at which he was tempted to stop
and look; but then he thought it would not be respectful. So he
hastened on to the kitchen door. The servants seemed very busy with
preparations for breakfast; but good-naturedly, though hastily,
told him to step in, and they could soon let Mr. Carson know he was
there. So he was ushered into a kitchen hung round with glittering
tins, where a roaring fire burnt merrily, and where numbers of
utensils hung round, at whose nature and use Wilson amused himself
by guessing. Meanwhile, the servants bustled to and fro; an out-door
man-servant came in for orders, and sat down near Wilson; the cook
broiled steaks, and the kitchen-maid toasted bread, and boiled eggs.
The coffee steamed upon the fire, and altogether the odours were so
mixed and appetising, that Wilson began to yearn for food to break
his fast, which had lasted since dinner the day before. If the
servants had known this, they would have willingly given him meat
and bread in abundance; but they were like the rest of us, and not
feeling hunger themselves, forgot it was possible another might. So
Wilson's craving turned to sickness, while they chattered on, making
the 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 rooms
by twelve; and there I was. But it was two o'clock before they called
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 for
a bit of gossip.
"My eye as like! you don't think I'm such a fool as to catch my death
of cold, and let the horses catch their death too, as we should ha'
done if we'd stopped there. No! I put th' horses up in th' stables at
th' Spread Eagle, and went mysel, and got a glass or two 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 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, and
not mine. Flesh and blood can't sit to be starved to death on a
coach-box, waiting for folks as don't know their own mind."
A servant, semi-upper-housemaid, semi-lady's-maid, now came down with
orders from her mistress.
"Thomas, you must ride to the fishmonger's, and say missis can't give
above half-a-crown a pound for salmon for Tuesday; she's grumbling
because trade's so bad. And she'll want the carriage at three to go
to 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 very
black this morning. She's got a bad headache."
"It's a pity Miss Jenkins is not here to match her. Lord! how she and
missis did quarrel which had got the worst headaches; it was that
Miss Jenkins left for; she would not give up having bad headaches,
and missis could not abide any one to have 'em but herself."
"Missis will have her breakfast up-stairs, cook, and the cold
partridge as was left yesterday, and put plenty of cream in her
coffee, and she thinks there's a roll left, and she would like it
well buttered."
So saying, the maid left the kitchen to be ready to attend to the
young ladies' bell when they chose to ring, after their late assembly
the night before.
In the luxurious library, at the well-spread breakfast-table, sat
the two Mr. Carsons, father and son. Both were reading; the father
a newspaper, the son a review, while they lazily enjoyed their
nicely prepared food. The father was a prepossessing-looking old
man; perhaps self-indulgent you might guess. The son was strikingly
handsome, and knew it. His dress was neat and well appointed, and his
manners far more gentlemanly than his father's. He was the only son,
and his sisters were proud of him; his father and mother were proud
of him: he could not set up his judgment against theirs; he was proud
of himself.
The door opened and in bounded Amy, the sweet youngest daughter of
the house, a lovely girl of sixteen, fresh and glowing, and bright
as a rosebud. She was too young to go to assemblies, at which her
father rejoiced, for he had little Amy with her pretty jokes, and her
bird-like songs, and her playful caresses all the evening to amuse
him in his loneliness; and she was not too much tired, like Sophy and
Helen, to give him her sweet company at breakfast the next morning.
He submitted willingly while she blinded him with her hands, and
kissed his rough red face all over. She took his newspaper away after
a little pretended resistance, and would not allow her brother Harry
to go on with his review.
"I'm the only lady this morning, papa, so you know you must make a
great deal of me."
"My darling, I think you have your own way always, whether you're the
only lady or not."
"Yes, papa, you're pretty good and obedient, I must say that; but I'm
sorry to say Harry is very naughty, and does not do what I tell him;
do you, Harry?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean to accuse me of, Amy; I expected
praise and not blame; for did not I get you that eau de Portugal from
town, that you could not meet with at Hughes', you little ungrateful
puss?"
"Did you! Oh, sweet Harry; you're as sweet as eau de Portugal
yourself; you're almost as good as papa; but still you know you did
go and forget to ask Bigland for that rose, that new rose they say he
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 very
small 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 can't live without flowers and scents."
Mr. Carson tried to refuse his darling, but she coaxed him into
acquiescence, saying she must have it, it was one of her necessaries.
Life was not worth having without flowers.
"Then, Amy," said her brother, "try and be content with peonies and
dandelions."
"Oh, you wretch! I don't call them flowers. Besides, you're every bit
as extravagant. Who gave half-a-crown for a bunch of lilies of the
valley at Yates', a month ago, and then would not let his poor little
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 one
of 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 of
the 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 if
you'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 year, 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 have an in-patient's order to spare; they're always
wanted for accidents, you know. But I'll give you an out-patient's,
and welcome."
So saying, he rose up, unlocked a drawer, pondered a minute, and then
gave Wilson an out-patient's order to be presented the following
Monday. Monday! How many days there were before Monday!
Meanwhile, the younger Mr. Carson had ended his review, and began to
listen to what was going on. He finished his breakfast, got up, and
pulled five shillings out of his pocket, which he gave to Wilson
as he passed him, for the "poor fellow." He went past quickly, and
calling for his horse, mounted gaily, and rode away. He was anxious
to 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 be disappointed.
Wilson left the house, not knowing whether to be pleased or grieved.
It was long to Monday, but they had all spoken kindly to him, and who
could tell if they might not remember this, and do something before
Monday. Besides, the cook, who, when she had had time to think, after
breakfast was sent in, had noticed his paleness, had had meat and
bread ready to put in his hand when he came out of the parlour; and a
full stomach makes every one of us more hopeful.
When he reached Berry Street, he had persuaded himself he bore good
news, and felt almost elated in his heart. But it fell when he opened
the cellar-door, and saw Barton and the wife both bending over the
sick man's couch with awe-struck, saddened look.
"Come here," said Barton. "There's a change comed over him sin' yo
left, 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 the eyes
were open and sensible, though the films of the grave were settling
upon them.
"He wakened fra his sleep, as yo left him in, and began to mutter and
moan; but he soon went off again, and we never knew he were awake
till he called his wife, but now she's here he's gotten nought to say
to her."
Most probably, as they all felt, he could not speak, for his strength
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. Their eyes were all
fixed on the yet living one, whose moments of life were passing so
rapidly away. At length he brought (with jerking, convulsive effort)
his two hands into the attitude of prayer. They saw his lips move,
and bent to catch the words, which came in gasps, and not in tones.
"Oh Lord God! I thank thee, that the hard struggle of living is
over."
"Oh, Ben! Ben!" wailed forth his wife, "have you no thought for me?
Oh, Ben! Ben! do say one word to help me through life."
He could not speak again. The trump of the archangel would set his
tongue free; but not a word more would it utter till then. Yet he
heard, he understood, and though sight failed, he moved his hand
gropingly over the covering. They knew what he meant, and guided it
to her head, bowed and hidden in her hands, when she had sunk in her
woe. It rested there, with a feeble pressure of endearment. The face
grew beautiful, as the soul neared God. A peace beyond understanding
came over it. The hand was a heavy, stiff weight on the wife's
head. No more grief or sorrow for him. They reverently laid out the
corpse--Wilson fetching his only spare shirt to array it in. The wife
still lay hidden in the clothes, in a stupor of agony.
There was a knock at the door, and Barton went to open it. It
was Mary, who had received a message from her father, through a
neighbour, telling her where he was; and she had set out early to
come and have a word with him before her day's work; but some errands
she had to do for Miss Simmonds had detained her until now.
"Come in, wench!" said her father. "Try if thou canst comfort yon
poor, poor woman, kneeling down there. God help her." Mary did not
know what to say, or how to comfort; but she knelt down by her, and
put her arm round her neck, and in a little while fell to crying
herself so bitterly, that the source of tears was opened by sympathy
in the widow, and her full heart was, for a time, relieved.
And Mary forgot all purposed meeting with her gay lover, Harry
Carson; forgot Miss Simmonds' errands, and her anger, in the anxious
desire to comfort the poor lone woman. Never had her sweet face
looked more angelic, never had her gentle voice seemed so musical as
when she murmured her broken sentences of comfort.
"Oh, don't cry so, dear Mrs. Davenport, pray don't take on so. Sure
he's gone where he'll never know care again. Yes, I know how lonesome
you must feel; but think of your children. Oh! we'll all help to earn
food for 'em. Think how sorry _he'd_ be, if he sees you fretting so.
Don't cry so, please don't."
And she ended by crying herself, as passionately as the poor widow.
It was agreed that the town must bury him; he had paid to a burial
club as long as he could; but by a few weeks' omission, he had
forfeited his claim to a sum of money now. Would Mrs. Davenport and
the little child go home with Mary? The latter brightened up as she
urged this plan; but no! where the poor, fondly loved remains were,
there would the mourner be; and all that they could do was to make
her as comfortable as their funds would allow, and to beg a neighbour
to look in and say a word at times. So she was left alone with her
dead, and they went to work that had work, and he who had none, took
upon him the arrangements for the funeral.
Mary had many a scolding from Miss Simmonds that day for her absence
of mind. To be sure Miss Simmonds was much put out by Mary's
non-appearance in the morning with certain bits of muslin, and shades
of silk which were wanted to complete a dress to be worn that night;
but it was true enough that Mary did not mind what she was about;
she was too busy planning how her old black gown (her best when
her mother died) might be spunged, and turned, and lengthened into
something like decent mourning for the widow. And when she went home
at night (though it was very late, as a sort of retribution 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 now and then, to check
herself in singing merry ditties, that she felt little accorded with
the sewing on which she was engaged.
So when the funeral day came, Mrs. Davenport was neatly arrayed in
black, a satisfaction to her poor heart in the midst of her sorrow.
Barton and Wilson both accompanied her, as she led her two elder
boys, and followed the coffin. It was a simple walking funeral, with
nothing to grate on the feelings of any; far more in accordance with
its purpose, to my mind, than the gorgeous hearses, and nodding
plumes, which form the grotesque funeral pomp of respectable people.
There was no "rattling the bones over the stones," of the pauper's
funeral. Decently and quietly was he followed to the grave by one
determined to endure her woe meekly for his sake. The only mark of
pauperism attendant on the burial concerned the living and joyous,
far more than the dead, or the sorrowful. When they arrived in the
churchyard, they halted before a raised and handsome tombstone; in
reality a wooden mockery of stone respectabilities which adorned the
burial-ground. It was easily raised in a very few minutes, and below
was the grave in which pauper bodies were piled until within a foot
or two of the surface; when the soil was shovelled over, and stamped
down, and the wooden cover went to do temporary duty over another
hole. [19] But little they recked of this who now gave up their dead.
[Footnote 19: The case, to my certain knowledge, in one
churchyard in Manchester. There may be more.]