In a large, uncarpeted, barren-looking room, round narrow strips of
table, were seated Mrs. Markham's collected charge, at dinner. Each
little head was as closely shaven as if the doctor had ordered it done
for blistering purposes; and each little form was closely swathed in
indigo-blue factory cotton, drawn bag-fashion round the neck; their
lack-luster eyes, stooping forms, and pale faces, telling to the
observant eye their own eloquent tale of suffering.
The stereotyped blessing was duly mumbled over by Mrs. Markham, and the
bread and molasses distributed among the wooden plates. There was little
havoc made, for appetizing fresh air and exercise had been sparingly
dealt out by Mrs. Markham, who had her reward in being spoken of, in the
Reports of the Committee, as "a most economical, trustworthy person,
every way qualified for her important position." For all that, it was
sad to see the hopeless, weary look on those subdued faces, and to
listen to the languid, monotonous tone in which they replied to any
question addressed them.
Rose sat over the untasted morsel, looking vainly from one face to
another, for some glance of sympathy for the new comer.
_They_ were once new comers--some long since, some more newly; their
hearts, too, like Rose's, had yearned for sympathy; their ears ached, as
did hers, for one kind tone; but that was all past. Many suns had risen
and set on that hopeless search; risen and set, but never on their
sports or plays.
The moon sometimes looked in upon them asleep in their little narrow
cots. She saw the bitter waking from some mocking dream of home. She saw
them spring suddenly from their couches, as they dreamed that the
inexorable bell summoned them to rise. She saw them murmuring in their
restless slumbers, the tasks which their overworked brains had failed to
commit, and for which their much abused physiques were held responsible.
Morning came; no eye brightened at their waking; no little tongue bade a
silver-toned 'good-morrow;' no little foot tripped deftly out of bed:
for Markham stood at the door--Markham with her bell, and her bunch of
keys, and her ferule--Markham, stern and immovable as if she never were
a little child, or as if God had forgotten, when he made her, to give
her a heart.
And so, as I said before, Rose sat looking round the table, over her
untasted food, and wondering why it was the children looked so old, so
different from any children she ever saw before; and then she thought
that, perhaps, when they were all alone together (as if the hawk-eyed
Markham would ever leave them alone together), some little child might
come up, and put its arm around her neck, and pity and love her. But day
after day went monotonously by; they all went speechless to dinner,
speechless to the school-room, speechless to bed.
Twice a day they were walked in file round the paved yard, through which
not a blade of grass dared struggle; walled in from the little children
outside, whose merry laughs and shouts startled the little prisoners as
if _those_ tones were unnatural, and only _their_ listless life real. As
evening came on, they sat drowsily stooping over their tasks, or
clicking the monotonous knitting-needle, till weary lids _would_ droop,
and tired fingers resumed their task only at the rap from Markham's
ferule.
Rose saw it all now--she felt it--the torpor--gradually creeping over
her, and numbing her senses; she ceased to talk about her mother. She
did mechanically what she was bid; and, in the approving words of
Markham, was
"Quite a subdued child."
At stated times, the committee came in to look at them, and remarked how
inevitably children of the lower classes inherited poor constitutions
from their depraved parents, and went away as satisfied as if, granting
this to be the case, they were humanely endeavoring to remedy the
inherited curse; as if they were not keeping those growing limbs in
overstrained positions for hours, and depriving them of the blessed air
and sunshine, which God intended childhood to revel in as freely as the
birds and flowers.