RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.
"My heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarled
With gloating on the ills I cannot cure."
ELLIOTT.
"Then guard and shield her innocence,
Let her not fall like me;
'Twere better, Oh! a thousand times,
She in her grave should be."
"THE OUTCAST."
Despair settled down like a heavy cloud; and now and then, through
the dead calm of sufferings, came pipings of stormy winds,
foretelling the end of these dark prognostics. In times of sorrowful
or fierce endurance, we are often soothed by the mere repetition of
old proverbs which tell the experience of our forefathers; but now,
"it's a long lane that has no turning," "the weariest day draws to an
end," &c., seemed false and vain sayings, so long and so weary was
the pressure of the terrible times. Deeper and deeper still sank the
poor; it showed how much lingering suffering it takes to kill men,
that so few (in comparison) died during those times. But remember! we
only miss those who do men's work in their humble sphere; the aged,
the feeble, the children, when they die, are hardly noted by the
world; and yet to many hearts, their deaths make a blank which long
years will never fill up. Remember, too, that though it may take much
suffering to kill the able-bodied and effective members of society,
it does _not_ take much to reduce them to worn, listless, diseased
creatures, who thenceforward crawl through life with moody hearts and
pain-stricken bodies.
The people had thought the poverty of the preceding years hard to
bear, and had found its yoke heavy; but this year added sorely to
its weight. Former times had chastised them with whips, but this
chastised them with scorpions.
Of course, Barton had his share of mere bodily sufferings. Before he
had gone up to London on his vain errand, he had been working short
time. But in the hopes of speedy redress by means of the interference
of Parliament, he had thrown up his place; and now, when he asked
leave to resume work, he was told they were diminishing their number
of hands every week, and he was made aware by the remarks of fellow
workmen, that a Chartist delegate, and a leading member of a Trades'
Union, was not likely to be favoured in his search after employment.
Still he tried to keep up a brave heart concerning himself. He knew
he could bear hunger; for that power of endurance had been called
forth when he was a little child, and had seen his mother hide her
daily morsel to share it among her children, and when he, being the
eldest, had told the noble lie, that "he was not hungry, could not
eat a bit more," in order to imitate his mother's bravery, and still
the sharp wail of the younger infants. Mary, too, was secure of two
meals a day at Miss Simmonds'; though, by the way, the dress-maker,
too, feeling the effect of bad times, had left off giving tea to her
apprentices, setting them the example of long abstinence by putting
off her own meal until work was done for the night, however late that
might be.
But the rent! It was half-a-crown a week--nearly all Mary's
earnings--and much less room might do for them, only two.--(Now came
the time to be thankful that the early dead were saved from the evil
to come.)--The agricultural labourer generally has strong local
attachments; but they are far less common, almost obliterated, among
the inhabitants of a town. Still there are exceptions, and Barton
formed one. He had removed to his present house just after the last
bad times, when little Tom had sickened and died. He had then thought
the bustle of a removal would give his poor stunned wife something to
do, and he had taken more interest in the details of the proceeding
than he otherwise would have done, in the hope of calling her forth
to action again. So he seemed to know every brass-headed nail driven
up for her convenience. One only had been displaced. It was Esther's
bonnet nail, which, in his deep revengeful anger against her, after
his wife's death, he had torn out of the wall, and cast into the
street. It would be hard work to leave that house, which yet seemed
hallowed by his wife's presence in the happy days of old. But he
was a law unto himself, though sometimes a bad, fierce law; and
he resolved to give the rent-collector notice, and look out for a
cheaper abode, and tell Mary they must flit. Poor Mary! she loved the
house, too. It was wrenching up her natural feelings of home, for it
would be long before the fibres of her heart would gather themselves
about another place.
This trial was spared. The collector (of himself), on the very Monday
when Barton planned to give him notice of his intention to leave,
lowered the rent threepence a week, just enough to make Barton
compromise and agree to stay on a little longer.
But by degrees the house was stripped of its little ornaments. Some
were broken; and the odd twopences and threepences wanted to pay for
their repairs, were required for the far sterner necessity of food.
And by-and-bye Mary began to part with other superfluities at the
pawn-shop. The smart tea-tray and tea-caddy, long and carefully kept,
went for bread for her father. He did not ask for it, or complain,
but she saw hunger in his shrunk, fierce, animal look. Then the
blankets went, for it was summer time, and they could spare them; and
their sale made a fund, which Mary fancied would last till better
times came. But it was soon all gone; and then she looked around
the room to crib it of its few remaining ornaments. To all these
proceedings her father said never a word. If he fasted, or feasted
(after the sale of some article), on an unusual meal of bread and
cheese, he took all with a sullen indifference, which depressed
Mary's heart. She often wished he would apply for relief from the
Guardian's relieving office; often wondered the Trades' Union did
nothing for him. Once when she asked him as he sat, grimed, unshaven,
and gaunt, after a day's fasting over the fire, why he did not get
relief from the town, he turned round, with grim wrath, and said, "I
don't want money, child! D----n their charity and their money! I want
work, and it is my right. I want work."
He would bear it all, he said to himself. And he did bear it, but
not meekly; that was too much to expect. Real meekness of character
is called out by experience of kindness. And few had been kind to
him. Yet through it all, with stern determination he refused the
assistance his Trades' Union would have given him. It had not much
to give, but with worldly wisdom, thought it better to propitiate
an active, useful member, than to help those who were unenergetic,
though they had large families to provide for. Not so thought John
Barton. With him need was right.
"Give it to Tom Darbyshire," he said. "He's more claim on it than me,
for he's more need of it, with his seven children."
Now Tom Darbyshire was, in his listless, grumbling way, a backbiting
enemy of John Barton's. And he knew it; but he was not to be
influenced by that in a matter like this.
Mary went early to her work; but her cheery laugh over it was now
missed by the other girls. Her mind wandered over the present
distress, and then settled, as she stitched, on the visions of the
future, where yet her thoughts dwelt more on the circumstances of
ease, and the pomps and vanities awaiting her, than on the lover
with whom she was to share them. Still she was not insensible to the
pride of having attracted one so far above herself in station; not
insensible to the secret pleasure of knowing that he, whom so many
admired, had often said he would give any thing for one of her sweet
smiles. Her love for him was a bubble, blown out of vanity; but it
looked very real and very bright. Sally Leadbitter, meanwhile, keenly
observed the signs of the times; she found out that Mary had begun to
affix a stern value to money as the "Purchaser of Life," and many
girls had been dazzled and lured by gold, even without the betraying
love which she believed to exist in Mary's heart. So she urged young
Mr. Carson, by representations of the want she was sure surrounded
Mary, to bring matters more to a point. But he had a kind of
instinctive dread of hurting Mary's pride of spirit, and durst not
hint his knowledge in any way of the distress that many must be
enduring. He felt that for the present he must still be content
with stolen meetings and summer evening strolls, and the delight of
pouring sweet honeyed words into her ear, while she listened with
a blush and a smile that made her look radiant with beauty. No,
he would be cautious in order to be certain; for Mary, one way or
another, he must make his. He had no doubt of the effect of his own
personal charms in the long run; for he knew he was handsome, and
believed himself fascinating.
If he had known what Mary's home was, he would not have been so much
convinced of his increasing influence over her, by her being more and
more ready to linger with him in the sweet summer air. For when she
returned for the night her father was often out, and the house wanted
the cheerful look it had had in the days when money was never wanted
to purchase soap and brushes, black-lead and pipe-clay. It was dingy
and comfortless; for, of course, there was not even the dumb familiar
home-friend, a fire. And Margaret, too, was now so often from home,
singing at some of those grand places. And Alice; oh, Mary wished
she had never left her cellar to go and live at Ancoats with her
sister-in-law. For in that matter Mary felt very guilty; she had put
off and put off going to see the widow after George Wilson's death
from dread of meeting Jem, or giving him reason to think she wished
to be as intimate with him as formerly; and now she was so much
ashamed of her delay that she was likely never to go at all.
If her father was at home it was no better; indeed it was worse. He
seldom spoke, less than ever; and often when he did speak they were
sharp angry words, such as he had never given her formerly. Her
temper was high, too, and her answers not over-mild; and once in his
passion he had even beaten her. If Sally Leadbitter or Mr. Carson had
been at hand at that moment, Mary would have been ready to leave home
for ever. She sat alone, after her father had flung out of the house,
bitterly thinking on the days that were gone; angry with her own
hastiness, and believing that her father did not love her; striving
to heap up one painful thought on another. Who cared for her? Mr.
Carson might, but in this grief that seemed no comfort. Mother dead!
Father so often angry, so lately cruel (for it was a hard blow, and
blistered and reddened Mary's soft white skin with pain): and then
her heart turned round, and she remembered with self-reproach how
provokingly she had looked and spoken, and how much her father had to
bear; and oh, what a kind and loving parent he had been, till these
days of trial. The remembrance of one little instance of his fatherly
love thronged after another into her mind, and she began to wonder
how she could have behaved to him as she had done.
Then he came home; and but for very shame she would have confessed
her penitence in words. But she looked sullen, from her effort to
keep down emotion; and for some time her father did not know how to
begin to speak. At length he gulped down pride, and said:
"Mary, I'm not above saying I'm very sorry I beat thee. Thou wert a
bit aggravating, and I'm not the man I was. But it were wrong, and
I'll try never to lay hands on thee again."
So he held out his arms, and in many tears she told him her
repentance for her fault. He never struck her again.
Still, he often was angry. But that was almost better than being
silent. Then he sat near the fire-place (from habit), smoking, or
chewing opium. Oh, how Mary loathed that smell! And in the dusk, just
before it merged into the short summer night, she had learned to look
with dread towards the window, which now her father would have kept
uncurtained; for there were not seldom seen sights which haunted her
in her dreams. Strange faces of pale men, with dark glaring eyes,
peered into the inner darkness, and seemed desirous to ascertain if
her father were at home. Or a hand and arm (the body hidden) was put
within the door, and beckoned him away. He always went. And once
or twice, when Mary was in bed, she heard men's voices below, in
earnest, whispered talk.
They were all desperate members of Trades' Unions, ready for any
thing; made ready by want.
While all this change for gloom yet struck fresh and heavy on Mary's
heart, her father startled her out of a reverie one evening, by
asking her when she had been to see Jane Wilson. From his manner of
speaking, she was made aware that he had been; but at the time of his
visit he had never mentioned any thing about it. Now, however, he
gruffly told her to go next day without fail, and added some abuse
of her for not having been before. The little outward impulse of
her father's speech gave Mary the push which she, in this instance,
required; and, accordingly, timing her visit so as to avoid Jem's
hours at home, she went the following afternoon to Ancoats.
The outside of the well-known house struck her as different; for
the door was closed, instead of open, as it once had always stood.
The window-plants, George Wilson's pride and especial care, looked
withering and drooping. They had been without water for a long time,
and now, when the widow had reproached herself severely for neglect,
in her ignorant anxiety, she gave them too much. On opening the door,
Alice was seen, not stirring about in her habitual way, but knitting
by the fire-side. The room felt hot, although the fire burnt gray
and dim, under the bright rays of the afternoon sun. Mrs. Wilson was
"siding" [39] the dinner things, and talking all the time, in a kind of
whining, shouting voice, which Mary did not at first understand.
She understood at once, however, that her absence had been noted,
and talked over; she saw a constrained look on Mrs. Wilson's
sorrow-stricken face, which told her a scolding was to come.
[Footnote 39: To "side," to put aside, or in order.]
"Dear Mary, is that you?" she began. "Why, who would ha' dreamt of
seeing you! We thought you'd clean forgotten us; and Jem has often
wondered if he should know you, if he met you in the street."
Now, poor Jane Wilson had been sorely tried; and at present her
trials had had no outward effect, but that of increased acerbity of
temper. She wished to show Mary how much she was offended, and meant
to strengthen her cause, by putting some of her own sharp speeches
into Jem's mouth.
Mary felt guilty, and had no good reason to give as an apology; so
for a minute she stood silent, looking very much ashamed, and then
turned to speak to aunt Alice, who, in her surprised, hearty greeting
to Mary, had dropped her ball of worsted, and was busy trying to
set the thread to rights, before the kitten had entangled it past
redemption, once round every chair, and twice round the table.
"You mun speak louder than that, if you mean her to hear; she become
as deaf as a post this last few weeks. I'd ha' told you, if I'd
remembered how long it were sin' you'd seen her."
"Yes, my dear, I'm getting very hard o' hearing of late," said Alice,
catching the state of the case, with her quick-glancing eyes. "I
suppose it's the beginning of th' end."
"Don't talk o' that way," screamed her sister-in-law. "We've had enow
of ends and deaths without forecasting more." She covered her face
with her apron, and sat down to cry.
"He was such a good husband," said she, in a less excited tone, to
Mary, as she looked up with tear-streaming eyes from behind her
apron. "No one can tell what I've lost in him, for no one knew his
worth like me."
Mary's listening sympathy softened her, and she went on to unburden
her heavy laden heart.
"Eh, dear, dear! No one knows what I've lost. When my poor boys went,
I thought th' Almighty had crushed me to th' ground, but I never
thought o' losing George; I did na think I could ha' borne to ha'
lived without him. And yet I'm here, and he's--" A fresh burst of
crying interrupted her speech.
"Mary,"--beginning to speak again,--"did you ever hear what a poor
creature I were when he married me? And he such a handsome fellow!
Jem's nothing to what his father were at his age."
Yes! Mary had heard, and so she said. But the poor woman's thoughts
had gone back to those days, and her little recollections came out,
with many interruptions of sighs, and tears, and shakes of the head.
"There were nought about me for him to choose me. I were just well
enough afore that accident, but at after I were downright plain. And
there was Bessy Witter as would ha' given her eyes for him; she as is
Mrs. Carson now, for she were a handsome lass, although I never could
see her beauty then; and Carson warn't so much above her, as they're
both above us all now."
Mary went very red, and wished she could help doing so, and wished
also that Mrs. Wilson would tell her more about the father and mother
of her lover; but she durst not ask, and Mrs. Wilson's thoughts soon
returned to her husband, and their early married days.
"If you'll believe me, Mary, there never was such a born goose at
house-keeping as I were; and yet he married me! I had been in a
factory sin' five years old a'most, and I knew nought about cleaning,
or cooking, let alone washing and such-like work. The day after we
were married he goes to his work at after breakfast, and says he,
'Jenny, we'll ha' th' cold beef, and potatoes, and that's a dinner
fit for a prince.' I were anxious to make him comfortable, God knows
how anxious. And yet I'd no notion how to cook a potato. I know'd
they were boiled, and I know'd their skins were taken off, and that
were all. So I tidyed my house in a rough kind o' way, and then
I looked at that very clock up yonder," pointing at one that hung
against the wall, "and I seed it were nine o'clock, so, thinks I, th'
potatoes shall be well boiled at any rate, and I gets 'em on th' fire
in a jiffy (that's to say, as soon as I could peel 'em, which were a
tough job at first), and then I fell to unpacking my boxes! and at
twenty minutes past twelve he comes home, and I had th' beef ready on
th' table, and I went to take the potatoes out o' th' pot; but oh!
Mary, th' water had boiled away, and they were all a nasty brown
mass, as smelt through all the house. He said nought, and were very
gentle; but, oh, Mary, I cried so that afternoon. I shall ne'er
forget it; no, never. I made many a blunder at after, but none that
fretted me like that."
"Father does not like girls to work in factories," said Mary.
"No, I know he doesn't; and reason good. They oughtn't to go at
after they're married, that I'm very clear about. I could reckon up"
(counting with her fingers) "ay, nine men I know, as has been driven
to th' public-house by having wives as worked in factories; good
folk, too, as thought there was no harm in putting their little ones
out at nurse, and letting their house go all dirty, and their fires
all out; and that was a place as was tempting for a husband to stay
in, was it? He soon finds out gin-shops, where all is clean and
bright, and where th' fire blazes cheerily, and gives a man a welcome
as it were."
Alice, who was standing near for the convenience of hearing, had
caught much of this speech, and it was evident the subject had
previously been discussed by the women, for she chimed in.
"I wish our Jem could speak a word to th' Queen about factory work
for married women. Eh! but he comes it strong, when once yo get him
to speak about it. Wife o' his'n will never work away fra' home."
"I say it's Prince Albert as ought to be asked how he'd like his
missis to be from home when he comes in, tired and worn, and wanting
some one to cheer him; and may be, her to come in by-and-bye, just
as tired and down in th' mouth; and how he'd like for her never to
be at home to see to th' cleaning of his house, or to keep a bright
fire in his grate. Let alone his meals being all hugger-mugger and
comfortless. I'd be bound, prince as he is, if his missis served him
so, he'd be off to a gin-palace, or summut o' that kind. So why can't
he make a law again poor folks' wives working in factories?"
Mary ventured to say that she thought the Queen and Prince Albert
could not make laws, but the answer was,
"Pooh! don't tell me it's not the Queen as makes laws; and isn't she
bound to obey Prince Albert? And if he said they mustn't, why she'd
say they mustn't, and then all folk would say, oh no, we never shall
do any such thing no more."
"Jem's getten on rarely," said Alice, who had not heard her sister's
last burst of eloquence, and whose thoughts were still running on her
nephew, and his various talents. "He's found out summut about a crank
or a tank, I forget rightly which it is, but th' master's made him
foreman, and he all the while turning off hands; but he said he could
na part wi' Jem, nohow. He's good wage now: I tell him he'll be
thinking of marrying soon, and he deserves a right down good wife,
that he does."
Mary went very red, and looked annoyed, although there was a secret
spring of joy deep down in her heart, at hearing Jem so spoken of.
But his mother only saw the annoyed look, and was piqued accordingly.
She was not over and above desirous that her son should marry. His
presence in the house seemed a relic of happier times, and she had
some little jealousy of his future wife, whoever she might be. Still
she could not bear any one not to feel gratified and flattered by
Jem's preference, and full well she knew how above all others he
preferred Mary. Now she had never thought Mary good enough for Jem,
and her late neglect in coming to see her still rankled a little in
her breast. So she determined to invent a little, in order to do away
with any idea Mary might have that Jem would choose her for "his
right down good wife," as aunt Alice called it.
"Ay, he'll be for taking a wife soon," and then, in a lower voice,
as if confidentially, but really to prevent any contradiction or
explanation from her simple sister-in-law, she added,
"It'll not be long afore Molly Gibson (that's her at th'
provision-shop round the corner) will hear a secret as will not
displease her, I'm thinking. She's been casting sheep's eyes at our
Jem this many a day, but he thought her father would not give her
to a common working man; but now he's as good as her, every bit. I
thought once he'd a fancy for thee, Mary, but I donnot think yo'd
ever ha' suited, so it's best as it is."
By an effort Mary managed to keep down her vexation, and to say, "She
hoped he'd be happy with Molly Gibson. She was very handsome, for
certain."
"Ay, and a notable body, too. I'll just step up stairs and show you
the patchwork quilt she gave me but last Saturday."
Mary was glad she was going out of the room. Her words irritated her;
perhaps not the less because she did not fully believe them. Besides
she wanted to speak to Alice, and Mrs. Wilson seemed to think that
she, as the widow, ought to absorb all the attention.
"Dear Alice," began Mary, "I'm so grieved to find you so deaf; it
must have come on very rapid."
"Yes, dear, it's a trial; I'll not deny it. Pray God give me strength
to find out its teaching. I felt it sore one fine day when I thought
I'd go gather some meadow-sweet to make tea for Jane's cough; and
the fields seemed so dree and still, and at first I could na make
out what was wanting; and then it struck me it were th' song o' the
birds, and that I never should hear their sweet music no more, and I
could na help crying a bit. But I've much to be thankful for. I think
I'm a comfort to Jane, if I'm only some one to scold now and then;
poor body! It takes off her thoughts from her sore losses when she
can scold a bit. If my eyes are left I can do well enough; I can
guess at what folk are saying."
The splendid red and yellow patch quilt now made its appearance, and
Jane Wilson would not be satisfied unless Mary praised it all over,
border, centre, and ground-work, right side and wrong; and Mary did
her duty, saying all the more, because she could not work herself up
to any very hearty admiration of her rival's present. She made haste,
however, with her commendations, in order to avoid encountering
Jem. As soon as she was fairly away from the house and street, she
slackened her pace, and began to think. Did Jem really care for Molly
Gibson? Well, if he did, let him. People seemed all to think he was
much too good for her (Mary's own self). Perhaps some one else, far
more handsome, and far more grand, would show him one day that she
was good enough to be Mrs. Henry Carson. So temper, or what Mary
called "spirit," led her to encourage Mr. Carson more than ever she
had done before.
Some weeks after this, there was a meeting of the Trades' Union to
which John Barton belonged. The morning of the day on which it was to
take place he had lain late in bed, for what was the use of getting
up? He had hesitated between the purchase of meal or opium, and had
chosen the latter, for its use had become a necessity with him. He
wanted it to relieve him from the terrible depression its absence
occasioned. A large lump seemed only to bring him into a natural
state, or what had been his natural state formerly. Eight o'clock was
the hour fixed for the meeting; and at it were read letters, filled
with details of woe, from all parts of the country. Fierce, heavy
gloom brooded over the assembly; and fiercely and heavily did the men
separate, towards eleven o'clock, some irritated by the opposition of
others to their desperate plans.
It was not a night to cheer them, as they quitted the glare of the
gas-lighted room, and came out into the street. Unceasing, soaking
rain was falling; the very lamps seemed obscured by the damp upon
the glass, and their light reached but to a little distance from the
posts. The streets were cleared of passers-by; not a creature seemed
stirring, except here and there a drenched policeman in his oil-skin
cape. Barton wished the others good night, and set off home. He had
gone through a street or two, when he heard a step behind him; but he
did not care to look and see who it was. A little further, and the
person quickened step, and touched his arm very lightly. He turned,
and saw, even by the darkness visible of that badly-lighted street,
that the woman who stood by him was of no doubtful profession. It
was told by her faded finery, all unfit to meet the pelting of that
pitiless storm; the gauze bonnet, once pink, now dirty white; the
muslin gown, all draggled, and soaking wet up to the very knees; the
gay-coloured barège shawl, closely wrapped round the form, which yet
shivered and shook, as the woman whispered: "I want to speak to you."
He swore an oath, and bade her begone.
"I really do. Don't send me away. I'm so out of breath, I cannot say
what I would all at once." She put her hand to her side, and caught
her breath with evident pain.
"I tell thee I'm not the man for thee," adding an opprobrious name.
"Stay," said he, as a thought suggested by her voice flashed across
him. He gripped her arm--the arm he had just before shaken off, and
dragged her, faintly resisting, to the nearest lamp-post. He pushed
her bonnet back, and roughly held the face she would fain have
averted, to the light, and in her large, unnaturally bright gray
eyes, her lovely mouth, half open, as if imploring the forbearance
she could not ask for in words, he saw at once the long-lost Esther;
she who had caused his wife's death. Much was like the gay creature
of former years; but the glaring paint, the sharp features, the
changed expression of the whole! But most of all, he loathed the
dress; and yet the poor thing, out of her little choice of attire,
had put on the plainest she had, to come on that night's errand.
"So it's thee, is it! It's thee!" exclaimed John, as he ground his
teeth, and shook her with passion. "I've looked for thee long at
corners o' streets, and such like places. I knew I should find thee
at last. Thee'll may be bethink thee o' some words I spoke, which put
thee up at th' time; summut about street-walkers; but oh no! thou
art none o' them naughts; no one thinks thou art, who sees thy fine
draggle-tailed dress, and thy pretty pink cheeks!" stopping for very
want of breath.
"Oh, mercy! John, mercy! listen to me for Mary's sake!"
She meant his daughter, but the name only fell on his ear as
belonging to his wife; and it was adding fuel to the fire. In vain
did her face grow deadly pale round the vivid circle of paint, in
vain did she gasp for mercy,--he burst forth again.
"And thou names that name to me! and thou thinks the thought of her
will bring thee mercy! Dost thou know it was thee who killed her, as
sure as ever Cain killed Abel. She'd loved thee as her own, and she
trusted thee as her own, and when thou wert gone she never held up
head again, but died in less than a three week; and at the judgment
day she'll rise, and point to thee as her murderer; or if she don't,
I will."
He flung her, trembling, sickening, fainting, from him, and strode
away. She fell with a feeble scream against the lamp-post, and
lay there in her weakness, unable to rise. A policeman came up in
time to see the close of these occurrences, and concluding from
Esther's unsteady, reeling fall, that she was tipsy, he took her
in her half-unconscious state to the lock-ups for the night. The
superintendent of that abode of vice and misery was roused from his
dozing watch through the dark hours, by half-delirious wails and
moanings, which he reported as arising from intoxication. If he had
listened, he would have heard these words, repeated in various forms,
but always in the same anxious, muttering way.
"He would not listen to me; what can I do? He would not listen to me,
and I wanted to warn him! Oh, what shall I do to save Mary's child?
What shall I do? How can I keep her from being such a one as I am;
such a wretched, loathsome creature! She was listening just as I
listened, and loving just as I loved, and the end will be just like
my end. How shall I save her? She won't hearken to warning, or heed
it more than I did; and who loves her well enough to watch over her
as she should be watched? God keep her from harm! And yet I won't
pray for her; sinner that I am! Can my prayers be heard? No! they'll
only do harm. How shall I save her? He would not listen to me."
So the night wore away. The next morning she was taken up to the
New Bailey. It was a clear case of disorderly vagrancy, and she was
committed to prison for a month. How much might happen in that time!