The stone bridge was deeply recessed, and in each recess was a stone
seat. In the last recess but one, at the north end, and on the east
side, there sat daily, some few years before 1840, a blind man, Michael
Catchpole by name, selling shoelaces. He originally came out of Suffolk,
but he had lived in Eastthorpe ever since he was a boy, and had worked
for Mr. Furze's father. He was blinded by a splash of melted iron, and
was suddenly left helpless, a widower with one boy, Tom, fifteen years
old. His employer, the present Mr. Furze, did nothing for him, save
sending him two bottles of lotion which he had heard were good for the
eyes, and Mike for a time was confounded. His club helped him so long as
he was actually suffering and confined to his house, but their pay did
not last above six weeks. In these six weeks Mike learned much. He was
brought face to face with a blank wall with the pursuer behind him--an
experience which teaches more than most books, and he was on the point of
doing what some of us have been compelled to do--that is to say, to
recognise that the worst is inevitable, throw up the arms and bravely
yield. But Mike also learned that this is not always necessary to a man
with courage, and that very often escape lies in the last moment, the
very last, when endurance seems no longer possible. His deliverance did
not burst upon him in rainbow colours out of the sky complete. It was a
very slow affair. He heard that an old woman had died who lived in
Parker's Alley and sold old clothes, old iron, bottles, and such like
trash. Parker's Alley was not very easy to find. Going up High Street
from the bridge, you first turned to the right through Cross Street, and
then to the right again down Lock Lane, and out of Lock Lane ran the
alley, a little narrow gutter of a place, dark and squalid, paved with
round stones, through which slops of all kinds perpetually percolated,
and gave forth on the cleanest days a faint and sickening odour. Mike
thought he could buy the stock for five shillings; the rent was only half
a crown a week, and with the help of Tom, a remarkably sharp boy, who
could tell him in what condition the goods were which were offered him
for purchase, he hoped he could manage to make way. It was a dreadful
trial. The old woman had lived amongst all her property. She had eaten
and drunk and slept amidst the dirty rags of Eastthorpe, but Mike could
not. Fortunately the cottage was at the end of the alley. One window
looked out on it, but the door was in a kind of indentation in it round
the corner. On the right-hand side of the door was the room looking into
the alley, and this Mike made his shop; on the left was a little cupboard
of a living-room. He kept the shop window open, so that no customer came
through the doorway, and he begged some scarlet geranium cuttings, which,
in due time, bloomed into brilliant colour on his sitting-room window-
sill, proclaiming that from their possessor hope and delight in life had
not departed. Alas! the enterprise was a failure. Mike was no hand at
driving hard bargains, and frequently, when the Jew from Cambridge came
round to sweep up what Mike had been unable to sell in the town, he found
himself the worse for his purchases. The unscalable wall was again in
front of him, and his foe at his heels, closer than before, and raging
for his blood. He had gone out one morning, Tom leading him, and was
passing the bank, when the cashier ran out. Miss Foster, one of the
maiden ladies who, it will be remembered, lived in the Abbey Close, had
left a sovereign on the counter, and the cashier was exceedingly anxious
to show his zeal by promptly returning it, for Miss Foster, it will also
be remembered, was a daughter of a former partner in the bank, and still,
as it was supposed, retained some interest in it. She had gone too far,
however, and the cashier could not venture to leave his post and follow
her. Knowing Mike and Tom perfectly well, he asked Mike to take the
sovereign at once to the lady. He promptly obeyed, and was in time to
restore it to its owner before it was missed. She was not particularly
sensitive, but the sight of Mike and Tom standing at the hall entrance
rather touched her, and she rewarded them with a shilling. She was also
pleased to inquire how Mike was getting on, and he briefly told her he
did not get on in any way, save as the most unsuccessful happily get on,
and so at last terminate their perplexities. Miss Foster, although well-
to-do, kept neither footman nor page, and a thought struck her. She
abhorred male servants, but it was very often inconvenient to send her
maids on errands. She therefore suggested to Mike that, if he and Tom
could station themselves within call, they would not only be useful, but
earn something of a livelihood. The bank wanted an odd man occasionally,
and she was sure that other people in the town would employ him.
Accordingly Mike and Tom one morning established themselves in the recess
of the bridge, after having given notice to everybody who would be likely
to assist them, and Mike set up a stock of boot-laces and shoe-laces of
all kinds. He thus managed to pick up a trifle. He wrapped sacking
round his legs to keep off the cold as he sat, and had for a footstool a
box with straw in it. He also rigged up a little awning on some sticks
to keep off the sun and a shower, but of course when a storm came he was
obliged to retreat. He was then allowed a shelter in the bank. The dust
was a nuisance, for it was difficult to predict its capricious eddies,
but he learnt its laws at last, and how to choose his station so as to
diminish annoyance. At first he was depressed at the thought of sitting
still for so many hours with nothing to do, but he was not left to
himself so much as he anticipated. Two hours on the average were spent
on errands; then there was his dinner: Tom talked to him; people went by
and said a word or two, and thus he discovered that a foreseen trouble
may look impenetrable, but when we near it, or become immersed in it, it
is often at least semi-transparent, and even sometimes admits a ray of
sunshine. Gradually his employment became sweet to him; he was a part of
the town; he heard all its news; it was gentle within him; even the rough
boys never molested him: he tamed a black kitten to stay with him, and a
red ribbon and a bell were provided for her by a friend. When the kitten
grew to be a cat she gravely watched under Mike's awning during his short
absences with Tom, and not a soul ever touched the property she guarded.
Country folk who came to market on Saturday invariably saluted Mike with
their kind country friendliness, and brought him all sorts of little
gifts in the shape of fruit, and even of something more substantial when
a pig was killed. Thus with Mike time and the hour wore out the roughest
day.
Two years had now passed since his accident, and Tom was about seventeen,
when Miss Catharine crossed the bridge one fine Monday morning in June
with the servant, and, as was her wont, stopped to have a word or two
with her friend Mike. Mike was always at his best on Monday morning.
Sunday was a day of rest, but he preferred Monday. It was a delight to
him to hear again the carts and the noise of feet, and to feel that the
world was alive once more. Sunday with its enforced quietude and
inactivity was a burden to him.
"Well, Miss Catharine, how are you to-day?"
"How did you know I was Miss Catharine? I hadn't spoken."
"Lord, Miss, I could tell. Though it's only about two years since I lost
my eyes, I could tell. I can make out people's footsteps. What a lovely
morning! What's going on now down below?"
Mike always took much interest in the wharves by the side of the river.
"Why, Barnes's big lighter is loading malt."
"Ah! what, the new one with the yellow band round it! that's a beautiful
lighter, that is."
Mike had never seen it.
"What days do you dislike the most? Foggy, damp, dull, dark days?"
These foggy, damp, dull, dark days were particularly distasteful to
Catharine.
"No, Miss, I can't say I do, for, you know, I don't see them."
"Cold, bitter days?"
"They are a bit bad; but somehow I earn more money on cold days than on
any other; how it is I don't know."
"I hate the dust."
"Ah now! that _is_ unpleasant, but there again, Miss, I dodge it, and
it's my belief that it wouldn't worry people half so much if they
wouldn't look at it."
"How much have you earned this morning?"
"Not a penny yet, Miss, but it will come."
"I want two pairs of shoe-laces," and Miss Catharine, selecting two
pairs, put down a fourpenny-piece, part of her pocket-money, twice the
market value of the laces, and tripped over the bridge. When she was at
dinner with her father and mother that day she suddenly said--
"Father, didn't Mike Catchpole lose his sight in our foundry?"
"Yes."
"Have you been talking with him again?" interposed Mrs. Furze. "I wish
you would not stop on the bridge as you do. It does not look nice for a
girl like you to stay and gossip with Mike."
Catharine took no notice.
"Did you ever do anything for him?"
"What an odd question!" again interposed Mrs. Furze. "What should we do?
There was his club besides, we sent him the lotion."
"Why cannot you take Tom as an apprentice?"
"Because," said her father, "there is nobody to pay the premium; you know
what that means. When a boy is bound apprentice the master has a sum of
money for teaching him the business."
Catharine did not quite comprehend, inasmuch as there were two boys in
the back shop who were paid wages, and who were learning their trade. She
was quiet for a few minutes, but presently returned to the charge.
"You _must_ take Tom. Why shouldn't you give him what you give the other
boys?"
"Really, Catharine," said her mother, "why _must_?"
"Must!" cried the little miss--"yes, I say _must_, because Mike lost his
eyes for you, and you've done nothing for him; it's a shame."
"Catharine, Catharine!" said her father, but in accordance with his usual
habit he said nothing more, and the mother, also in accordance with her
usual habit, collapsed.
Miss Catharine generally, even at that early age, carried all before her,
much to her own detriment. Her parents unfortunately were perpetually
making a brief show of resistance and afterwards yielding. Frequently
they had no pretext for resistance, for Catharine was right and they were
wrong. Consequently the child grew up accustomed to see everything bend
to her own will, and accustomed to believe that what she willed was in
accordance with the will of the universe--not a healthy education, for
the time is sure to come when a destiny which will not bend stands in the
path before us, and we are convinced by the roughest processes that what
we purpose is to a very small extent the purpose of Nature. The shock
then is serious, especially if the collision be postponed till mature
years. The parental opposition, such as it was, was worse than none,
because it enabled her to feel her strength. She continued to press her
point, and not only was victorious, but was empowered to tell Mike that
his son would be taken into the foundry and paid five shillings and
sixpence a week--"a most special case," as Mr. Furze told Mike, in order
to stimulate his gratitude.
Mike was now able to find his way about by himself, but before the date
of the first chapter in this history he had left the bridge, and Tom
supported him.
The morning after the fire beheld the Furze family at breakfast with the
hospitable Hopkins. They had saved scarcely any clothes, but Tom and his
master were equipped from a ready-made shop. The women had to remain
indoors in borrowed garments till they could be made presentable by the
dressmaker. Mr. Furze was so unfitted to deal with events which did not
follow in anticipated, regular order, that he was bewildered. He and Tom
went out to look at the ruins, and everything which had to be done seemed
to crowd in upon him at once, one thing tumbling incessantly over the
other, and nothing staying long enough before him to be settled. Although
his business had been fairly large, he had nothing of the faculty of the
captain or the manager, who can let details alone and occupy himself with
principles. He had a stock of copper bolt-stave in the front shop, and
he poked about and pestered the men to know if any of it could be found
melted. Then it occurred to him the next instant, and before the inquiry
about the bolt-stave could be answered, that he had lost his
account-books, and he began to try to recollect what one of his principal
customers owed him. Before his memory was fairly exercised on the
subject it struck him that the men in the foundry--which was
untouched--would not know what to do, and he hurried in, but came out
again without leaving any directions. At last he became so confused that
he would have broken down if Tom had not come to the rescue, and gently
laid hold of his arm.
"Let us go into the Bell"; and into the Bell they went, into the large,
empty coffee-room, very quiet at that time of the morning. "We are
better here," said Tom, "if we want to know what we ought to do. The
first thing is to write to the insurance company."
"Of course, of course!"
"We will do that at once; I will write the letter, and you sign it."
In less than ten minutes this stage of the business was passed.
"The next thing is to find a shop while they are rebuilding."
That was not quite so easy a matter. There was not one in the High
Street to be let. At last an idea struck Tom.
"There is the Moot Hall--underneath it, I mean. We shall have to buy
fittings, but I will have them so arranged that they will do for the new
building. All that is necessary is to obtain leave; but we shall be sure
to get it: only half of it is wanted on market days, and that's the part
that isn't shut off. We'll then write to Birmingham and Sheffield about
the stock. We'd better have a few posters stuck about at once, saying
that business will be carried on in the Hall for the present."
Mr. Furze saw the complexity unravel itself, and the knot in his head
began to loosen, but he did not quite like to reflect that he owed his
relief to Tom, and that Tom had seen his agitation. Accordingly, when a
proof of the poster was brought, he was the master, most particularly the
master, and observed with much dignity and authority that it ought not to
have been set up without the benefit of his revision; that it would not
do by any means as it stood, and that it had better be left with him.
Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins insisted upon continuing their hospitality until a
new home could be found, and Mrs. Furze urged her project of the Terrace
with such eagerness, that at last her husband consented.
"I think," said Mrs. Furze, when the debate was concluded, "that
Catharine had better go away for a short time until we are settled in the
Terrace and the shop is rebuilt. She would not be of much use in the new
house, and would only knock herself up."
That was not Mrs. Furze's reason. She had said nothing to Catharine, but
she instinctively dreaded her hostility to the scheme. Mr. Furze knew
that was not Mrs. Furze's reason, but he accepted it. Mrs. Furze knew it
was not her own reason, but she also accepted it, and believed it to be
the true reason. Such contradictions are quite possible in that mystery
of mysteries the human soul.
"My dear Catharine," quoth her mother that evening, "you look worried and
done up. No wonder, considering what we have gone through. A change
would do you good, and you had better go and stay with your aunt at Ely
till we have a roof of our own over our heads once more. She will be
delighted to see you."
Catharine particularly objected to her aunt at Ely. She was a maiden
lady and elder sister to Mrs. Furze. She had a small annuity, had turned
herself into a most faithful churchwoman, and went to live at Ely because
it was cheap and a cathedral city. Every day, morning and afternoon, was
Aunt Matilda to be seen at the cathedral services, and frequently she was
the only attendant, save the choir and officials.
"Why do you want me out of the way?" said Catharine, dismissing without
the least notice the alleged pretext.
"I have told you, my dear."
"I cannot go to Ely. If you wish me to go anywhere, I will go to Mrs.
Bellamy's."
"My dear, that is not a sufficient change for you. Ely is a different
climate, and I cannot consent to quartering you on a stranger for so
long."
"Mrs. Bellamy will not object. Will the new house be like the old one?"
"Well, really, may dear, nothing at present is quite determined; no doubt
your father will take the opportunity of making a few improvements."
"My bedroom, I hope, will be what it was before, and in the same place."
"Oh, I--I trust there will be no serious alteration, except what--what
will be agreeable to us all, but your father is so much bothered now;
perhaps you will have a room which is a little larger, but I really do
not know. I cannot say anything: how can you _expect_ me to say anything
just at present, my dear child?"
Again there was the same contradiction. Mrs. Furze knew this was wrong,
but she believed it was right. There was, however, a slight balance in
favour of what she knew against what she believed, and she hastened to
appease her conscience by a mental promise that, as soon as possible, she
would tell Catharine that, upon full consideration, they had determined,
&c., &c. That would put everything straight morally. Had Catharine put
her question yesterday--so Mrs. Furze argued--the answer now given would
have been perfectly right. She was doing nothing more than giving a
reply which was a trifle in arrear of the facts, and, if she rectified it
at the earliest date, the impropriety would be nothing. It is sometimes
thought that it is those who habitually speak the truth who are most
easily deceived. It is not quite so. If the deceivers are not entirely
deceived, they profess acquiescence, and perpetual acquiescence induces
half-deception. It is, perhaps, more correct to say that the word
deception has no particular meaning for them, and implies a standard
which is altogether inapplicable. There is a tacit agreement through all
society to say things which nobody believes, and that being the
constitution under which we live, it is absurd to talk of truth or
falsity in the strict sense of the terms. A thing is true when it is in
accordance with the system and on a level with it, and false when it is
below it. Every now and then at rarest intervals a creature is
introduced to us who speaks the veritable reality and wakes in us the
slumbering conviction of universal imposture. We know that he is not as
other men are; we look into his eyes and see that they penetrate us
through and through, but we cannot help ourselves, and we jabber to him
as we jabber to the rest of the world. It was ridiculous that her mother
should talk as she did to Catharine. Mrs. Furze was perfectly aware that
she was not deluding her daughter; but she assumed that the delusion was
complete.
"Well, mother, I say I cannot go to Ely."
Catharine again had her own way. She went to Mrs. Bellamy's, and Mrs.
Furze, after having told Mrs. Bellamy what was going to happen, begged
her not to say anything to Catharine about it.