Last November but one, there was a flitting in our neighbourhood;
hardly a flitting, after all, for it was only a single person changing
her place of abode from one lodging to another; and instead of a
cartload of drawers and baskets, dressers and beds, with old king
clock at the top of all, it was only one large wooden chest to be
carried after the girl, who moved slowly and heavily along the streets,
listless and depressed, more from the state of her mind than of her
body. It was Libbie Marsh, who had been obliged to quit her room in
Dean Street, because the acquaintances whom she had been living with
were leaving Manchester. She tried to think herself fortunate in having
met with lodgings rather more out of the town, and with those who were
known to be respectable; she did indeed try to be contented, but in
spite of her reason, the old feeling of desolation came over her, as
she was now about to be thrown again entirely among strangers.
No. 2, —— Court, Albemarle Street, was reached at last, and the pace,
slow as it was, slackened as she drew near the spot where she was to be
left by the man who carried her box, for, trivial as her acquaintance
with him was, he was not quite a stranger, as every one else was,
peering out of their open doors, and satisfying themselves it was only
“Dixon’s new lodger.”
Dixon’s house was the last on the left-hand side of the court. A high
dead brick wall connected it with its opposite neighbour. All the
dwellings were of the same monotonous pattern, and one side of the
court looked at its exact likeness opposite, as if it were seeing
itself in a looking-glass.
Dixon’s house was shut up, and the key left next door; but the woman
in whose charge it was left knew that Libbie was expected, and came
forward to say a few explanatory words, to unlock the door, and stir
the dull grey ashes that were lazily burning in the grate: and then she
returned to her own house, leaving poor Libbie standing alone with the
great big chest in the middle of the house-place floor, with no one to
say a word to (even a common-place remark would have been better than
this dull silence), that could help her to repel the fast-coming tears.
Dixon and his wife, and their eldest girl, worked in factories, and
were absent all day from the house: the youngest child, also a little
girl, was boarded out on the week-days at the neighbour’s where the
door-key was deposited, but although busy making dirt-pies, at the
entrance to the court, when Libbie came in, she was too young to care
much about her parents’ new lodger. Libbie knew that she was to sleep
with the elder girl in the front bedroom, but, as you may fancy, it
seemed a liberty even to go upstairs to take off her things, when no
one was at home to marshal the way up the ladder-like steps. So she
could only take off her bonnet, and sit down, and gaze at the now
blazing fire, and think sadly on the past, and on the lonely creature
she was in this wide world—father and mother gone, her little brother
long since dead—he would have been more than nineteen had he been
alive, but she only thought of him as the darling baby; her only
friends (to call friends) living far away at their new house; her
employers, kind enough people in their way, but too rapidly twirling
round on this bustling earth to have leisure to think of the little
work-woman, excepting when they wanted gowns turned, carpets mended,
or household linen darned; and hardly even the natural though hidden
hope of a young girl’s heart, to cheer her on with the bright visions
of a home of her own at some future day, where, loving and beloved, she
might fulfil a woman’s dearest duties.
For Libbie was very plain, as she had known so long that the
consciousness of it had ceased to mortify her. You can hardly live in
Manchester without having some idea of your personal appearance: the
factory lads and lasses take good care of that; and if you meet them
at the hours when they are pouring out of the mills, you are sure to
hear a good number of truths, some of them combined with such a spirit
of impudent fun, that you can scarcely keep from laughing, even at the
joke against yourself. Libbie had often and often been greeted by such
questions as—“How long is it since you were a beauty?”—“What would you
take a day to stand in the fields to scare away the birds?” &c., for
her to linger under any impression as to her looks.
While she was thus musing, and quietly crying, under the pictures her
fancy had conjured up, the Dixons came dropping in, and surprised her
with her wet cheeks and quivering lips.
She almost wished to have the stillness again that had so oppressed her
an hour ago, they talked and laughed so loudly and so much, and bustled
about so noisily over everything they did. Dixon took hold of one
iron handle of her box, and helped her to bump it upstairs, while his
daughter Anne followed to see the unpacking, and what sort of clothes
“little sewing body had gotten.” Mrs. Dixon rattled out her tea-things,
and put the kettle on, fetched home her youngest child, which added to
the commotion. Then she called Anne downstairs, and sent her for this
thing and that: eggs to put to the cream, it was so thin; ham, to give
a relish to the bread and butter; some new bread, hot, if she could get
it. Libbie heard all these orders, given at full pitch of Mrs. Dixon’s
voice, and wondered at their extravagance, so different from the habits
of the place where she had last lodged. But they were fine spinners,
in the receipt of good wages; and confined all day in an atmosphere
ranging from seventy-five to eighty degrees. They had lost all natural,
healthy appetite for simple food, and, having no higher tastes, found
their greatest enjoyment in their luxurious meals.
When tea was ready, Libbie was called downstairs, with a rough but
hearty invitation, to share their meal; she sat mutely at the corner
of the tea-table, while they went on with their own conversation about
people and things she knew nothing about, till at length she ventured
to ask for a candle, to go and finish her unpacking before bedtime,
as she had to go out sewing for several succeeding days. But once in
the comparative peace of her bedroom, her energy failed her, and she
contented herself with locking her Noah’s ark of a chest, and put out
her candle, and went to sit by the window, and gaze out at the bright
heavens; for ever and ever “the blue sky, that bends over all,” sheds
down a feeling of sympathy with the sorrowful at the solemn hours when
the ceaseless stars are seen to pace its depths.
By-and-by her eye fell down to gazing at the corresponding window to
her own, on the opposite side of the court. It was lighted, but the
blind was drawn down: upon the blind she saw, first unconsciously, the
constant weary motion of a little spectral shadow, a child’s hand and
arm—no more; long, thin fingers hanging down from the wrist, while the
arm moved up and down, as if keeping time to the heavy pulses of dull
pain. She could not help hoping that sleep would soon come to still
that incessant, feeble motion: and now and then it did cease, as if
the little creature had dropped into a slumber from very weariness;
but presently the arm jerked up with the fingers clenched, as if
with a sudden start of agony. When Anne came up to bed, Libbie was
still sitting, watching the shadow, and she directly asked to whom it
belonged.
“It will be Margaret Hall’s lad. Last summer, when it was so hot, there
was no biding with the window shut at night, and theirs was open too:
and many’s the time he has waked me with his moans; they say he’s been
better sin’ cold weather came.”
“Is he always in bed? Whatten ails him?” asked Libbie.
“Summat’s amiss wi’ his backbone, folks say; he’s better and worse,
like. He’s a nice little chap enough, and his mother’s not that bad
either; only my mother and her had words, so now we don’t speak.”
Libbie went on watching, and when she next spoke, to ask who and what
his mother was, Anne Dixon was fast asleep.
Time passed away, and as usual unveiled the hidden things. Libbie
found out that Margaret Hall was a widow, who earned her living as a
washerwoman; that the little suffering lad was her only child, her
dearly beloved. That while she scolded, pretty nearly, everybody else,
“till her name was up” in the neighbourhood for a termagant, to him
she was evidently most tender and gentle. He lay alone on his little
bed, near the window, through the day, while she was away toiling for
a livelihood. But when Libbie had plain sewing to do at her lodgings,
instead of going out to sew, she used to watch from her bedroom window
for the time when the shadows opposite, by their mute gestures, told
that the mother had returned to bend over her child, to smooth his
pillow, to alter his position, to get him his nightly cup of tea. And
often in the night Libbie could not help rising gently from bed, to see
if the little arm was waving up and down, as was his accustomed habit
when sleepless from pain.
Libbie had a good deal of sewing to do at home that winter, and
whenever it was not so cold as to benumb her fingers, she took it
upstairs, in order to watch the little lad in her few odd moments of
pause. On his better days he could sit up enough to peep out of his
window, and she found he liked to look at her. Presently she ventured
to nod to him across the court; and his faint smile, and ready nod back
again, showed that this gave him pleasure. I think she would have been
encouraged by this smile to have proceeded to a speaking acquaintance,
if it had not been for his terrible mother, to whom it seemed to be
irritation enough to know that Libbie was a lodger at the Dixons’ for
her to talk at her whenever they encountered each other, and to live
evidently in wait for some good opportunity of abuse.
With her constant interest in him, Libbie soon discovered his great
want of an object on which to occupy his thoughts, and which might
distract his attention, when alone through the long day, from the pain
he endured. He was very fond of flowers. It was November when she had
first removed to her lodgings, but it had been very mild weather, and
a few flowers yet lingered in the gardens, which the country people
gathered into nosegays, and brought on market-days into Manchester.
His mother had brought him a bunch of Michaelmas daisies the very day
Libbie had become a neighbour, and she watched their history. He put
them first in an old teapot, of which the spout was broken off and the
lid lost; and he daily replenished the teapot from the jug of water
his mother left near him to quench his feverish thirst. By-and-by, one
or two of the constellation of lilac stars faded, and then the time he
had hitherto spent in admiring, almost caressing them, was devoted to
cutting off those flowers whose decay marred the beauty of the nosegay.
It took him half the morning, with his feeble, languid motions, and
his cumbrous old scissors, to trim up his diminished darlings. Then at
last he seemed to think he had better preserve the few that remained
by drying them; so they were carefully put between the leaves of the
old Bible; and then, whenever a better day came, when he had strength
enough to lift the ponderous book, he used to open the pages to look at
his flower friends. In winter he could have no more living flowers to
tend.
Libbie thought and thought, till at last an idea flashed upon her mind,
that often made a happy smile steal over her face as she stitched
away, and that cheered her through the solitary winter—for solitary
it continued to be, though the Dixons were very good sort of people,
never pressed her for payment, if she had had but little work to do
that week; never grudged her a share of their extravagant meals, which
were far more luxurious than she could have met with anywhere else,
for her previously agreed payment in case of working at home; and they
would fain have taught her to drink rum in her tea, assuring her that
she should have it for nothing and welcome. But they were too touchy,
too prosperous, too much absorbed in themselves, to take off Libbie’s
feeling of solitariness; not half as much as the little face by day,
and the shadow by night, of him with whom she had never yet exchanged a
word.
Her idea was this: her mother came from the east of England, where, as
perhaps you know, they have the pretty custom of sending presents on
St. Valentine’s day, with the donor’s name unknown, and, of course, the
mystery constitutes half the enjoyment. The fourteenth of February was
Libbie’s birthday too, and many a year, in the happy days of old, had
her mother delighted to surprise her with some little gift, of which
she more than half-guessed the giver, although each Valentine’s day the
manner of its arrival was varied. Since then the fourteenth of February
had been the dreariest of all the year, because the most haunted by
memory of departed happiness. But now, this year, if she could not have
the old gladness of heart herself, she would try and brighten the life
of another. She would save, and she would screw, but she would buy a
canary and a cage for that poor little laddie opposite, who wore out
his monotonous life with so few pleasures, and so much pain.
I doubt I may not tell you here of the anxieties and the fears, of
the hopes and the self-sacrifices—all, perhaps small in the tangible
effect as the widow’s mite, yet not the less marked by the viewless
angels who go about continually among us—which varied Libbie’s life
before she accomplished her purpose. It is enough to say it was
accomplished. The very day before the fourteenth she found time to go
with her half-guinea to a barber’s who lived near Albemarle Street, and
who was famous for his stock of singing-birds. There are enthusiasts
about all sorts of things, both good and bad, and many of the weavers
in Manchester know and care more about birds than any one would easily
credit. Stubborn, silent, reserved men on many things, you have only to
touch on the subject of birds to light up their faces with brightness.
They will tell you who won the prizes at the last canary show, where
the prize birds may be seen, and give you all the details of those
funny, but pretty and interesting mimicries of great people’s cattle
shows. Among these amateurs, Emanuel Morris the barber was an oracle.
He took Libbie into his little back room, used for private shaving of
modest men, who did not care to be exhibited in the front shop decked
out in the full glories of lather; and which was hung round with birds
in rude wicker cages, with the exception of those who had won prizes,
and were consequently honoured with gilt-wire prisons. The longer and
thinner the body of the bird was, the more admiration it received, as
far as external beauty went; and when, in addition to this, the colour
was deep and clear, and its notes strong and varied, the more did
Emanuel dwell upon its perfections. But these were all prize birds;
and, on inquiry, Libbie heard, with some little sinking at heart, that
their price ran from one to two guineas.
“I’m not over-particular as to shape and colour,” said she, “I should
like a good singer, that’s all!”
She dropped a little in Emanuel’s estimation. However, he showed her
his good singers, but all were above Libbie’s means.
“After all, I don’t think I care so much about the singing very loud;
it’s but a noise after all, and sometimes noise fidgets folks.”
“They must be nesh folks as is put out with the singing o’ birds,”
replied Emanuel, rather affronted.
“It’s for one who is poorly,” said Libbie, deprecatingly.
“Well,” said he, as if considering the matter, “folk that are cranky,
often take more to them as shows ’em love, than to them as is clever
and gifted. Happen yo’d rather have this’n,” opening a cage-door,
and calling to a dull-coloured bird, sitting moped up in a corner,
“Here—Jupiter, Jupiter!”
The bird smoothed its feathers in an instant, and, uttering a little
note of delight, flew to Emanuel, putting his beak to his lips, as if
kissing him, and then, perching on his head, it began a gurgling warble
of pleasure, not by any means so varied or so clear as the song of the
others, but which pleased Libbie more; for she was always one to find
out she liked the gooseberries that were accessible, better than the
grapes that were beyond her reach. The price too was just right, so
she gladly took possession of the cage, and hid it under her cloak,
preparatory to carrying it home. Emanuel meanwhile was giving her
directions as to its food, with all the minuteness of one loving his
subject.
“Will it soon get to know any one?” asked she.
“Give him two days only, and you and he’ll be as thick as him and me
are now. You’ve only to open his door, and call him, and he’ll follow
you round the room; but he’ll first kiss you, and then perch on your
head. He only wants larning, which I’ve no time to give him, to do many
another accomplishment.”
“What’s his name? I did not rightly catch it.”
“Jupiter,—it’s not common; but the town’s o’errun with Bobbies and
Dickies, and as my birds are thought a bit out o’ the way, I like to
have better names for ’em, so I just picked a few out o’ my lad’s
school books. It’s just as ready, when you’re used to it, to say
Jupiter as Dicky.”
“I could bring my tongue round to Peter better; would he answer to
Peter?” asked Libbie, now on the point of departing.
“Happen he might; but I think he’d come readier to the three syllables.”
On Valentine’s day, Jupiter’s cage was decked round with ivy leaves,
making quite a pretty wreath on the wicker work; and to one of them
was pinned a slip of paper, with these words, written in Libbie’s best
round hand:—
“From your faithful Valentine. Please take notice his name is Peter,
and he’ll come if you call him, after a bit.”
But little work did Libbie do that afternoon, she was so engaged in
watching for the messenger who was to bear her present to her little
valentine, and run away as soon as he had delivered up the canary, and
explained to whom it was sent.
At last he came; then there was a pause before the woman of the house
was at liberty to take it upstairs. Then Libbie saw the little face
flush up into a bright colour, the feeble hands tremble with delighted
eagerness, the head bent down to try and make out the writing (beyond
his power, poor lad, to read), the rapturous turning round of the
cage in order to see the canary in every point of view, head, tail,
wings, and feet; an intention in which Jupiter, in his uneasiness at
being again among strangers, did not second, for he hopped round so,
as continually to present a full front to the boy. It was a source of
never wearying delight to the little fellow, till daylight closed in;
he evidently forgot to wonder who had sent it him, in his gladness at
his possession of such a treasure; and when the shadow of his mother
darkened on the blind, and the bird had been exhibited, Libbie saw her
do what, with all her tenderness, seemed rarely to have entered into
her thoughts—she bent down and kissed her boy, in a mother’s sympathy
with the joy of her child.
The canary was placed for the night between the little bed and window;
and when Libbie rose once, to take her accustomed peep, she saw the
little arm put fondly round the cage, as if embracing his new treasure
even in his sleep. How Jupiter slept this first night is quite another
thing.
So ended the first day in Libbie’s three eras in last year.