The brightest, fullest daylight poured down into No. 2, —— Court,
Albemarle Street, and the heat, even at the early hour of five, as at
the noontide on the June days of many years past.
The court seemed alive, and merry with voices and laughter. The bedroom
windows were open wide, and had been so all night, on account of
the heat; and every now and then you might see a head and a pair of
shoulders, simply encased in shirt sleeves, popped out, and you might
hear the inquiry passed from one to the other,—“Well, Jack, and where
art thee bound for?”
“Dunham!”
“Why, what an old-fashioned chap thou be’st. Thy grandad afore
thee went to Dunham: but thou wert always a slow coach. I’m off to
Alderley,—me and my missis.”
“Ay, that’s because there’s only thee and thy missis. Wait till thou
hast gotten four childer, like me, and thou’lt be glad enough to take
’em to Dunham, oud-fashioned way, for fourpence apiece.”
“I’d still go to Alderley; I’d not be bothered with my children; they
should keep house at home.”
A pair of hands, the person to whom they belonged invisible, boxed his
ears on this last speech, in a very spirited, though playful, manner,
and the neighbours all laughed at the surprised look of the speaker,
at this assault from an unseen foe. The man who had been holding
conversation with him cried out,—
“Sarved him right, Mrs. Slater: he knows nought about it yet; but
when he gets them he’ll be as loth to leave the babbies at home on a
Whitsuntide as any on us. We shall live to see him in Dunham Park yet,
wi’ twins in his arms, and another pair on ’em clutching at daddy’s
coat-tails, let alone your share of youngsters, missis.”
At this moment our friend Libbie appeared at her window, and Mrs.
Slater, who had taken her discomfited husband’s place, called out,—
“Elizabeth Marsh, where are Dixons and you bound to?”
“Dixons are not up yet; he said last night he’d take his holiday out in
lying in bed. I’m going to the old-fashioned place, Dunham.”
“Thou art never going by thyself, moping!”
“No. I’m going with Margaret Hall and her lad,” replied Libbie, hastily
withdrawing from the window, in order to avoid hearing any remarks on
the associates she had chosen for her day of pleasure—the scold of the
neighbourhood, and her sickly, ailing child!
But Jupiter might have been a dove, and his ivy leaves an olive branch,
for the peace he had brought, the happiness he had caused, to three
individuals at least. For of course it could not long be a mystery
who had sent little Frank Hall his valentine; nor could his mother
long entertain her hard manner towards one who had given her child a
new pleasure. She was shy, and she was proud, and for some time she
struggled against the natural desire of manifesting her gratitude; but
one evening, when Libbie was returning home, with a bundle of work half
as large as herself, as she dragged herself along through the heated
streets, she was overtaken by Margaret Hall, her burden gently pulled
from her, and her way home shortened, and her weary spirits soothed
and cheered, by the outpourings of Margaret’s heart; for the barrier
of reserve once broken down, she had much to say, to thank her for
days of amusement and happy employment for her lad, to speak of his
gratitude, to tell of her hopes and fears,—the hopes and fears that
made up the dates of her life. From that time, Libbie lost her awe of
the termagant in interest for the mother, whose all was ventured in so
frail a bark. From this time, Libbie was a fast friend with both mother
and son, planning mitigations for the sorrowful days of the latter as
eagerly as poor Margaret Hall, and with far more success. His life had
flickered up under the charm and excitement of the last few months. He
even seemed strong enough to undertake the journey to Dunham, which
Libbie had arranged as a Whitsuntide treat, and for which she and his
mother had been hoarding up for several weeks. The canal boat left
Knott-mill at six, and it was now past five; so Libbie let herself out
very gently, and went across to her friends. She knocked at the door of
their lodging-room, and, without waiting for an answer, entered.
Franky’s face was flushed, and he was trembling with excitement,—partly
with pleasure, but partly with some eager wish not yet granted.
“He wants sore to take Peter with him,” said his mother to Libbie, as
if referring the matter to her. The boy looked imploringly at her.
“He would like it, I know; for one thing, he’d miss me sadly, and
chirrup for me all day long, he’d be so lonely. I could not be half so
happy a-thinking on him, left alone here by himself. Then, Libbie, he’s
just like a Christian, so fond of flowers and green leaves, and them
sort of things. He chirrups to me so when mother brings me a pennyworth
of wall-flowers to put round his cage. He would talk if he could, you
know; but I can tell what he means quite as one as if he spoke. Do let
Peter go, Libbie; I’ll carry him in my own arms.”
So Jupiter was allowed to be of the party. Now Libbie had overcome the
great difficulty of conveying Franky to the boat, by offering to “slay”
for a coach, and the shouts and exclamations of the neighbours told
them that their conveyance awaited them at the bottom of the court. His
mother carried Franky, light in weight, though heavy in helplessness,
and he would hold the cage, believing that he was thus redeeming his
pledge, that Peter should be a trouble to no one. Libbie proceeded
to arrange the bundle containing their dinner, as a support in the
corner of the coach. The neighbours came out with many blunt speeches,
and more kindly wishes, and one or two of them would have relieved
Margaret of her burden, if she would have allowed it. The presence of
that little crippled fellow seemed to obliterate all the angry feelings
which had existed between his mother and her neighbours, and which had
formed the politics of that little court for many a day.
And now they were fairly off! Franky bit his lips in attempted
endurance of the pain the motion caused him; he winced and shrank,
until they were fairly on a Macadamized thoroughfare, when he closed
his eyes, and seemed desirous of a few minutes’ rest. Libbie felt very
shy, and very much afraid of being seen by her employers, “set up in a
coach!” and so she hid herself in a corner, and made herself as small
as possible; while Mrs. Hall had exactly the opposite feeling, and was
delighted to stand up, stretching out of the window, and nodding to
pretty nearly every one they met or passed on the foot-paths; and they
were not a few, for the streets were quite gay, even at that early
hour, with parties going to this or that railway station, or to the
boats which crowded the canals on this bright holiday week; and almost
every one they met seemed to enter into Mrs. Hall’s exhilaration of
feeling, and had a smile or nod in return. At last she plumped down by
Libbie, and exclaimed, “I never was in a coach but once afore, and that
was when I was a-going to be married. It’s like heaven; and all done
over with such beautiful gimp, too!” continued she, admiring the lining
of the vehicle. Jupiter did not enjoy it so much.
As if the holiday time, the lovely weather, and the “sweet hour of
prime” had a genial influence, as no doubt they have, everybody’s
heart seemed softened towards poor Franky. The driver lifted him out
with the tenderness of strength, and bore him carefully down to the
boat; the people then made way, and gave him the best seat in their
power,—or rather I should call it a couch, for they saw he was weary,
and insisted on his lying down,—an attitude he would have been ashamed
to assume without the protection of his mother and Libbie, who now
appeared, bearing their baskets and carrying Peter.
Away the boat went, to make room for others, for every conveyance,
both by land and water, is in requisition in Whitsun-week, to give
the hard-worked crowds the opportunity of enjoying the charms of the
country. Even every standing-place in the canal packets was occupied,
and as they glided along, the banks were lined with people, who seemed
to find it object enough to watch the boats go by, packed close
and full with happy beings brimming with anticipations of a day’s
pleasure. The country through which they passed is as uninteresting
as can well be imagined; but still it is the country: and the screams
of delight from the children, and the low laughs of pleasure from the
parents, at every blossoming tree that trailed its wreath against some
cottage wall, or at the tufts of late primroses which lingered in the
cool depths of grass along the canal banks, the thorough relish of
everything, as if dreading to let the least circumstance of this happy
day pass over without its due appreciation, made the time seem all too
short, although it took two hours to arrive at a place only eight miles
from Manchester. Even Franky, with all his impatience to see Dunham
woods (which I think he confused with London, believing both to be
paved with gold), enjoyed the easy motion of the boat so much, floating
along, while pictures moved before him, that he regretted when the time
came for landing among the soft, green meadows, that came sloping down
to the dancing water’s brim. His fellow-passengers carried him to the
park, and refused all payment, although his mother had laid by sixpence
on purpose, as a recompense for this service.
“Oh, Libbie, how beautiful! Oh, mother, mother! is the whole world out
of Manchester as beautiful as this? I did not know trees were like
this! Such green homes for birds! Look, Peter! would not you like to be
there, up among those boughs? But I can’t let you go, you know, because
you’re my little bird brother, and I should be quite lost without you.”
They spread a shawl upon the fine mossy turf, at the root of a
beech-tree, which made a sort of natural couch, and there they laid
him, and bade him rest, in spite of the delight which made him believe
himself capable of any exertion. Where he lay,—always holding Jupiter’s
cage, and often talking to him as to a playfellow,—he was on the verge
of a green area, shut in by magnificent trees, in all the glory of
their early foliage, before the summer heats had deepened their verdure
into one rich, monotonous tint. And hither came party after party;
old men and maidens, young men and children,—whole families trooped
along after the guiding fathers, who bore the youngest in their arms,
or astride upon their backs, while they turned round occasionally to
the wives, with whom they shared some fond local remembrance. For
years has Dunham Park been the favourite resort of the Manchester
work-people; for more years than I can tell; probably ever since “the
Duke,” by his canals, opened out the system of cheap travelling. Its
scenery, too, which presents such a complete contrast to the whirl
and turmoil of Manchester; so thoroughly woodland, with its ancestral
trees (here and there lightning blanched); its “verdurous walls;” its
grassy walks, leading far away into some glade, where you start at the
rabbit rustling among the last year’s fern, and where the wood-pigeon’s
call seems the only fitting and accordant sound. Depend upon it, this
complete sylvan repose, this accessible quiet, this lapping the soul
in green images of the country, forms the most complete contrast to a
town’s-person, and consequently has over such the greatest power to
charm.
Presently Libbie found out she was very hungry. Now they were but
provided with dinner, which was, of course, to be eaten as near twelve
o’clock as might be; and Margaret Hall, in her prudence, asked a
working-man near to tell her what o’clock it was.
“Nay,” said he, “I’ll ne’er look at clock or watch to-day. I’ll not
spoil my pleasure by finding out how fast it’s going away. If thou’rt
hungry, eat. I make my own dinner hour, and I have eaten mine an hour
ago.”
So they had their veal pies, and then found out it was only about
half-past ten o’clock; by so many pleasurable events had that morning
been marked. But such was their buoyancy of spirits, that they only
enjoyed their mistake, and joined in the general laugh against the man
who had eaten his dinner somewhere about nine. He laughed most heartily
of all, till, suddenly stopping, he said,—
“I must not go on at this rate; laughing gives one such an appetite.”
“Oh! if that’s all,” said a merry-looking man, lying at full length,
and brushing the fresh scent out of the grass, while two or three
little children tumbled over him, and crept about him, as kittens
or puppies frolic with their parents, “if that’s all, we’ll have a
subscription of eatables for them improvident folk as have eaten their
dinner for their breakfast. Here’s a sausage pasty and a handful of
nuts for my share. Bring round a hat, Bob, and see what the company
will give.”
Bob carried out the joke, much to little Franky’s amusement; and no one
was so churlish as to refuse, although the contributions varied from a
peppermint drop up to a veal pie and a sausage pasty.
“It’s a thriving trade,” said Bob, as he emptied his hatful of
provisions on the grass by Libbie’s side. “Besides, it’s tiptop, too,
to live on the public. Hark! what is that?”
The laughter and the chat were suddenly hushed, and mothers told their
little ones to listen,—as, far away in the distance, now sinking and
falling, now swelling and clear, came a ringing peal of children’s
voices, blended together in one of those psalm tunes which we are all
of us familiar with, and which bring to mind the old, old days, when
we, as wondering children, were first led to worship “Our Father,” by
those beloved ones who have since gone to the more perfect worship.
Holy was that distant choral praise, even to the most thoughtless; and
when it, in fact, was ended, in the instant’s pause, during which the
ear awaits the repetition of the air, they caught the noontide hum
and buzz of the myriads of insects who danced away their lives in the
glorious day; they heard the swaying of the mighty woods in the soft
but resistless breeze, and then again once more burst forth the merry
jests and the shouts of childhood; and again the elder ones resumed
their happy talk, as they lay or sat “under the greenwood tree.” Fresh
parties came dropping in; some laden with wild flowers—almost with
branches of hawthorn, indeed; while one or two had made prizes of the
earliest dog-roses, and had cast away campion, stitchwort, ragged
robin, all to keep the lady of the hedges from being obscured or hidden
by the community.
One after another drew near to Franky, and looked on with interest
as he lay sorting the flowers given to him. Happy parents stood by,
with their household bands around them, in health and comeliness, and
felt the sad prophecy of those shrivelled limbs, those wasted fingers,
those lamp-like eyes, with their bright, dark lustre. His mother was
too eagerly watching his happiness to read the meaning of those grave
looks, but Libbie saw them and understood them; and a chill shudder
went through her, even on that day, as she thought on the future.
“Ay! I thought we should give you a start!”
A start they did give, with their terrible slap on Libbie’s back,
as she sat idly grouping flowers, and following out her sorrowful
thoughts. It was the Dixons. Instead of keeping their holiday by
lying in bed, they and their children had roused themselves, and had
come by the omnibus to the nearest point. For an instant the meeting
was an awkward one, on account of the feud between Margaret Hall and
Mrs. Dixon, but there was no long resisting of kindly mother Nature’s
soothings, at that holiday time, and in that lonely tranquil spot;
or if they could have been unheeded, the sight of Franky would have
awed every angry feeling into rest, so changed was he since the Dixons
had last seen him; and since he had been the Puck or Robin Goodfellow
of the neighbourhood, whose marbles were always rolling under other
people’s feet, and whose top-strings were always hanging in nooses to
catch the unwary. Yes, he, the feeble, mild, almost girlish-looking
lad, had once been a merry, happy rogue, and as such often cuffed by
Mrs. Dixon, the very Mrs. Dixon who now stood gazing with the tears in
her eyes. Could she, in sight of him, the changed, the fading, keep up
a quarrel with his mother?
“How long hast thou been here?” asked Dixon.
“Welly on for all day,” answered Libbie.
“Hast never been to see the deer, or the king and queen oaks? Lord, how
stupid.”
His wife pinched his arm, to remind him of Franky’s helpless condition,
which of course tethered the otherwise willing feet. But Dixon had a
remedy. He called Bob, and one or two others, and each taking a corner
of the strong plaid shawl, they slung Franky as in a hammock, and thus
carried him merrily along, down the wood paths, over the smooth, grassy
turf, while the glimmering shine and shadow fell on his upturned face.
The women walked behind, talking, loitering along, always in sight of
the hammock; now picking up some green treasure from the ground, now
catching at the low hanging branches of the horse-chestnut. The soul
grew much on this day, and in these woods, and all unconsciously, as
souls do grow. They followed Franky’s hammock-bearers up a grassy
knoll, on the top of which stood a group of pine trees, whose stems
looked like dark red gold in the sunbeams. They had taken Franky there
to show him Manchester, far away in the blue plain, against which the
woodland foreground cut with a soft clear line. Far, far away in the
distance on that flat plain, you might see the motionless cloud of
smoke hanging over a great town, and that was Manchester,—ugly, smoky
Manchester, dear, busy, earnest, noble-working Manchester; where their
children had been born, and where, perhaps, some lay buried; where
their homes were, and where God had cast their lives, and told them to
work out their destiny.
“Hurrah! for oud smoke-jack!” cried Bob, putting Franky softly down on
the grass, before he whirled his hat round, preparatory to a shout.
“Hurrah! hurrah!” from all the men. “There’s the rim of my hat lying
like a quoit yonder,” observed Bob quietly, as he replaced his brimless
hat on his head with the gravity of a judge.
“Here’s the Sunday-school children a-coming to sit on this shady side,
and have their buns and milk. Hark! they’re singing the infant-school
grace.”
They sat close at hand, so that Franky could hear the words they sang,
in rings of children, making, in their gay summer prints, newly donned
for that week, garlands of little faces, all happy and bright upon
that green hill-side. One little “Dot” of a girl came shily behind
Franky, whom she had long been watching, and threw her half-bun at
his side, and then ran away and hid herself, in very shame at the
boldness of her own sweet impulse. She kept peeping from her screen at
Franky all the time; and he meanwhile was almost too much pleased and
happy to eat; the world was so beautiful, and men, women, and children
all so tender and kind; so softened, in fact, by the beauty of this
earth, so unconsciously touched by the spirit of love, which was the
Creator of this lovely earth. But the day drew to an end; the heat
declined; the birds once more began their warblings; the fresh scents
again hung about plant, and tree, and grass, betokening the fragrant
presence of the reviving dew, and—the boat time was near. As they trod
the meadow-path once more, they were joined by many a party they had
encountered during the day, all abounding in happiness, all full of
the day’s adventures. Long-cherished quarrels had been forgotten, new
friendships formed. Fresh tastes and higher delights had been imparted
that day. We have all of us our look, now and then, called up by some
noble or loving thought (our highest on earth), which will be our
likeness in heaven. I can catch the glance on many a face, the glancing
light of the cloud of glory from heaven, “which is our home.” That look
was present on many a hard-worked, wrinkled countenance, as they turned
backwards to catch a longing, lingering look at Dunham woods, fast
deepening into blackness of night, but whose memory was to haunt, in
greenness and freshness, many a loom, and workshop, and factory, with
images of peace and beauty.
That night, as Libbie lay awake, revolving the incidents of the day,
she caught Franky’s voice through the open windows. Instead of the
frequent moan of pain, he was trying to recall the burden of one of the
children’s hymns,—
Here we suffer grief and pain,
Here we meet to part again;
In Heaven we part no more.
Oh! that will be joyful, &c.
She recalled his question, the whispered question, to her, in the
happiest part of the day. He asked Libbie, “Is Dunham like heaven? the
people here are as kind as angels, and I don’t want heaven to be more
beautiful than this place. If you and mother would but die with me, I
should like to die, and live always there!” She had checked him, for
she feared he was impious; but now the young child’s craving for some
definite idea of the land to which his inner wisdom told him he was
hastening, had nothing in it wrong, or even sorrowful, for—
In Heaven we part no more.