We must pass over the painful and dreadful particulars of that night,
and of a long time to come; the maniacal rage of the father, the
shattered heart and feelings of the mother, the dreadful state of the
two remaining children, to whom their brother was one of the most
precious objects in a world which, like theirs, contained so few. One
moment to have seen him full of life, and fun, and bravado, and almost
the next a lifeless and battered corpse, was something too strange and
terrible to be soon surmounted. But this was woefully aggravated by the
cruel anger of their father, who continued to regard them as guilty of
the death of his favorite boy. He seemed to take no pleasure in them. He
never spoke to them but to scold them. He drank more deeply than ever,
and came home later; and when there, was sullen and morose. When their
mother, who suffered severely, but still plodded on with all her duties,
said, "David, they are thy children too," he would reply, savagely, "Hod
thy tongue! What's a pack o' wenches to my lad?"
What tended to render the miner more hard toward the two girls was a
circumstance which would have awakened a better feeling in a softer
father's heart. Nancy, the younger girl, since the dreadful catastrophe,
had seemed to grow gradually dull and defective in her intellect, she
had a slow and somewhat idiotic air and manner. Her mother perceived it,
and was struck with consternation by it. She tried to rouse her, but in
vain. She could not perform her ordinary reading and spelling lessons.
She seemed to have forgotten what was already learned. She appeared to
have a difficulty in moving her legs, and carried her hands as if she
had suffered a partial paralysis. Jane, her sister, was dreadfully
distressed at it, and she and her mother wept many bitter tears over
her. One day, in the following spring, they took her with them to
Ashford, and consulted the doctor there. On examining her, and hearing
fully what had taken place at the time of the brother's death--the fact
of which he well knew, for it, of course, was known to the whole country
round--he shook his head, and said he was afraid they must make up their
minds to a sad case; that the terrors of that night had affected her
brain, and that, through it, the whole nervous system had suffered, and
was continuing to suffer the most melancholy effects. The only thing, he
thought, in her favor was her youth; and added, that it might have a
good effect, if they could leave the place where she had undergone such
a terrible shock. But whether they did or not, kindness and soothing
attentions to her would do more than any thing else.
Mrs. Dunster and little Jane returned home with heavy hearts. The
doctor's opinion had only confirmed their fears; for Jane, though but a
child, had quickness and affection for her sister enough to make her
comprehend the awful nature of poor Nancy's condition. Mrs. Dunster told
her husband the doctor's words, for she thought they would awaken some
tenderness in him toward the unfortunate child. But he said, "That's
just what I expected. Hou'll grow soft, and then who's to maintain her?
Hou mun goo to th' workhouse."
With that he took his maundrel and went off to his work. Instead of
softening his nature, this intelligence seemed only to harden and
brutalize it. He drank now more and more. But all that summer the mother
and Jane did all that they could think of to restore the health and mind
of poor Nancy. Every morning, when the father was gone to work, Jane
went to a spring up in the opposite wood, famed for the coldness and
sweetness of its waters. On this account the proprietors of the mills at
Cressbrook had put down a large trough there under the spreading trees,
and the people fetched the water even from the village. Hence Jane
brought, at many journeys, this cold, delicious water to bathe her
sister in; they then rubbed her warm with cloths, and gave her new milk
for her breakfast. Her lessons were not left off, lest the mind should
sink into fatuity, but were made as easy as possible. Jane continued to
talk to her, and laugh with her, as if nothing was amiss, though she did
it with a heavy heart, and she engaged her to weed and hoe with her in
their little garden. She did not dare to lead her far out into the
valley, lest it might excite her memory of the past fearful time, but
she gathered her flowers, and continued to play with her at all their
accustomed sports, of building houses with pieces of pots and stones,
and imagining gardens and parks. The anxious mother, when some weeks
were gone by, fancied that there was really some improvement. The
cold-bathing seemed to have strengthened the system: the poor child
walked, and bore herself with more freedom and firmness. She became
ardently fond of being with her sister, and attentive to her directions.
But there was a dull cloud over her intellect, and a vacancy in her eyes
and features. She was quiet, easily pleased, but seemed to have little
volition of her own. Mrs. Dunster thought if they could but get her away
from that spot, it might rouse her mind from its sleep. But, perhaps,
the sleep was better than the awaking might be; however, the removal
came, though in a more awful way than was looked for. The miner, who had
continued to drink more and more, and seemed to have almost estranged
himself from his home, staying away in his drinking bouts for a week or
more together, was one day blasting a rock in the mine, and being
half-stupefied with beer, did not take care to get out of the way of the
explosion, was struck with a piece of the flying stone, and killed on
the spot.
The poor widow and her children were now obliged to remove from under
Wardlow-Cop. The place had been a sad one to her; the death of her
husband, though he had been latterly far from a good one, and had left
her with the children in deep poverty, was a fresh source of severe
grief to her. Her religious mind was struck down with a weight of
melancholy by the reflection of the life he had led, and the sudden way
in which he had been summoned into eternity. When she looked forward,
what a prospect was there for her children! It was impossible for her to
maintain them from her small earnings, and as to Nancy, would she ever
be able to earn her own bread, and protect herself in the world?
It was amid such reflections that Mrs. Dunster quitted this deep,
solitary, and, to her, fatal valley, and took up her abode in the
village of Cressbrook. Here she had one small room, and by her own
labors, and some aid from the parish, she managed to support herself and
the children. For seven years she continued her laborious life, assisted
by the labor of the two daughters, who also seamed stockings, and in the
evenings were instructed by her. Her girls were now thirteen and fifteen
years of age: Jane was a tall and very pretty girl of her years; she was
active, industrious, and sweet-tempered: her constant affection for poor
Nancy was something as admirable as it was singular. Nancy had now
confirmed good health, but it had affected her mother to perceive that,
since the catastrophe of her brother's death, and the cruel treatment of
her father at that time, she had never grown in any degree as she ought;
she was short, stout, and of a pale and very plain countenance. It could
not be now said that she was deficient in mind, but she was slow in its
operations. She displayed, indeed, a more than ordinary depth of
reflection, and a shrewdness of observation, but the evidences of-this
came forth in a very quiet way, and were observable only to her mother
and sister. To all besides she was extremely reserved: she was timid to
excess, and shrunk from public notice into the society of her mother and
sister. There was a feeling abroad in the neighborhood that she was "not
quite right," but the few who were more discerning, shook their heads,
and observed, "Right, she was not, poor thing, but it was not want of
sense; she had more of that than most."
And such was the opinion of her mother and sister. They perceived that
Nancy had received a shock of which she must bear the effects through
life. Circumstances might bring her feeble but sensitive nerves much
misery. She required to be guarded and sheltered from the rudenesses of
the world, and the mother trembled to think how much she might be
exposed to them. But in every thing that related to sound judgment, they
knew that she surpassed not only them, but any of their acquaintance. If
any difficulty had to be decided, it was Nancy who pondered on it, and,
perhaps, at some moment when least expected, pronounced an opinion that
might be taken as confidently as an oracle.
The affection of the two sisters was something beyond the ties of this
world. Jane had watched and attended to her from the time of her
constitutional injury with a love that never seemed to know a moment's
weariness or change; and the affection which Nancy evinced for her was
equally intense and affecting. She seemed to hang on her society for her
very life. Jane felt this, and vowed that they would never quit one
another. The mother sighed. How many things, she thought, might tear
asunder that beautiful resolve.
But now they were of an age to obtain work in the mill. Indeed, Jane
could have had employment there long before, but she would not quit her
sister till she could go with her--and now there they went. The
proprietor, who knew the case familiarly, so ordered it that the two
sisters should work near each other; and that poor Nancy should be as
little exposed to the rudeness of the work-people as possible. But at
first so slow and awkward were Nancy's endeavors, and such an effect had
it on her frame, that it was feared she must give it up. This would have
been a terrible calamity; and the tears of the two sisters and the
benevolence of the employer enabled Nancy to pass through this severe
ordeal. In a while she acquired sufficient dexterity, and thenceforward
went through her work with great accuracy and perseverance. As far as
any intercourse with the workpeople was concerned, she might be said to
be dumb. Scarcely ever did she exchange a word with any one, but she
returned kind nods and smiles; and every morning and evening, and at
dinner-time, the two sisters might be seen going to and fro, side by
side--Jane often talking with some of them; the little, odd-looking
sister walking silent and listening.
Five more years, and Jane was a young woman. Amid her companions, who
were few of them above the middle size, she had a tall and striking
appearance. Her father had been a remarkably tall and strong man, and
she possessed something of his stature, though none of his irritable
disposition. She was extremely pretty, of a blooming, fresh complexion,
and graceful form. She was remarkable for the sweetness of her
expression, which was the index of her disposition. By her side still
went that odd, broad-built, but still pale and little sister. Jane was
extremely admired by the young men of the neighborhood, and had already
many offers, but she listened to none. "Where I go must Nancy go," she
said to herself, "and of whom can I be sure?"
Of Nancy no one took notice. Her pale, somewhat large features, her
thoughtful, silent look, and her short, stout figure, gave you an idea
of a dwarf, though she could not strictly be called one. No one would
think of Nancy as a wife--where Jane went she must go; the two clung
together with one heart and soul. The blow which deprived them of their
brother seemed to bind them inseparably together.
Mrs. Dunster, besides her seaming, at which, in truth, she earned a
miserable sum, had now for some years been the post-woman from the
village to the Bull's Head, where the mail, going on to Tideswell, left
the letter-bag. Thither and back, wet or dry, summer or winter, she went
every day, the year round. With her earnings, and those of the girls,
the world went as well with them as the world goes on the average with
the poor; and she kept a small, neat cottage. Cramps and rheumatisms she
began to feel sensibly from so much exposure to rain and cold; but the
never-varying and firm affection of her two children was a balm in her
cup which made her contented with every thing else.
When Jane was about two-and-twenty, poor Mrs. Dunster, seized with
rheumatic fever, died. On her death-bed, she said to Jane, "Thou will
never desert poor Nancy; and that's my comfort. God has been good to me.
After all my trouble, he has given me this faith, that, come weal, come
woe, so long as thou has a home, Nancy will never want one. God bless
thee for it! God bless you both; and he will bless you!" So saying,
Betty Dunster breathed her last.
The events immediately following her death did not seem to bear out her
dying faith; for the two poor girls were obliged to give up their
cottage. There was a want of cottages. Not half of the work-people could
be entertained in this village; they went to and fro for many miles.
Jane and Nancy were now obliged to do the same. Their cottage was wanted
for an overlooker--and they removed to Tideswell, three miles off. They
had thus six miles a day to walk, besides standing at their work; but
they were young, and had companions. In Tideswell they were more
cheerful. They had a snug little cottage; were near a meeting; and found
friends. They did not complain. Here, again Jane Dunster attracted great
attention, and a young, thriving grocer paid his addresses to her. It
was an offer that made Jane take time to reflect. Every one said it was
an opportunity not to be neglected: but Jane weighed in her mind, "Will
he keep faith in my compact with Nancy?" Though her admirer made every
vow on the subject, Jane paused and determined to take the opinion of
Nancy. Nancy thought for a day, and then said, "Dearest sister, I don't
feel easy; I fear that from some cause it would not do in the end."
Jane, from that moment, gave up the idea of the connection. There might
be those who would suspect Nancy of a selfish bias in the advice she
gave; but Jane knew that no such feeling influenced her pure soul. For
one long year the two sisters traversed the hills between Cressbrook and
Tideswell. But they had companions, and it was pleasant in the summer
months. But winter came, and then it was a severe trial. To rise in the
dark, and traverse those wild and bleak hills; to go through snow and
drizzle, and face the sharpest winds in winter, was no trifling matter.
Before winter was over, the two young women began seriously to revolve
the chances of a nearer residence, or a change of employ. There were not
few who blamed Jane excessively for the folly of refusing the last good
offer. There were even more than one who, in the hearing of Nancy,
blamed her. Nancy was thoughtful, agitated, and wept. "If I can, dear
sister," she said, "have advised you to your injury, how shall I forgive
myself? What _shall_ become of me?"
But Jane clasped her sister to her heart, and said, "No! no! dearest
sister, you are not to blame. I feel you are right; let us wait, and we
shall see!"