MARGARET'S DEBUT AS A PUBLIC SINGER.
"Deal gently with them, they have much endured.
Scoff not at their fond hopes and earnest plans,
Though they may seem to thee wild dreams and fancies.
Perchance, in the rough school of stern experience,
They've something learned which Theory does not teach;
Or if they greatly err, deal gently still,
And let their error but the stronger plead
'Give us the light and guidance that we need!'"
LOVE THOUGHTS.
One Sunday afternoon, about three weeks after that mournful night,
Jem Wilson set out with the ostensible purpose of calling on John
Barton. He was dressed in his best, his Sunday suit of course; while
his face glittered with the scrubbing he had bestowed on it. His dark
black hair had been arranged and re-arranged before the household
looking-glass, and in his button-hole he stuck a narcissus (a sweet
Nancy is its pretty Lancashire name), hoping it would attract Mary's
notice, so that he might have the delight of giving it her.
It was a bad beginning of his visit of happiness that Mary saw him
some minutes before he came into her father's house. She was sitting
at the end of the dresser, with the little window-blind drawn on one
side, in order that she might see the passers-by, in the intervals
of reading her Bible, which lay open before her. So she watched
all the greeting a friend gave Jem; she saw the face of condolence,
the sympathetic shake of the hand, and had time to arrange her own
face and manner before Jem came in, which he did, as if he had eyes
for no one but her father, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire,
while he read an old "Northern Star," borrowed from a neighbouring
public-house.
Then he turned to Mary, who, he felt by the sure instinct of love,
by which almost his body thought, was present. Her hands were busy
adjusting her dress; a forced and unnecessary movement Jem could not
help thinking. Her accost was quiet and friendly, if grave; she felt
that she reddened like a rose, and wished she could prevent it, while
Jem wondered if her blushes arose from fear, or anger, or love.
She was very cunning, I am afraid. She pretended to read diligently,
and not to listen to a word that was said, while, in fact, she heard
all sounds, even to Jem's long, deep sighs, which wrung her heart. At
last she took up her Bible, and as if their conversation disturbed
her, went up-stairs to her little room. And she had scarcely spoken
a word to Jem; scarcely looked at him; never noticed his beautiful
sweet Nancy, which only awaited her least word of praise to be hers!
He did not know--that pang was spared--that in her little dingy
bed-room, stood a white jug, filled with a luxuriant bunch of early
spring roses, making the whole room fragrant and bright. They were
the gift of her richer lover. So Jem had to go on sitting with John
Barton, fairly caught in his own trap, and had to listen to his talk,
and answer him as best he might.
"There's the right stuff in this here 'Star,' and no mistake. Such a
right-down piece for short hours."
"At the same rate of wages as now?" asked Jem.
"Ay, ay! else where's the use? It's only taking out o' the masters'
pocket what they can well afford. Did I ever tell yo what th'
Infirmary chap let me into, many a year agone?"
"No," said Jem, listlessly.
"Well! yo must know I were in th' Infirmary for a fever, and times
were rare and bad; and there be good chaps there to a man, while he's
wick, [22] whate'er they may be about cutting him up at after. [23]
So when I were better o' th' fever, but weak as water, they says to
me, says they, 'If yo can write, yo may stay in a week longer, and
help our surgeon wi' sorting his papers; and we'll take care yo've
your belly full o' meat and drink. Yo'll be twice as strong in a
week.' So there wanted but one word to that bargain. So I were set to
writing and copying; th' writing I could do well enough, but they'd
such queer ways o' spelling that I'd ne'er been used to, that I'd to
look first at th' copy and then at my letters, for all the world like
a cock picking up grains o' corn. But one thing startled me e'en
then, and I thought I'd make bold to ask the surgeon the meaning o't.
I've gotten no head for numbers, but this I know, that by _far th'
greater part o' th' accidents as comed in, happened in th' last two
hours o' work_, when folk getten tired and careless. Th' surgeon
said it were all true, and that he were going to bring that fact to
light."
[Footnote 22: "Wick," alive. Anglo-Saxon, cwic. "The _quick_
and the dead."--_Book of Common Prayer._]
[Footnote 23: "At after." "_At after souper goth this noble
king._" _Chaucer; The Squire's Tale._]
Jem was pondering Mary's conduct; but the pause made him aware he
ought to utter some civil listening noise; so he said
"Very true."
"Ay, it's true enough, my lad, that we're sadly over-borne, and worse
will come of it afore long. Block-printers is going to strike; they'n
getten a bang-up union, as won't let 'em be put upon. But there's
many a thing will happen afore long, as folk don't expect. Yo may
take my word for that, Jem."
Jem was very willing to take it, but did not express the curiosity
he should have done. So John Barton thought he'd try another hint or
two.
"Working folk won't be ground to the dust much longer. We'n a' had as
much to bear as human nature can bear. So, if th' masters can't do us
no good, and they say they can't, we mun try higher folk."
Still Jem was not curious. He gave up hope of seeing Mary again by
her own good free will; and the next best thing would be, to be alone
to think of her. So, muttering something which he meant to serve
as an excuse for his sudden departure, he hastily wished John good
afternoon, and left him to resume his pipe and his politics.
For three years past, trade had been getting worse and worse, and the
price of provisions higher and higher. This disparity between the
amount of the earnings of the working classes and the price of their
food, occasioned, in more cases than could well be imagined, disease
and death. Whole families went through a gradual starvation. They
only wanted a Dante to record their sufferings. And yet even his
words would fall short of the awful truth; they could only present an
outline of the tremendous facts of the destitution that surrounded
thousands upon thousands in the terrible years 1839, 1840, and 1841.
Even philanthropists who had studied the subject, were forced to own
themselves perplexed in their endeavour to ascertain the real causes
of the misery; the whole matter was of so complicated a nature,
that it became next to impossible to understand it thoroughly. It
need excite no surprise then to learn that a bad feeling between
working-men and the upper classes became very strong in this season
of privation. The indigence and sufferings of the operatives induced
a suspicion in the minds of many of them, that their legislators,
their magistrates, their employers, and even the ministers of
religion, were, in general, their oppressors and enemies; and were in
league for their prostration and enthralment. The most deplorable and
enduring evil that arose out of the period of commercial depression
to which I refer, was this feeling of alienation between the
different classes of society. It is so impossible to describe, or
even faintly to picture, the state of distress which prevailed in the
town at that time, that I will not attempt it; and yet I think again
that surely, in a Christian land, it was not known even so feebly
as words could tell it, or the more happy and fortunate would have
thronged with their sympathy and their aid. In many instances the
sufferers wept first, and then they cursed. Their vindictive feelings
exhibited themselves in rabid politics. And when I hear, as I have
heard, of the sufferings and privations of the poor, of provision
shops where ha'porths of tea, sugar, butter, and even flour, were
sold to accommodate the indigent,--of parents sitting in their
clothes by the fire-side during the whole night for seven weeks
together, in order that their only bed and bedding might be reserved
for the use of their large family,--of others sleeping upon the
cold hearth-stone for weeks in succession, without adequate means
of providing themselves with food or fuel (and this in the depth
of winter),--of others being compelled to fast for days together,
uncheered by any hope of better fortune, living, moreover, or rather
starving, in a crowded garret, or damp cellar, and gradually sinking
under the pressure of want and despair into a premature grave; and
when this has been confirmed by the evidence of their care-worn
looks, their excited feelings, and their desolate homes,--can I
wonder that many of them, in such times of misery and destitution,
spoke and acted with ferocious precipitation?
An idea was now springing up among the operatives, that originated
with the Chartists, but which came at last to be cherished as a
darling child by many and many a one. They could not believe that
government knew of their misery; they rather chose to think it
possible that men could voluntarily assume the office of legislators
for a nation, ignorant of its real state; as who should make domestic
rules for the pretty behaviour of children, without caring to know
that those children had been kept for days without food. Besides,
the starving multitudes had heard, that the very existence of their
distress had been denied in Parliament; and though they felt this
strange and inexplicable, yet the idea that their misery had still
to be revealed in all its depths, and that then some remedy would be
found, soothed their aching hearts, and kept down their rising fury.
So a petition was framed, and signed by thousands in the bright
spring days of 1839, imploring Parliament to hear witnesses who
could testify to the unparalleled destitution of the manufacturing
districts. Nottingham, Sheffield, Glasgow, Manchester, and many other
towns, were busy appointing delegates to convey this petition, who
might speak, not merely of what they had seen, and had heard, but
from what they had borne and suffered. Life-worn, gaunt, anxious,
hunger-stamped men, were those delegates.
One of them was John Barton. He would have been ashamed to own the
flutter of spirits his appointment gave him. There was the childish
delight of seeing London--that went a little way, and but a little
way. There was the vain idea of speaking out his notions before so
many grand folk--that went a little further; and last, there was the
really pure gladness of heart, arising from the idea that he was one
of those chosen to be instruments in making known the distresses of
the people, and consequently in procuring them some grand relief,
by means of which they should never suffer want or care any more.
He hoped largely, but vaguely, of the results of his expedition. An
argosy of the precious hopes of many otherwise despairing creatures,
was that petition to be heard concerning their sufferings.
The night before the morning on which the Manchester delegates were
to leave for London, Barton might be said to hold a levée, so many
neighbours came dropping in. Job Legh had early established himself
and his pipe by John Barton's fire, not saying much, but puffing
away, and imagining himself of use in adjusting the smoothing-irons
that hung before the fire, ready for Mary when she should want them.
As for Mary, her employment was the same as that of Beau Tibbs' wife,
"just washing her father's two shirts," in the pantry back-kitchen;
for she was anxious about his appearance in London. (The coat had
been redeemed, though the silk handkerchief was forfeited.) The door
stood open, as usual, between the houseplace and back-kitchen, so she
gave her greeting to their friends as they entered.
"So, John, yo're bound for London, are yo?" said one.
"Ay, I suppose I mun go," answered John, yielding to necessity as it
were.
"Well, there's many a thing I'd like yo to speak on to the Parliament
people. Thou'lt not spare 'em, John, I hope. Tell 'em our minds; how
we're thinking we've been clemmed long enough, and we donnot see
whatten good they'n been doing, if they can't give us what we're all
crying for sin' the day we were born."
"Ay, ay! I'll tell 'em that, and much more to it, when it gets to my
turn; but thou knows there's many will have their word afore me."
"Well, thou'lt speak at last. Bless thee, lad, do ask 'em to make
th' masters break th' machines. There's never been good times sin'
spinning-jennies came up."
"Machines is th' ruin of poor folk," chimed in several voices.
"For my part," said a shivering, half-clad man, who crept near the
fire, as if ague-stricken, "I would like thee to tell 'em to pass th'
Short-hours Bill. Flesh and blood gets wearied wi' so much work; why
should factory hands work so much longer nor other trades? Just ask
'em that, Barton, will ye?"
Barton was saved the necessity of answering, by the entrance of
Mrs. Davenport, the poor widow he had been so kind to; she looked
half-fed, and eager, but was decently clad. In her hand she brought a
little newspaper parcel, which she took to Mary, who opened it, and
then called out, dangling a shirt collar from her soapy fingers:
"See, father, what a dandy you'll be in London! Mrs. Davenport has
brought you this; made new cut, all after the fashion.--Thank you for
thinking on him."
"Eh, Mary!" said Mrs. Davenport, in a low voice. "Whatten's all I can
do, to what he's done for me and mine? But, Mary, sure I can help ye,
for you'll be busy wi' this journey."
"Just help me wring these out, and then I'll take 'em to th' mangle."
So Mrs. Davenport became a listener to the conversation; and after a
while joined in.
"I'm sure, John Barton, if yo are taking messages to the Parliament
folk, yo'll not object to telling 'em what a sore trial it is, this
law o' theirs, keeping childer fra' factory work, whether they be
weakly or strong. There's our Ben; why, porridge seems to go no way
wi' him, he eats so much; and I han gotten no money to send him t'
school, as I would like; and there he is, rampaging about th' streets
a' day, getting hungrier and hungrier, and picking up a' manner o'
bad ways; and th' inspector won't let him in to work in th' factory,
because he's not right age; though he's twice as strong as Sankey's
little ritling [24] of a lad, as works till he cries for his legs
aching so, though he is right age, and better."
[Footnote 24: "Ritling," probably a corruption of "ricketling,"
a child that suffers from the rickets--a weakling.]
"I've one plan I wish to tell John Barton," said a pompous,
careful-speaking man, "and I should like him for to lay it afore
the Honourable House. My mother comed out o' Oxfordshire, and were
under-laundry-maid in Sir Francis Dashwood's family; and when we were
little ones, she'd tell us stories of their grandeur; and one thing
she named were, that Sir Francis wore two shirts a day. Now he were
all as one as a Parliament man; and many on 'em, I han no doubt, are
like extravagant. Just tell 'em, John, do, that they'd be doing th'
Lancashire weavers a great kindness, if they'd ha' their shirts a'
made o' calico; 'twould make trade brisk, that would, wi' the power
o' shirts they wear."
Job Legh now put in his word. Taking the pipe out of his mouth, and
addressing the last speaker, he said:
"I'll tell ye what, Bill, and no offence, mind ye; there's but
hundreds of them Parliament folk as wear so many shirts to their
back; but there's thousands and thousands o' poor weavers as han
only gotten one shirt i' th' world; ay, and don't know where t'
get another when that rag's done, though they're turning out miles
o' calico every day; and many a mile o't is lying in warehouses,
stopping up trade for want o' purchasers. Yo take my advice, John
Barton, and ask Parliament to set trade free, so as workmen can earn
a decent wage, and buy their two, ay and three, shirts a-year; that
would make weaving brisk."
He put his pipe in his mouth again, and redoubled his puffing to make
up for lost time.
"I'm afeard, neighbours," said John Barton, "I've not much chance o'
telling 'em all yo say; what I think on, is just speaking out about
the distress that they say is nought. When they hear o' children born
on wet flags, without a rag t' cover 'em, or a bit o' food for th'
mother; when they hear of folk lying down to die i' th' streets, or
hiding their want i' some hole o' a cellar till death come to set 'em
free; and when they hear o' all this plague, pestilence, and famine,
they'll surely do somewhat wiser for us than we can guess at now.
Howe'er, I han no objection, if so be there's an opening, to speak up
for what yo say; anyhow, I'll do my best, and yo see now, if better
times don't come after Parliament knows all."
Some shook their heads, but more looked cheery; and then one by one
dropped off, leaving John and his daughter alone.
"Didst thou mark how poorly Jane Wilson looked?" asked he, as they
wound up their hard day's work by a supper eaten over the fire, which
glowed and glimmered through the room, and formed their only light.
"No, I can't say as I did. But she's never rightly held up her head
since the twins died; and all along she has never been a strong
woman."
"Never sin' her accident. Afore that I mind her looking as fresh and
likely a girl as e'er a one in Manchester."
"What accident, father?"
"She cotched [25] her side again a wheel. It were afore wheels were
boxed up. It were just when she were to have been married, and many
a one thought George would ha' been off his bargain; but I knew he
wern't the chap for that trick. Pretty near the first place she went
to when she were able to go about again, was th' Oud Church; poor
wench, all pale and limping she went up the aisle, George holding
her up as tender as a mother, and walking as slow as e'er he could,
not to hurry her, though there were plenty enow of rude lads to cast
their jests at him and her. Her face were white like a sheet when
she came in church, but afore she got to th' altar she were all one
flush. But for a' that it's been a happy marriage, and George has
stuck by me through life like a brother. He'll never hold up his head
again if he loses Jane. I didn't like her looks to-night."
[Footnote 25: "Cotched," caught.]
And so he went to bed, the fear of forthcoming sorrow to his friend
mingling with his thoughts of to-morrow, and his hopes for the
future. Mary watched him set off, with her hands over her eyes to
shade them from the bright slanting rays of the morning sun, and then
she turned into the house to arrange its disorder before going to
her work. She wondered if she should like or dislike the evening and
morning solitude; for several hours when the clock struck she thought
of her father, and wondered where he was; she made good resolutions
according to her lights; and by-and-bye came the distractions and
events of the broad full day to occupy her with the present, and to
deaden the memory of the absent.
One of Mary's resolutions was, that she would not be persuaded or
induced to see Mr. Harry Carson during her father's absence. There
was something crooked in her conscience after all; for this very
resolution seemed an acknowledgment that it was wrong to meet him at
any time; and yet she had brought herself to think her conduct quite
innocent and proper, for although unknown to her father, and certain,
even did he know it, to fail of obtaining his sanction, she esteemed
her love-meetings with Mr. Carson as sure to end in her father's good
and happiness. But now that he was away, she would do nothing that he
would disapprove of; no, not even though it was for his own good in
the end.
Now, amongst Miss Simmonds' young ladies was one who had been from
the beginning a confidant in Mary's love affair, made so by Mr.
Carson himself. He had felt the necessity of some third person to
carry letters and messages, and to plead his cause when he was
absent. In a girl named Sally Leadbitter he had found a willing
advocate. She would have been willing to have embarked in a
love-affair herself (especially a clandestine one), for the mere
excitement of the thing; but her willingness was strengthened by
sundry half-sovereigns, which from time to time Mr. Carson bestowed
upon her.
Sally Leadbitter was vulgar-minded to the last degree; never easy
unless her talk was of love and lovers; in her eyes it was an honour
to have had a long list of wooers. So constituted, it was a pity
that Sally herself was but a plain, red-haired, freckled girl; never
likely, one would have thought, to become a heroine on her own
account. But what she lacked in beauty she tried to make up for by a
kind of witty boldness, which gave her what her betters would have
called piquancy. Considerations of modesty or propriety never checked
her utterance of a good thing. She had just talent enough to corrupt
others. Her very good-nature was an evil influence. They could not
hate one who was so kind; they could not avoid one who was so willing
to shield them from scrapes by any exertion of her own; whose ready
fingers would at any time make up for their deficiencies, and whose
still more convenient tongue would at any time invent for them. The
Jews, or Mohammedans (I forget which), believe that there is one
little bone of our body, one of the vertebræ, if I remember rightly,
which will never decay and turn to dust, but will lie incorrupt and
indestructible in the ground until the Last Day: this is the Seed of
the Soul. The most depraved have also their Seed of the Holiness that
shall one day overcome their evil, their one good quality, lurking
hidden, but safe, among all the corrupt and bad.
Sally's seed of the future soul was her love for her mother, an
aged bedridden woman. For her she had self-denial; for her, her
good-nature rose into tenderness; to cheer her lonely bed, her
spirits, in the evenings when her body was often woefully tired,
never flagged, but were ready to recount the events of the day, to
turn them into ridicule, and to mimic, with admirable fidelity, any
person gifted with an absurdity who had fallen under her keen eye.
But the mother was lightly principled like Sally herself; nor was
there need to conceal from her the reason why Mr. Carson gave her
so much money. She chuckled with pleasure, and only hoped that the
wooing would be long a-doing.
Still neither she, nor her daughter, nor Harry Carson liked this
resolution of Mary, not to see him during her father's absence.
One evening (and the early summer evenings were long and bright now),
Sally met Mr. Carson by appointment, to be charged with a letter for
Mary, imploring her to see him, which Sally was to back with all
her powers of persuasion. After parting from him she determined, as
it was not so very late, to go at once to Mary's, and deliver the
message and letter.
She found Mary in great sorrow. She had just heard of George Wilson's
sudden death: her old friend, her father's friend, Jem's father--all
his claims came rushing upon her. Though not guarded from unnecessary
sight or sound of death, as the children of the rich are, yet it had
so often been brought home to her this last three or four months. It
was so terrible thus to see friend after friend depart. Her father,
too, who had dreaded Jane Wilson's death the evening before he set
off. And she, the weakly, was left behind while the strong man was
taken. At any rate the sorrow her father had so feared for him was
spared. Such were the thoughts which came over her.
She could not go to comfort the bereaved, even if comfort were in her
power to give; for she had resolved to avoid Jem; and she felt that
this of all others was not the occasion on which she could keep up a
studiously cold manner.
And in this shock of grief, Sally Leadbitter was the last person
she wished to see. However, she rose to welcome her, betraying her
tear-swollen face.
"Well, I shall tell Mr. Carson to-morrow how you're fretting for him;
it's no more nor he's doing for you, I can tell you."
"For him, indeed!" said Mary, with a toss of her pretty head.
"Ay, miss, for him! You've been sighing as if your heart would break
now for several days, over your work; now arn't you a little goose
not to go and see one who I am sure loves you as his life, and whom
you love; 'How much, Mary?' 'This much,' as the children say"
(opening her arms very wide).
"Nonsense," said Mary, pouting; "I often think I don't love him at
all."
"And I'm to tell him that, am I, next time I see him?" asked Sally.
"If you like," replied Mary. "I'm sure I don't care for that or any
thing else now;" weeping afresh.
But Sally did not like to be the bearer of any such news. She saw she
had gone on the wrong tack, and that Mary's heart was too full to
value either message or letter as she ought. So she wisely paused
in their delivery, and said in a more sympathetic tone than she had
heretofore used,
"Do tell me, Mary, what's fretting you so? You know I never could
abide to see you cry."
"George Wilson's dropped down dead this afternoon," said Mary, fixing
her eyes for one minute on Sally, and the next hiding her face in her
apron as she sobbed anew.
"Dear, dear! All flesh is grass; here to-day and gone to-morrow,
as the Bible says. Still he was an old man, and not good for much;
there's better folk than him left behind. Is th' canting old maid as
was his sister alive yet?"
"I don't know who you mean," said Mary, sharply; for she did know,
and did not like to have her dear, simple Alice so spoken of.
"Come, Mary, don't be so innocent. Is Miss Alice Wilson alive, then;
will that please you? I haven't seen her hereabouts lately."
"No, she's left living here. When the twins died she thought she
could, may be, be of use to her sister, who was sadly cast down, and
Alice thought she could cheer her up; at any rate she could listen to
her when her heart grew overburdened; so she gave up her cellar and
went to live with them."
"Well, good go with her. I'd no fancy for her, and I'd no fancy for
her making my pretty Mary into a Methodee."
"She wasn't a Methodee, she was Church o' England."
"Well, well, Mary, you're very particular. You know what I meant.
Look, who is this letter from?" holding up Henry Carson's letter.
"I don't know, and don't care," said Mary, turning very red.
"My eye! as if I didn't know you did know and did care."
"Well, give it me," said Mary, impatiently, and anxious in her
present mood for her visitor's departure.
Sally relinquished it unwillingly. She had, however, the pleasure of
seeing Mary dimple and blush as she read the letter, which seemed to
say the writer was not indifferent to her.
"You must tell him I can't come," said Mary, raising her eyes at
last. "I have said I won't meet him while father is away, and I
won't."
"But, Mary, he does so look for you. You'd be quite sorry for him,
he's so put out about not seeing you. Besides you go when your
father's at home, without letting on [26] to him, and what harm would
there be in going now?"
[Footnote 26: "Letting on," informing. In Anglo-Saxon, one
meaning of "lætan" was "to admit;" and we say,
to _let_ out a secret.]
"Well, Sally! you know my answer, I won't; and I won't."
"I'll tell him to come and see you himself some evening, instead o'
sending me; he'd may be find you not so hard to deal with."
Mary flashed up.
"If he dares to come here while father's away, I'll call the
neighbours in to turn him out, so don't be putting him up to that."
"Mercy on us! one would think you were the first girl that ever had
a lover; have you never heard what other girls do and think no shame
of?"
"Hush, Sally! that's Margaret Jennings at the door."
And in an instant Margaret was in the room. Mary had begged Job Legh
to let her come and sleep with her. In the uncertain fire-light you
could not help noticing that she had the groping walk of a blind
person.
"Well, I must go, Mary," said Sally. "And that's your last word?"
"Yes, yes; good-night." She shut the door gladly on her unwelcome
visitor--unwelcome at that time at least.
"Oh Margaret, have ye heard this sad news about George Wilson?"
"Yes, that I have. Poor creatures, they've been sore tried lately.
Not that I think sudden death so bad a thing; it's easy, and there's
no terrors for him as dies. For them as survives it's very hard. Poor
George! he were such a hearty looking man."
"Margaret," said Mary, who had been closely observing her friend,
"thou'rt very blind to-night, arn't thou? Is it wi' crying? Your eyes
are so swollen and red."
"Yes, dear! but not crying for sorrow. Han ye heard where I was last
night?"
"No; where?"
"Look here." She held up a bright golden sovereign. Mary opened her
large gray eyes with astonishment.
"I'll tell you all how and about it. You see there's a gentleman
lecturing on music at th' Mechanics', and he wants folk to sing his
songs. Well, last night th' counter got a sore throat and couldn't
make a note. So they sent for me. Jacob Butterworth had said a good
word for me, and they asked me would I sing? You may think I was
frightened, but I thought now or never, and said I'd do my best. So I
tried o'er the songs wi' th' lecturer, and then th' managers told me
I were to make myself decent and be there by seven."
"And what did you put on?" asked Mary. "Oh, why didn't you come in
for my pretty pink gingham?"
"I did think on't; but you had na come home then. No! I put on my
merino, as was turned last winter, and my white shawl, and did my
hair pretty tidy; it did well enough. Well, but as I was saying, I
went at seven. I couldn't see to read my music, but I took th' paper
in wi' me, to ha' somewhat to do wi' my fingers. Th' folks' heads
danced, as I stood as right afore 'em all as if I'd been going to
play at ball wi' 'em. You may guess I felt squeamish, but mine
weren't the first song, and th' music sounded like a friend's voice,
telling me to take courage. So to make a long story short, when it
were all o'er th' lecturer thanked me, and th' managers said as how
there never was a new singer so applauded (for they'd clapped and
stamped after I'd done, till I began to wonder how many pair o' shoes
they'd get through a week at that rate, let alone their hands). So
I'm to sing again o' Thursday; and I got a sovereign last night,
and am to have half-a-sovereign every night th' lecturer is at th'
Mechanics'."
"Well, Margaret, I'm right glad to hear it."
"And I don't think you've heard the best bit yet. Now that a way
seemed opened to me, of not being a burden to any one, though it did
please God to make me blind, I thought I'd tell grandfather. I only
telled him about the singing and the sovereign last night, for I
thought I'd not send him to bed wi' a heavy heart; but this morning
I telled him all."
"And how did he take it?"
"He's not a man of many words; and it took him by surprise like."
"I wonder at that; I've noticed it in your ways ever since you telled
me."
"Ay, that's it! If I'd not telled you, and you'd seen me every day,
you'd not ha' noticed the little mite o' difference fra' day to day."
"Well, but what did your grandfather say?"
"Why, Mary," said Margaret, half smiling, "I'm a bit loath to tell
yo, for unless yo knew grandfather's ways like me, yo'd think it
strange. He were taken by surprise, and he said: 'Damn yo!' Then he
began looking at his book as it were, and were very quiet, while I
telled him all about it; how I'd feared, and how downcast I'd been;
and how I were now reconciled to it, if it were th' Lord's will; and
how I hoped to earn money by singing; and while I were talking, I
saw great big tears come dropping on th' book; but in course I never
let on that I saw 'em. Dear grandfather! and all day long he's been
quietly moving things out o' my way, as he thought might trip me
up, and putting things in my way, as he thought I might want; never
knowing I saw and felt what he were doing; for, yo see, he thinks I'm
out and out blind, I guess--as I shall be soon."
Margaret sighed, in spite of her cheerful and relieved tone.
Though Mary caught the sigh, she felt it was better to let it pass
without notice, and began, with the tact which true sympathy rarely
fails to supply, to ask a variety of questions respecting her
friend's musical debut, which tended to bring out more distinctly how
successful it had been.
"Why, Margaret," at length she exclaimed, "thou'lt become as famous,
may be, as that grand lady fra' London, as we seed one night driving
up to th' concert room door in her carriage."
"It looks very like it," said Margaret, with a smile. "And be sure,
Mary, I'll not forget to give thee a lift now an' then when that
comes about. Nay, who knows, if thou'rt a good girl, but mayhappen
I may make thee my lady's maid! Wouldn't that be nice? So I'll e'en
sing to mysel' th' beginning o' one o' my songs,
'An' ye shall walk in silk attire,
An' siller hae to spare.'"
"Nay, don't stop; or else give me something a bit more new, for
somehow I never quite liked that part about thinking o' Donald mair."
"Well, though I'm a bit tir'd, I don't care if I do. Before I come,
I were practising well nigh upon two hours this one which I'm to
sing o' Thursday. Th' lecturer said he were sure it would just suit
me, and I should do justice to it; and I should be right sorry to
disappoint him, he were so nice and encouraging like to me. Eh! Mary,
what a pity there isn't more o' that way, and less scolding and
rating i' th' world! It would go a vast deal further. Beside, some o'
th' singers said they were a'most certain it were a song o' his own,
because he were so fidgetty and particular about it, and so anxious
I should give it th' proper expression. And that makes me care still
more. Th' first verse, he said, were to be sung 'tenderly, but
joyously!' I'm afraid I don't quite hit that, but I'll try.
'What a single word can do!
Thrilling all the heart-strings through,
Calling forth fond memories,
Raining round hope's melodies,
Steeping all in one bright hue--
What a single word can do!'
Now it falls into th' minor key, and must be very sad like. I feel
as if I could do that better than t'other.
'What a single word can do!
Making life seem all untrue,
Driving joy and hope away,
Leaving not one cheering ray
Blighting every flower that grew--
What a single word can do!'"
Margaret certainly made the most of this little song. As a factory
worker, listening outside, observed, "She spun it reet [27] fine!"
And if she only sang it at the Mechanics' with half the feeling she
put into it that night, the lecturer must have been hard to please,
if he did not admit that his expectations were more than fulfilled.
[Footnote 27: "Reet," right; often used for "very."]
When it was ended, Mary's looks told more than words could have done
what she thought of it; and partly to keep in a tear which would fain
have rolled out, she brightened into a laugh, and said, "For certain,
th' carriage is coming. So let us go and dream on it."