 Chapter 5 of Mary Barton This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dawn Murphy in El Segundo, California. Mary Barton by Elizabeth Cleighorn Gaskill. Chapter 5 The Mill on Fire Gem Wilson to the Rescue Learned he was, nor bird, nor insect flew, but he its leafy home and history knew. Nor wildflower decked the rock, nor moss the well, but he its name and qualities could tell. Elliot There is a class of man in Manchester, unknown even to many of the inhabitants, whose existence will probably be doubted by many, who yet may claim kindred with all the noble names that science recognizes. I said in Manchester, but they are scattered all over the manufacturing districts of Lancashire. In the neighborhood of Oldham there are weavers, common hand loom weavers, who throw the shuttle with unceasing sound, though Newton's Principia lies open on the loom to be snatched at in work hours, but reveled over in mealtimes or at night. Mathematical problems are received with interest and studied with absorbing attention by many the broad-spoken, common-looking factory hand. It is perhaps less astonishing that the more popularly interesting branches of natural history have their warm and devoted followers among this class. There are botanists among them, equally familiar with either the lineum or the natural system, who know the name and habitat of every plant within a day's walk from their dwellings, who steal the holiday of a day or two when any particular plant should be in flower, when tying up their simple food in their pocket handkerchiefs, set off with simple purpose to fetch home the humble-looking weed. There are entomologists, who may be seen with a rude-looking net, ready to catch any winged insect, or a kind of dredge, with which they rake the green and slimy pools, practical, shrewd, hard-working men who pour over every new specimen with real scientific delight. However is it the common and more obvious divisions of entomology and botany that alone attract these earnest seekers after knowledge? Perhaps it may be owing to the great annual town holiday of witsom week, so often falling in May or June, that the two great beautiful families of Ephemeridae and Phrygenidae have been so much and so closely studied by Manchester workmen. While they have, in a great measure, escaped general observation. If you will refer to the preface to Sir J. E. Smith's life, I have it not by me or I would copy you the exact passage, you will find that he names a little circumstance cooperative of what I have said. Being on a visit to Roscoe, of Liverpool, he made some inquiries from him as to the habitat of a very rare plant, said to be found in certain places in Lancashire. Mr. Roscoe knew nothing of the plant, but stated that if any one could give him the desired information it would be a hand loom weaver and Manchester, whom he named. Sir J. E. Smith proceeded by boat to Manchester, and on arriving at that town he inquired of the porter who was carrying his luggage, if he could direct him to so-and-so. Oh yes, replied the man, he goes a bit in my way, and on further investigation it turned out that both the porter and his friend the weaver were skillful botanists, and able to give Sir J. E. Smith the very information which he wanted. Such are the tastes and pursuits of some of the thoughtful, little-understood workingmen of Manchester. And Margaret's grandfather was one of these. He was a little wirely-looking old man, who moved with a jerky motion, as if his limbs were worked by a string, like a child's toy, with a done-coloured hair lying thin and soft at the back and sides of his head. His forehead was so large it seemed to overbalance the rest of his face, which had indeed lost its natural contour by the absence of all the teeth. The eyes absolutely gleamed with intelligence, so keen, so observant, you felt as if they were almost wizard-like. Indeed, the whole room looked not unlike a wizard's dwelling. Instead of pictures were hung rude wooden frames of impaled insects. The little table was covered with cabalistic books, and beside them lay a case of mysterious instruments, one of which Joe Blague was using when his granddaughter entered. On her appearance he pushed his spectacles up so as to rest midway on his forehead and gave Mary a short, kind welcome. But Margaret he caressed as a mother caresses her first-born, stroking her with tenderness and almost altering his voice as he spoke to her. Mary looked round on the odd, strange thing she had never seen at home, and which seemed to her to have a very uncanny look. Is your grandfather a fortune-teller, whispered she to her new friend? No, replied Margaret in the same voice, but you are not the first as have taken him for such. He is only fond of such things as most folks know nothing about. And do you know odd about them too? I know a bit about some of the things grandfather is fond of. Just because he's fond of them, I tried to learn about him. What things are these? said Mary, struck with the weird-looking creatures that crawled around the room and their roughly made glass cases. But she was not prepared for the technical names which Joe Blague pattered upon her ear, on which they fell like hail on a skylight, and the strange language only bewildered her more than ever. Margaret saw the state of the case and came to the rescue. Look, Mary, at this horrid scorpion! He gave such a fright! I am all of a Twitter yet when I think of it. Grandfather went to Liverpool one witsome week to go strolling about the docks and pick up what he could from the sailors, who often bring some queer thing or another from the hot countries they go to. And so he sees a chap with a bottle in his hand, like a druggist's physical bottle. And says, grandfather, what have you gotten there? So the sailor holds it up, and grandfather knew it was a rare kind of scorpion, not common even in the East Indies, where the man came from, and says he, how did you catch this fine fellow, for he wouldn't be taken for nothing, I'm thinking. And the man said, as how, when they were unloading the ship, he'd found him lying behind a sack of rice, and he thought the cold had killed him, for he was not squashed or injured a bit. He did not like to part with any of the spirit out of his grog, to put the scorpion in, but slipped him into the bottle, knowing there were folks in Al, who would give him something for him. So grandfather gave him a shilling. Two shillings interrupted Job's leg, and a good bargain it was. Well, grandfather came home as proud, as punch, and pulled the bottle out of his pocket. But you see, the scorpion were doubled up, and grandfather thought I could fairly see how big he was. So he shakes him out right before the fire, and a good warm one it was. For I was ironing, I remember, I let off ironing, and stooped down over to him, to look at him better, and grandfather got a book, and began to read how this very kind were the most poisonous and vicious species, how their bite were often fatal, and then went on to read how people who were bitten got swelled and screamed with pain. I was listening hard, but as it fell out I never took my eyes off the creature, though I could not have told I was watching it. Suddenly it seemed to give a jerk, and before I could speak it gave another, and in a minute it was as wild as it could be, running at me, just like a mad dog. What did you do? asked Mary. Me? While I jumped first on a chair, and then all the things I'd been ironing on the dresser, and I screamed for grandfather to come up by me, but he did not hearken to me. Why, if I'd come up by thee, who'd have caught the creature I should like to know? Well I begged grandfather to crush it, and I had the iron right over it once, ready to drop, but grandfather begged me not to hurt it in that way, so I couldn't think what he'd have, for he dropped round the room as if he were sore afraid, for all he begged me not to injure it. At last he goes to the kettle, and lifts up the lid and peeps in. What on earth is he doing that for, thinks I? He'll never drink his tea with a scorpion running free and easy about the room. Then he takes the tongs, and he settles his spectacles on his nose, and in a minute he lifted the creature up by the leg and dropped him into the boiling water. And did that kill him? said Mary. Ah, sure enough, he boiled for longer time than grandfather liked, though, but I was so afeard of his coming round again. I ran to the public house for some gin, and grandfather filled the bottle, and then we poured off the water and picked him out of the kettle and dropped him into the bottle, and he were there about twelve months. What brought him to life at first? asked Mary. Why, you see, he were never really dead, only torpid. That is dead asleep with cold, and our good fire brought him round. I'm glad father does not care for such things, said Mary. Are you? Well, I'm often downright glad grandfather is so fond of his books and his creatures and his plants. It does my heart good to see him so happy, sorting them all at home, and so ready to go in search of more whenever he's a spare day. Look at him now! He's gone back to his books, and he'll be as happy as a king, working away till I make him go to bed. It keeps him silent to be sure, but so long as I see him earnest and pleased and eager, what does that matter? Then when he has his talking bouts, you can't think how much he has to say. Dear grandfather, you don't know how happy we are. Mary wondered if the dear grandfather heard all this, for Margaret did not speak in an undertone. But no, he was far too deep and eager in solving a problem. He did not even notice Mary's leaving, and she went home with a feeling that she had that night made the acquaintance of two of the strangest people she had ever saw in her life. Margaret, so quiet, so commonplace, until her singing powers were called forth, so silent from home, so cheerful and agreeable at home, and her grandfather so very different from anyone Mary had ever seen. Margaret had said he was not a fortune teller, but she did not know whether to believe her. To resolve her doubts she told the story of the evening to her father, who was interested by her account, and curious to see and judge for himself. These are not often wanting, where inclination goes before, and near the end of the winter Mary looked upon Margaret almost as an old friend. The latter would bring her work when Mary was likely to be at home in the evenings and sit with her, and Job Leg would put a book and his pipe in his pocket, and just step round the corner to fetch his grandchild, ready for a talk if he found Barton in, ready to pull out pipe and book if the girls wanted him to wait, and John was still at his club. In short, ready to do whatever would give pleasure to his darling Margaret. I do not know what points of resemblance or dissimilitude, for this joins people as often as that, attracted the two girls to each other. Margaret had the great charm of possessing good strong common sense, and do not perceive how involuntarily this is valued. It is so pleasant to have a friend who possesses the power of setting a difficult question in a clear light, whose judgment can tell what is best to be done, and who is so convinced of what is wisest, best, that in consideration of the end, all difficulties in the way diminished. People admire talent, and talk about their admiration, but they value common sense without talking about it, and often without knowing it. So Mary and Margaret grew in love, one toward the other, and Mary told many of her feelings in a way she had never done before to anyone. Most of her foibles were made known to Margaret, but not all. There was one cherished weakness still concealed from everyone. It concerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. A gallant, handsome young man, but not beloved. But Mary hoped to meet him every day in her walks, blushed when she heard his name, and tried to think of him as her future husband, and above all tried to think of herself as his future wife. Alas, poor Mary, bitter woe, did thy weakness work thee. She had other lovers, one or two would gladly have kept her company, but she held herself too high, they said. William Wilson said nothing, but loved on and on, ever more fondly. He hoped against hope, he would not give up, for it seemed like giving up life to give up thought of Mary. He did not dare to look at any end of all this, the present, so that he saw her, touch the hemp of her garment, was enough. Surely in time such deep hope would beget love. He would not relinquish hope, and yet her coldness of manner was enough to daunt any man, and it made Jem more despairing than he would acknowledge for a long time even to himself. But one evening he came round by Barton's house, a willing messenger for his father, and opening the door saw Margaret sitting asleep before the fire. She had come in to speak to Mary, and worn out by a long working, watching night she fell asleep in the genial warmth. An old-fashioned saying about a pair of gloves came into Jem's mind, and stepping gently up he kissed Margaret with a friendly kiss. She awoke, and perfectly understanding the thing, she said, For shame of yourself, Jem, what would Mary say? Lightly said, lightly answered. She'd know but say practice makes perfect. And they both laughed. But the words Margaret had said rankled in Jem's mind. Would Mary care? Would she care in the very least? They seemed to call for an answer by night and by day, and Jem felt that his heart told him Mary was quite indifferent to any action of his. Still he loved on, and on, ever more fondly. Mary's father was well aware of the nature of Jem Wilson's feeling for his daughter, but he took no notice of them to any one, thinking Mary full young yet, for the cares of Mary life, and unwilling, too, to entertain the idea of parting with her at any time, however distant. But he welcomed Jem at his house, as he would have done his father's son, whatever were his motives for coming, and now and then admitted the thought that Mary might do worse, when her time came, when Mary Jem Wilson, a steady workman at a good trade, a good son to his parents, and a fine manly-spirited chap. At least when Mary was not by, for when she was present he watched her too closely, and too anxiously, to have much of what John Barton called spunk into him. It was towards the end of February in that year, and a bitter black frost had lasted for many weeks, that keen east wind had long since swept the streets clean, though in a gusty day the dust would rise like pounded ice, and many people's faces, quite smart with the cold force with which it blew against them. Houses, sky, people, and everything looked as if a gigantic brush had washed them all over, with a dark shade of Indian ink. There was some reason for this grimy appearance on human beings, whatever there might be for the done looks of the landscape, for soft water had become an article, not even to be purchased, and the poor washerwoman might be seen vainly trying to procure a little by breaking the thick gray ice that coated the ditches and ponds in the neighborhood. People prophesied a long continuance to this already lengthened frost, said the spring would be very late, no spring fashions required, no summer clothing purchased for a short uncertain summer. Indeed there was no end to the evil prophesied during the continuance of that bleak east wind. Mary hurried home one evening just as daylight was fading from Mrs. Simmons, with her shaw held up to her mouth and her head bent as if in deprecation of the meeting wind. So she did not perceive Margaret till she was close upon her at the very turning into the court. Bless me, Margaret, is that you? Where are you bound to? To nowhere but your own house, that is, if you'll take me in. I have a job of work to finish tonight. Morning, as must be in time for the funeral tomorrow. And grandfather has been out moth-hunting, and will not be home till late. Oh, how charming it will be! I'll help you if you're backward. Have you much to do? Yes, I only got the order yesterday at noon, and there's three girls besides the mother, and what with trying on and matching the stuff, for there was not enough in the peace they chose first. I'm above a bit behind hand. I've the skirts all to make. I kept that work till candlelight, and the sleeves to say nothing of little bits to the bodies, for the Mrs. is very particular, and I could scarce keep from smiling while they were crying so, really taking on, sadly, I'm sure, to hear first one and then to other clear up to notice the set of her gown. They weren't to be misfits, I promise you, they were in such trouble. Well, Margaret, you're right welcome, as you know, and I'll sit down and help you with pleasure, though I was tired enough of sewing to-night at Miss Simmons. By this time Mary had broken up the raking coal and lighted her candle, and Margaret settled herself to work on one side of the table while her friend hurried over her tea at the other. The things were then lifted en masse to the dresser, and dusting her side of the table with the apron she always wore at home, Mary took up some breaths and began to run them together. Who's it all for, for if you've told me I've forgotten? Why, it's Mrs. Ogden, as keeps the green grocer shop in Oxford Road. Her husband drank himself to death, and though she cried over him and his ways all the time he was alive, she's fretted, sadly, for now he's dead. Has he left her much to go upon? asked Mary, examining the texture of the dress. This is beautifully fine, soft bombazine. No, I much afeard there's but little, and there's several young children besides the three Miss Ogden's. I should have thought, girls like them, would have made their own gowns, observed Mary. So I dare say they do, many a one, but now they seem all so busy getting ready for the funeral, for it's to be quite a grand affair, well-nigh twenty people to breakfast, as one of the little ones told me. The little thing seemed to like the fuss, and I do believe it comforted poor Miss Ogden to make all the peace of work. Such a smell of ham boiling and fowls roasting, while I waited in the kitchen. It seemed more like a wedding, nor a funeral. They said she'd spend a matter of sixty pounds on the burial. I thought you said she was but badly off, said Mary. I—I know she's asked for credit at several places, saying her husband laid hands on every farthing he could get for drink. But the undertakers urged her on, you see, and tell her this thing's usual, and that thing's only a common mark of respect, and that everybody has to other, till the poor woman has no will of her own. I dare say, too, her heart strikes her. It always does when a person's gone, for many a word and many a slighting deed to him, who's stiff and cold, and she thinks to make up matters, as it were, by a grand funeral, though she and all her children, too, may have to pinch many a year to pay the expenses, if ever they pay them at all. This mourning, too, will cost a pretty penny, said Mary. I often wonder why folks wear mourning. It's not pretty or becoming, and it costs a deal of money, just when people can spare at least. And if what the Bible tells us be true, we ought not to be sorry when a friend who's been good goes to his rest. And as for a bad man, one's glad enough to get shut on him. I cannot see what good comes aware in mourning. I'll tell you what I think the fancy was sent for. Old Alice calls everything sent for, and I believe she's right. It does do good, though not as much as it costs, that I do believe, in setting people, as is cast down by sorrow and feels themselves unable to settle to anything but crying, something to do. Why now I told you how they were grieving, for perhaps he was a kind husband and father, in his thoughtless way, when he wasn't in liquor. But they cheered up wonderful while I was there, and I asked them for more directions than usual. That they might have something to talk over and fix about, and I left them my fashion book, though it were two months old, just a purpose. I don't think everyone would grieve of that way. Old Alice wouldn't. Old Alice is one in a thousand. I doubt, too, if she would fret much, however sorry she might be. She would say it were sent, and fall to trying to find out what good it were to do. Every sorrow in her mind is sent for good. Did I ever tell you, Mary, what she said one day, when she found me taking on about something? No, do tell. What were you fretting about first place? I can't tell you just now. Perhaps I may some time. When? Perhaps this very evening, if it rises in my heart, perhaps never. It's a fear that sometimes I can't abide to think about, and sometimes I don't like to think on anything else. Well, I was fretting about this fear, and Alice comes in for something and finds me crying. I would not tell her, no more than I would you, Mary. So she says, well, dear, you must mind this, when you're going to fret and be low about anything, an anxious mind is never a holy mind. Oh, Mary, I have so often checked my grumbling, since she said that. The weary sound of stitching was the only sound heard for a little while, till Mary inquired. Do you expect to get paid for this morning? Why, I do not much think I shall. I've thought it over once or twice, and I mean to bring myself to think I shan't, and to like to do it as my bit towards comforting them. I don't think they can pay, and yet they're just the sort of folk to have their minds easier for wearing mourning. There's only one thing I dislike making black for. It does so hurt the eyes. Margaret put down her work with a sigh, and shaded her eyes. Then she assumed a cheerful tone and said, You'll not have to wait long, Mary, for my secrets on the tip of my tongue. Mary, do you know I sometimes think I'm growing a little blind? And then what would it become of grandfather and me? Oh, God, help me! Lord, help me! She fell into an agony of tears, while Mary knelt by her, striving to soothe and to comfort her. But like an inexperienced person, striving rather to deny the correctness of Margaret's fear than helping her to meet and overcome the evil. No, said Margaret. Quietly fixing her tearful eyes on Mary, I know I'm not mistaken. I have felt one going some time, long before I ever thought what it would lead to. And last autumn I went to a doctor, and he did not mince the matter, but said unless I sat in a darkened room with my hands before me, my sight would not last me many years longer. But how could I do that, Mary, for one thing grandfather would have known there was somewhat the matter, and oh, it will grieve him sore whenever he's told, so the later the better. And besides, Mary, we've sometimes little enough to go upon, and what I earn is a great help, for grandfather takes a day here, and a day there, for botanizing, or going after insects, and he'll think little enough a four or five shillings for a specimen. Dear grandfather, and I'm so loathed to think he should be stinted of what gives him such pleasure. So I went to another doctor to try and get him to say something different, and he said, Oh, it's only weakness, and give me a bottle of lotion. But I've used three bottles and each of them cost two shillings, and my eye is so much worse, not hurting so much, but I can't see a bit with it. There now, Mary, continued she, shutting one eye, now you only look like a great black shadow, with the edges dancing and sparkling. And can you see pretty well with the other? Yes, pretty near as well as ever. The only difference is that if I sew a long time together, a bright spot like the sun comes right where I'm looking. All the rest is quite clear. But just where I want to see. I've been to both doctors again. And now they're both of the same story. And I suppose I'm going dark as fast as may be. Plain work pays so bad. And mourning has been so plentiful this winter, that I were tempted to take in any black work I could. And now I'm suffering from it. And yet, Margaret, you're going on taking it in. That's what you'd call foolish in another. It is, Mary. And yet what can I do? Folkman live, and I think I should go blind anyway. And I dare not tell grandfather else I would leave it off. But he will so fret. Margaret knocked herself backward and forward to still her emotion. Oh, Mary, she said, I try to get his face off by heart, and I stare at him so when he's not looking, and then shut my eyes to see if I can remember his dear face. There's one thing, Mary, that serves a bit to comfort me. You'll have heard of old Jacob Butterworth, the singing weaver. Well, I knowed him a bit. So I went to him and said how I wished he'd teach me the right way of singing. And he says I've a rare, fine voice. And I go once a week and take a lesson from him. He's been a grand singer in his day. He led the choruses at the festivals, and got thanked many a time by London folk, and one foreign singer, Madame Catalani, turned round and shook him by the hand before the old church, full of people. He says I may gain ever so much money by singing. But I don't know. Any rate, it's sad work being blind. She took up her sewing, saying her eyes were rested now, and for some time they sewed on in silence. Suddenly there were steps heard in the little paved court, person after person ran past the curtain window. Some things up, said Mary, she went to the door and stopped the first person she saw, inquired the cause of the commotion. Hey, Wench, don't you see the firelight? Carson's mill is blazing away like fun, and away her informant ran. Come, Margaret, on with your bonnet, and let's go to see Carson's mill. It's a fire, and they say a burning mill is such a grand sight. I never saw one. Well, I think it's a fearful sight. Besides, I've all this work to do. But Mary coaxed her in her sweet manner, and with her gentle caresses, promising to help with the gowns all night long, if necessary. Nay, saying she should quite enjoy it. The truth was, Margaret's secret weighed heavily and painfully on her mind, and she felt her inability to comfort. Besides, she wanted to change the current of Margaret's thoughts, and in addition to these unselfish feelings came the desire she had honestly expressed of seeing a factory fire. So in two minutes they were ready. At the threshold of the house they met John Barton, to whom they told their errand. Carson's mill? Aye, there is a mill on fire somewhere, sure enough by the light, and it will be a rare blaze, for there's not a drop of water to be got, and much Carson will care, for they're well insured, and the machines are the old fashioned kind. See if they don't think it a fine thing for themselves, though not thank them as tries to put it out. He gave way for the impatient girls to pass, guided by the ruddy light, more than by any exact knowledge of the streets that led to the mill, they scampered along with bent heads, facing the terrible east wind as best they might. Carson's mill ran lengthwise, from east to west, along it went one of the oldest thoroughfares in Manchester. Indeed, all that part of town was comparatively old. It was there that the first cotton mills were built, and the crowded alleys and back streets of the neighborhood made a fire there particularly to be dreaded. The staircase of the mill ascended from the entrance at the western end, which faced into a wide, dingy looking street, consisting principally of public houses, pawnbrokers, shops, rag and bone warehouses, and dirty provision shops. The other, the east end of the factory, fronted into a very narrow back street, not twenty feet wide, and miserably lighted and paved. Right against this end of the factory were the gable ends of the last house in the principal street, a house which from its size, its handsome stone facings, and the attempt at ornament in the front had probably once been a gentleman's house. But now the light which streamed from its enlarged front windows made clear the interior of the splendidly fitted up room. With its painted walls, its pillared recesses, its gilded and gorgeous fittings up, its miserable, swallowed inmates. It was a gin palace. Mary almost wished herself away, so fearful, as Margaret had said, was the sight when they had joined the crowd assembled to witness the fire. There was a murmur of many voices whenever the roaring of the flames ceased for an instant. It was easy to perceive the mass were deeply interested. What do they say? asked Margaret of a neighbor in the town as she caught a few words clear and distinct from the general murmur. There never is anyone in the mill, surely, exclaimed Mary as the sea of upward turned faces, moved with one accord to the eastern end, looking into Dunham Street, the narrow back lane already mentioned. The western end of the mill, whether the raging flames were driven by the wind, was crowned and tormented with triumphant fire. It sent forth its infernal tongues from every window hole, licking the black walls with amorphous fierceness. It was swayed or fell before the mighty gale, only to rise higher and yet higher to ravage and roar yet more wildly. This part of the roof fell in with an astounding crash, while the crowd struggled more and more to press into Dunham Street for what were magnificent terrible flames. What were falling timbers or tottering walls in comparison with human life? There, where the devouring flames had been repelled by yet more powerful wind, but where yet black smoke gushed out from every aperture, there at one of the windows on the fourth story, or rather a doorway where a crane was fixed to hoist up goods, might occasionally be seen when the thick gusts of smoke cleared partially away for an instant, the imploring figures of two men. They had remained after the rest of the workmen for some reason or other, and owing to the wind, having driven the fire in the opposite direction, had perceived no sight or sound of alarm till long after, if anything could be called long in the throng of terrors which passed by in less than half an hour. The fire had consumed the old wooden staircase at the other end of the building. I am not sure whether it was not the first sound of the rushing crowd below that made them fully aware of their awful position. Where are the engines? asked Margaret of her neighbor. They're coming, no doubt, but bless you. I think it's bare ten minutes since we first found out the fire. It rages so with this wind and also dry like. Is no one gone for a ladder? gasped Mary, as the men were perceptibly, though not audibly, praying the great multitude below for help. I, Wilson's son, and another man were off like a shot, well nigh five minutes ago, but the masons and slaters and such like have left their work and locked up the yards. Wilson, then, was that man whose figure loomed out against the ever-increasing dull hot light behind. Whenever the smoke was clear, was that George Wilson? Mary sickened with terror. She knew he worked for Carson's, but at first she had had no idea that any lives were in danger, and since she had become aware of this, the heated air, the roaring flames, the dizzy light and the agitated and murmuring crowd had bewildered her thoughts. Oh, let us go home, Margaret. I cannot stay. We cannot go. See how we are wedged in by folks? Poor Mary, you won't hanker after another fire. Hark, listen. For through the hush crowd pressing round the angle of the mill and filling up Dunham Street might be heard the rattle of the engine, the heavy, quick tread of loaded horses. Thank God, said Margaret's neighbor, the engines come. Another pause. The plugs were stiff and the water could not be got. Then there was a pressure through the crowd, the front rows bearing back on those behind till the girls were sick with the close rambing confinement, then a relaxation and a breathing freely once more. It was young Wilson and a fireman with a ladder, said Margaret's neighbor, a tall man who could overlook the crowd. Oh, tell us what you see, begged Mary. They've gotten it fixed against the gin shop wall. One of the men in the factory has fell back dazed with smoke, I warrant. The floor's not given way there. God said he, bringing his eye lower down. The ladder's too short. It's over with them, poor chaps. The fires come in slow and sure to that end. And afore they're given to get in water or another ladder, they'll be dead out and out. Lord have mercy on them. A sob as if of excited women was heard in the hush of the crowd. Another pressure like the former, Mary clung to Margaret's arm with a pinching grass and long to faint and be insensible to escape from the oppressing misery of her sensations, a minute or two. They've taken the ladder to the temple of Apollo. Can't press back with it to the yard it came from. A mighty shout arose, a sound to wake the dead. Up on high, quivering in the air, was seen the end of the ladder protruding out of a garret window in the gable end of the gin palace, nearly opposite to the doorway where the men had been seen. Those in the crowd, nearest to the factory, and consequently best able to see up to the garret window, said that several men were holding one end and guiding by their weight its passage to the doorway. The garret window frame had been taken out before the crowd below were aware of the attempt. At length, for it seemed long, measured by beating hearts, though scarce two minutes had elapsed, the ladder was fixed, an aerial bridge at a dizzying height across the narrow street. Every eye was fixed in unwinking anxiety and people's very breathing seemed stilled in suspense. The men were nowhere to be seen, but the wind appeared, for the moment higher than ever and drove back the invading flames to the other end. Mary and Margaret could see now, right above them danced the ladder in the wind. The crowd pressed back from under, fireman's helmets appeared at the window holding the ladder firm, when one man, with quick, steady tread, an unmoving head, passed from one side to the other. The multitude did not even whisper while he crossed the perilous bridge, which quivered under him, but when he was across safe comparatively in the factory, a cheer arose for an instant. Checked, however, almost immediately by the uncertainty of the result, and the desire not in any way to shake the nerves of the brave fellow who had cast his life on such a die. There he is again, sprung to the lips of many, as they saw him at the doorway, standing as if for an instant to breathe a mouth full of fresher air, before he trusted himself to cross. On his shoulders he bore an insensible body. It's Jem Wilson and his father, whispered Margaret, but Mary knew it before. The people were sick with anxious terror. He could no longer balance himself with his arms. Everything must depend on nerve and eye. They saw the ladder fixed by the position of the head, which never wavered. The ladder shook under the double weight, but still he never moved his head. He dared not look below. It seemed an age before the crossing was accomplished. At last the window was gained, and the bearer, a leaf from his burden, both had disappeared. Then the multitude might shout, and above the roaring flames, louder than the blowing of the mighty wind, arose that tremendous burst of applause at the success of the daring enterprise. Then a shrill cry was heard, asking, Is the old man alive and likely to do? I answered one of the firemen to the hush crowd below. He's coming round finally. Now he's had a dash of cold water. He drew back his head and the eager inquiries, the shouts, the sea like murmurs of the moving rolling mass, began again to be heard, but only for an instant. In far less time than even that in which I have endeavored briefly to describe the pause of events. The same bold hero stepped again across the ladder with evident purpose to rescue the man yet remaining in the burning mill. He went across in the same quick steady manner as before, and the people below made less acutely anxious by his previous success were talking to each other, shouting out intelligence of the progress of the fire at the other end of the factory, telling of the endeavors of the firemen at that part to obtain water while the closely packed body of men heaved and rolled from side to side. It was different from the former silent breathless hush. I do not know if it were from this cause or from the recollection of peril past or that he looked below in the breathing moment before returning with a remaining person, a slight little man, slung across his shoulders. But Jem Wilson's step was less steady, his tread more uncertain. He seemed to feel with his foot for the next rung, the ladder, to waver and finally to stop halfway. By this time the crowd was still enough and the awful instant that intervened no one derse speak, even to encourage. Many turned sick with terror and shut their eyes to avoid seeing the catastrophe they dreaded. It came. The brave man swayed from side to side at first a slightly as if only balancing himself, but he was evidently losing nerve and even sense. It was only wonderful how the animal instinct of self-preservation did not overcome every generous feeling and impel him at once to drop the helpless inanimate body he carried. Perhaps the same instinct told him that the sudden loss of so heavy a weight would of itself be a great and imminent danger. Help me, she's fainted, cried Margaret, but no one heeded. All eyes were directed upwards. At this point of time a rope with a running nose was dexterously thrown by one of the firemen after the manner of a lasso over the head and round the bodies of the two men. True, it was with rude and slight adjustment, but slight as it was it served as a steady guide. It encouraged the sinking heart, the dizzy head. Once more Jem stepped onwards. He was not hurried by any jerk or pole. Slowly and gradually the rope was hauled in. Slowly and gradually did he make the four or five paces between him and safety. The window was gained and all were saved. The multitude in the street absolutely danced with triumph and hazard and yelled. Till you would have fancied their very throats would crack, and then with all the fickleness characteristic of a large body of people pressed and stumbled and cursed and swore in the hurry to get out of Dunham Street and back to the immediate scene of the fire, the mighty diapason of whose roaring flames formed an awful accompaniment to the screams and yells and implications of the struggling crowd. As they pressed away Margaret was left pale and almost sinking under the weight of Mary's body, which she had preserved in an upright position by keeping her arms tight around Mary's waist, dreading with reason the trampling of unheating feet. Now however, she gently let her down on the cold, clean pavement and the change of posture and the difference in temperature now that the people had withdrawn from their close neighborhood speedily restored her to consciousness. Her first glance was bewildered and uncertain. She had forgotten where she was. Her cold, hard bed felt strange. The murky glare in the sky affrighted her. She shut her eyes to think, to recollect. Her next look was upwards. The fearful bridge had been withdrawn. The window was unoccupied. They are safe, said Margaret. All are all safe, Margaret, asked Mary. Ask on Fireman, and he'll tell you more about it than I can, but I know they're all safe. The Fireman hastily corroborated Margaret's words. Why did you let Jem Wilson go twice, asked Margaret. Let? Why, we could not hinder him. As soon as ever he'd heard his father speak, which he was not long a-doing. Jem were off like a shot, only saying he know'd better, nor us were to find to other man. Would all had gone, if he had not been in such a hurry, for no one can say as Manchester Fireman is ever backward when there's danger. So saying he ran off, and the two girls without remark or discussion turned homewards. They were overtaken by the elder Wilson, pale, grimy, and blearide. But apparently as strong and well as ever, he loitered a minute or two alongside of them, giving an account of his detention in the mill. Then he hastily wished them good night, saying he must go home and tell his missus he was all safe and well. But after he had gone a few steps, he turned back, came on Mary's side of the payment, and in an earnest whisper, which Margaret could not avoid hearing, he said. Mary, if my boy comes across to you to-night, give him a kind word or true, for my sake. Do bless you, there's a good winch. Mary hung her head and answered not a word, and in an instant he was gone. When they arrived at home he found John Barton smoking his pipe, unwilling to question, yet very willing to hear all the details they could give him. Margaret went over the whole story, and it was amusing to watch his gradually increasing interest and excitement. First the regular puffing abated, then ceased, then the pipe was fairly taken out of his mouth and held suspended, then he rose, at every further point he came a step nearer to the narrator. When it was ended he swore, an unusual thing for him, that if Jem Wilson wanted Mary he should have her to-morrow, if he had not a penny to keep her. Margaret laughed, but Mary, who was now recovered from her agitation, pouted and looked angry. The work which they had left was resumed, but with full hearts fingers never go very quickly, and I am sorry to say that, owing to the fire, the two younger Miss Ogden's were in such grief for the loss of their excellent father that they were unable to appear before the little circle of sympathizing friends gathered together to comfort the widow and see the funeral set off. Chapter 6 of Mary Barton This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Dawn Murphy in El Segundo, California Mary Barton by Elizabeth Klikhorn-Gaskill, Chapter 6 Poverty and Death How little can the rich man know of what the poor man feels when want like some dark demon foe nearer and nearer steels. He never tramped the wary round, a stroke of work to gain, and sickened at the dreaded sound, telling him twas in vain. Foot sore, heart sore, he never came back through the winter's wind, to a dank cellar, there no flame, no light, no food defined. He never saw his darling's lie shivering, the grass their bed. He never heard that maddening cry, Daddy, a bit of bread. Manchester song. John Barton was not far wrong in his idea that the messers' Carson would not be over much grieved for the consequences of the fire in their mill. They were well insured. The machinery lacked the improvements of late years and worked but poorly in comparison with that which might now be procured. Above all, trade was very slack. Cottons could find no market, and goods lay packed and piled in many a warehouse. The mills were merely worked to keep the machinery, human and metal, in some kind of order and readiness for better times. So this was an excellent opportunity, Messers' Carson thought, for refitting their factory with first-rate improvements, for which the insurance money would amply pay. They were in no hurry about the business, however. The weekly drain of wages given for labor, useless in the present state of the market, was stopped. The partners had more leisure than they had known for years, and promised wives and daughters all manner of pleasant excursions, as soon as the weather should become more genial. It was a pleasant thing to be able to lounge over breakfast with a review or newspaper in hand, to have time for becoming acquainted with agreeable and accomplished daughters, on whose education no money had been spared, but whose fathers, shut up during a long day with calicoes and accounts, had so seldom had leisure to enjoy their daughters' talents. There were happy family evenings, now that the men of business had time for domestic enjoyments. There is another side of the picture. There were homes over which carcans fire, through a deep, terrible gloom, the homes of who would feign work, and no men gave on to them, the homes of those to whom leisure was a curse. There the family music was hungry whales, when week after week passed by, and there was no work to be had, and consequently no wages to pay for the bread the children cried aloud for in their young impatience of suffering. There was no breakfast to lounge over, their lounge was taken in bed, to try and keep warmth in them that bitter march weather, and by being quiet to deaden the gnawing wolf within, many a penny that would have gone little way enough in oatmeal or potatoes, bought opium to still the hungry little ones, and make them forget their uneasiness and heavy troubled sleep. It was mother's mercy. The evil and the good of her nature came out strongly then. There were desperate fathers, there were bitter-tongued mothers. Oh God, what wonder! There were reckless children, the very closest bonds of nature were snapped in that time of trial and distress. There was faith, such as the rich can never imagine on earth. There was love, strong as death, and self-denial among rude, coarse men akin to that of Sir Philip Sidney's most glorious deed. The vices of the poor sometimes astound us here, but when the secrets of all hearts shall be made known, their virtues will astound us in far greater degree. Of this I am certain. As the cold, bleak spring came on, spring in name alone, and consequently as trade continued dead, other mills shortened hours, turned off hands, and finally stopped work altogether. Barton worked short hours. Wilson, of course, being a hand in Carson's factory, had no work at all, but his son, working at an engineer's, and a setty man, obtained wages enough to maintain all the family in a careful way. Still it prayed on Wilson's mind to be so long indebted to his son. He was out of spirits and depressed. Barton was morose, and soured towards mankind as a body, and the rich in particular. One evening, when the clear light at six o'clock contrasted strangely with the Christmas cold, and when the bitter wind piped down every entry and through every cranny, Barton sat brooding over his stinted fire, and listening for Mary's step, an unacknowledged trust that her presence would cheer him. The door was opened, and Wilson came breathless in. "'You've not got a bit of money by ye, Barton,' asked he. "'Not I. Who has now? I'd like to know. What ye want it for?' "'I do not want it for myself, though we've none to spare, but don't ye know Ben Davenport has worked at Carson's? He's down with a fever, a narrow stick of fire, nor a cold potato in the house.' "'I hadn't got no money, I tell ye,' said Barton. Wilson looked disappointed. Barton tried not to be interested, but he could not help it in spite of his gruffness. He rose and went to the cupboard. His wife's pried long ago. There lay the remains of his dinner hastily put by ready for supper. Bread and a slice of cold, fat-boiled bacon. He wrapped them in his handkerchief, put them in the crown of his hat, and said, "'Come, let us be going.' "'Going? Aren't they going to work this time of day?' "'No, stupid, to be sure not. Going to see the chap thou spoke on.' So they put on their hats and set out. On the way, Wilson said Davenport was a good fellow, though too much of the Methody, that his children were too young to work, but not too young to be cold and hungry, that they had sunk lower and lower, and pond thing after thing, and that they now lived in a cellar in Berry Street, off-store Street. Barton growed in articulate words of no benevolent import to a large class of mankind. So they went along till they arrived in Berry Street. It was unpaved, and down the middle a gutter forced its way, every now and then forming pools in the holes with which the street abounded. Never was the old Edinburgh cry of Gardelot more necessary than in this street. As they passed, women from their doors tossed household slops of every description into the gutter. They ran into the next pool, which overflowed and stagnated. Heaps of ashes were the stepping-stones on which the passer-by, who cared in the least for cleanliness, took care not to put his foot. Our friends were not dainty, but even they picked their way, till they got to some steps leading down to a small area where a person standing would have his head about one foot below the level of the street, and might at the same time, without the least motion of his body, touched the window of the cellar and the damp, muddy wall, right opposite. You went down one step, even from the fowl area into the cellar in which a family of human beings lived. It was very dark inside. The windowpains, many of them, were broken and stuffed with rags, which was reason enough for the dusky light that pervaded the place even at midday. After the account I have given of the state of the street, no one can be surprised that on going into the cellar inhabited by Davenport, the smell was so fetid as almost to knock the two men down, quickly recovering themselves as those inured to such things do. They began to penetrate the thick darkness of the place, and to see three or four little children rolling on the damp, nay, wet brick floor, through which the stagnant, filthy moisture of the street oozed up. The fireplace was empty and black. The wife sat on her husband's lair, and cried in the dark loneliness. See, Mrs. I'm back again. Hold your noise, children, and don't mither your mommy for bread. Here's a chap has got some for you. And that dim light, which was darkness to strangers, they clustered around Barton and tore from him the food he had brought with him. It was a large hunk of bread, but it vanished in an instant. We must do something for him, said he to Wilson. You stop here, and I'll be back in half an hour. So he strode and ran and hurried home. He emptied into the ever useful pocket handkerchief, the little meal remaining in the mug. Mary would have her tea at Miss Simmons. Her food for the day was safe. Then he went upstairs for his better coat, and his one gay, red and yellow silk pocket handkerchief, his jewels, his plate, his valuables these were. He went to the pawn shop. He pawned them for five shillings. He stopped not nor stayed till he was once more in London Road within five minutes walk of Berry Street. Then he loitered in his gate in order to discover the shops he wanted. He bought meat and a loaf of bread, candles, chips, and from a little retail yard he purchased a couple of hundred weights of coal. Some money still remained, all destined for them. But he did not yet know how best to spend it. Food, light and warmth he had instantly seen were necessary. For the luxuries he would wait. Wilson's eyes filled with tears when he saw Barton enter with his purchases. He understood it all, and longed to be once more in work that he might help in some of these material ways without feeling that he was using his son's money. But though silver and gold he had none, he gave heart service and love works of far more value. Nor was John Barton behind in these. The fever was, as it usually is in Manchester, of a low, putrid, typhoid kind, brought on by miserable living, filthy neighborhood, and great depression of mind and body. It is virulent, malignant, and highly infectious. But the poor are fatalists with regard to infection, and while for them it is so, for in their crowded dwellings no invalid can be isolated. Wilson asked Barton if he thought he should catch it and was laughed at for his idea. The two men, rough, tender nurses as they were, lighted the fire, which smoked and puffed into the room as if it did not know the way up the damp, unused chimney. The very smoke seemed purifying and healthy in the thick clammy air. The children clamored again for bread, but this time Barton took a piece first to the poor, helpless, hopeless woman, who still sat by the side of her husband, listening to his anxious, miserable mutterings. She took the bread, when it was put into her hand, and broke a bit, but could not eat. She was past hunger. She fell down on the floor with a heavy, unresisting bang. The men looked puzzled. She's well-nigh, clemed, said Barton. Folk do say one mustn't have give clemed people much to eat, but bless us, she'll eat not. I'll tell you what I'll do, said Wilson. I'll take these two big lads as does not but fight, home to my missus for tonight, and I'll get a jug of tea. Them women always does best with tea and such like slop. So Barton was now left alone with a little child, crying when it had done eating for Mammy. With a fainting, dead-like woman, and with a sick man whose mutterings were rising up to screams and shrieks of agonized anxiety, he carried the woman to the fire and chafed her hands. He looked around for something to raise her head. There was literally nothing but some loose bricks. However, those he got, and taking off his coat, he covered them with it, as well as he could. He pulled her feet to the fire, which now began to emit some faint heat. He looked round for water, but the poor woman had been too weak to drag herself out to the distant pump, and water there was none. He snatched the child, and ran up the area steps to the room above, and borrowed their only saucepan with some water in it. Then he began, with the skillful hand of a working man, to make some gruel. And when it was hastily made, he seized a battered iron tablespoon, kept when many other little things had been sold in a lot, in order to feed the baby. And with it he forced one or two drops between her clenched teeth. The mouth opened mechanically to receive more, and gradually she revived. She sat up and looked around, and recollecting it all fell down again in weak and passive despair. Her little child crawled to her, and wiped, with its fingers, the thick coming tears which she now had strength to weep. It was now high time to attend to the man. He lay on straw so damp and moldy, no dog would have chosen it in preference to flags. Over it was a piece of sacking. Coming next to his worn skeleton of a body, above him was mustard every article of clothing that could be spared by mother or children, this bitter weather. And in addition to his own, these might have given as much warmth as one blanket, could they have been kept on him. But as he restlessly tossed to and throw, they fell off, and left him shivering in spite of the burning heat of his skin. Every now and then he started up in his naked madness, looking like the prophet of woe in the fearful plague picture. But he soon fell again in exhaustion, and Barton found he must be closely watched, lest in these falls he should injure himself against the hard brick floor. He was thankful when Wilson reappeared, carrying in both hands a jug of steaming tea intended for the poor wife. But when the delirious husband saw drink, he snatched at it with an animal instinct. With a selfishness he had never shown in health. Then the two men consulted together. It seemed decided, without a word being spoken on the subject, that both should spend the night with the forlorn couple. That was settled. But could no doctor be had? In all probability, no. The next day an infirmary order must be begged. But meanwhile, the only medical advice they could have must be from a druggist. So Barton, being the moneyed man, set out to find a shop in London Road. It is a pretty sight to walk through a street with lighted shops. The gas is so brilliant, the display of goods so much more vividly shown then by day. And of all the shops a druggist looks the most like the tales of our childhood, from Aladdin's garden of enchanted fruits to the charming Rosalind with her purple jar. No such associations had Barton. Yet he felt the contrast between the well-filled, well-lighted shops and the dim, gloomy cellar. And it made him moody that such contrast should exist. They are the mysterious problem of life to more than him. He wondered if any in all the hurrying crowd had come from such a house of mourning. He thought they all look joyous, and he was angry with them. But he could not. You cannot read the lot of those who daily pass you by in the streets. How do you know the wild romances of their lives, the trials, the temptations they are even now enduring, resisting, sinking under. You may be elbowed one instant by the girl desperate in her abandonment, laughing in mad merriment with her outward gesture, while her soul is longing for the rest of the dead and bringing itself to think of the cold, flowing river as the only mercy of God remaining to her here. You may pass the criminal, meditating crimes at which you will tomorrow shudder with horror as you read them. You may push against one, humble and unnoticed, the last upon earth, who in heaven will ever be in the immediate light of God's countenance. errands of mercy, errands of sin. Did you ever think where all the thousands of people you daily meet are bound? Bartons was an errand of mercy, but the thoughts of his heart were touched by sin, by bitter hatred of the happy, whom he, for the time, confounded with the selfish. He reached the druggist's shop and entered. The druggist, whose smooth manners seem to have been salved over with his own spearmaty, listened attentively to Barton's description of Davenport's illness, concluded it was typhus fever, very prevalent in that neighborhood, and proceeded to make up a bottle of medicine, sweet spirits of nitrate, or some such innocent potion, very good for slight colds, but utterly powerless to stop, for an instant, the raging fever of the poor man it was intended to relieve. He recommended the same course they had previously determined to adopt, applying the next morning for an infirmary order, and Barton left the shop with comfortable faith in the physic given him for man of his class, if they believe in physic at all, believe that every description is equally efficacious. Meanwhile, Wilson had done what he could at Davenport's home. He had soothed and covered the man many a time. He had fed and hushed the little child, and spoken tenderly to the woman who lay still in her weakness and her weariness. He had opened a door, but only for an instant. It led into a back cellar, with a grating instead of a window, down which dropped the moisture from pigsties and worse abominations. It was not paved. The floor was one mass of bad-smelling mud. It had never been used, for there was not an article of furniture in it, nor could a human being, much less a pig, have lived there many days. Yet the back apartment made a difference in the rent. The Davenport's paid three pence more for having two rooms. When he turned round again, he saw the woman suckling the child from her dry, withered breast. Surely the lad is weaned, exclaimed he, in surprise. Why, how old is he? Going on, too, she faintly answered. But, oh, it keeps him quiet when I've not else to give him, and he'll get a bit of sleep lying there, if he's getting not beside. We had none our best to get the children food, however we pinch ourselves. And she had no money for the town? No, my master is bucking him shy or born, and he's feared the town would send him back to his parish if he went to the board. So if we've just borne on and hope a better times, but I think they'll never come in my day, and the poor woman began her week high-pitched cry again. Here, sup this drop of gruel, and then try and get a bit of sleep. John and I will watch by your master tonight. God's blessing be on you. She finished the gruel and fell into a deep sleep. Wilson covered her with his coat, as well as he could, and tried to move lightly for fear of disturbing her. But their need have been no such dread, for her sleep was profound and heavy with exhaustion. Once only she roused to pull the coat around her little child. And now Wilson's care, and Barton's to boot, was wanted to restrain the wild, mad agony of the fevered man. He started up, he yelled, he seemed infuriated by overwhelming anxiety. He cursed and swore, which surprised Wilson, who knew his piety in health, and who did not know the unbridled tongue of delirium. At length, he seemed exhausted and fell asleep. And Barton and Wilson drew near the fire, and talked together in whispers. They sat on the floor, for chairs there were none. The sole table was the old tub turned upside down. They put out the candle and conversed by the flickering firelight. Had you known this chap long, as Barton? Better nor a three year, he worked with Carson that long, and were always a steady, civil-spoken fellow, though, as I said afore, somewhat of a methody. I wish I'd get in a letter he'd sent his missus, a week or two gone, when he were on tram for work. It did my heart good to read it. For you see, I were a bit grumbling myself. It seemed hard to be sponging on gem, and taken at his flesh meat money to buy bread for me and them as I ought to be keeping. But you know, though I can earn not, I'm on eat something. Well, as I tell you, I were grumbling when she, indicating the sleeping woman by a nod, brought me Ben's letter, for she could not read herself. It were as good as Bible words, nare a word of repining about God being our father, and that we must bear patiently whatever he sends. Don't you think he's the master's father too? I'd be low to have him for brothers. Hey, John, don't talk so. Sure, there's many and many a master as good or better nor us. If you think so, tell me this, how comes that they're rich and we're poor? I'd like to know that. Had they done as they'd be done by for us? But Wilson was no arguer, no speechifier, as he would have called it. So Barton, seeing he was likely to have his own way, went on. You'll say, at least many a one does, they ain't gettin' capital, and we ain't gettin' none. I say our labors are capital, and we ought to draw interest on that. They get interest on their capital, somehow, of this time, while Arne is layin' idle. Else how could they all live as they do? Besides, there's many on them, has had not to begin with. There's Carcins, and Duncombes, and Mengies, and many another as come'd into Manchester, with clothes to their back. And that were all, and now they're worth their tens of thousands, a gettin' outta our labor. Why, the very land as fetch'd but sixty pound twenty year agon, is now worth six hundred, and that, too, is own to our labor. But look at you, and see me, and poor Davenport yonder, whatin' better are we? Davenin's screwed us down to the lowest peg in order to make their great big fortunes, and build their great big houses, and we, why, were just clemen. Many and many of us. Can you say there's not wrong in this? Well, Barton, I'll not gain, say ye. But Mr. Carson spoke to me after the fire, and he says, I shall have to retrench, and be very careful in my expenditure during these bad times. I assure ye. So you see the masters suffer, too. Hadn't they ever seen a child of their own die, want a food? Asked Barton in a low, deep voice. I do not mean, continued he, to say as I am so badly off. I'd shorn to speak for myself. But when I see such men as Davenport there diein' away, for very clemen, I cannot stand it. I've but gotten merry, and she keeps herself pretty much. I think we'll have to keep up house-keeping, but that I don't mind. And in this kind of talk the night, the long heavy night of watching, more away. As far as they could judge, Davenport continued in the same state, although the symptoms varied occasionally. The wife slept on, only roused by the cry of her child now and then, which seemed to have power over her, when far louder noises failed to disturb her. The watchers agreed. But as soon as it was likely Mr. Carson would be up and visible, Wilson should go to his house and beg for an infirmary order. At length the gray dawn penetrated into the dark cellar. Davenport slept, and Barton was to remain there until Wilson's return, so stepping out in the fresh air, brisk and reviving, even in that street of abomination, Wilson took his way to Mr. Carson's. Wilson had about two miles to walk before he reached Mr. Carson's house, which was almost in the country. The streets were not yet bustling and busy. The shopmen were lazily taking down the shutters, although it was near eight o'clock. For the day was long enough for the purchases people made in that quarter of the town, while trade was so flat. One or two miserable-looking women were setting off on their day's begging expedition, but there were few people abroad. Mr. Carson's was a good house, and furnished with disregard to expense. But in addition to lavish expenditure there was much taste shown, and many articles chosen for their beauty and elegance adorned his rooms. As Wilson passed a window which a housemaid had thrown open, he saw pictures and gilding, at which he was tempted to stop and look, but then he thought it would not be respectful. So he hastened on to the kitchen door. The servant seemed very busy with preparations for breakfast, but good-naturedly, though hastily, told him to step in, and they could soon let Mr. Carson know he was there. So he was ushered into a kitchen hung around with glittering tins, where a roaring fire burnt merrily, and where numbers of utensils hung round, at whose nature and use Wilson amused himself by guessing. Meanwhile the servants bustled to in fro, an outdoor man-servant came in for orders, and sat down near Wilson, the cook boiled steaks, and the kitchen maid toasted bread and boiled eggs. The coffee steamed upon the fire, and although the odors were so mixed and appetizing that Wilson began to yearn for food to break his fast, which had lasted since dinner the day before. If the servants had known this, they would have willingly given him meat and bread in abundance, but they were like the rest of us, and not feeling hunger themselves, forgot it was possible another might. So Wilson's craving turned to sickness while they chatted on, making the kitchen's free and keen remarks upon the parlor. How late you were last night, Thomas! Yes, I was right weary of waiting. They told me to be at the rooms by twelve, and there I was, but it was two o'clock before they called me. And did you wait all that time in the street? asked the housemaid, who had done her work for the present, and come into the kitchen for a bit of gossip. My eye is like! You don't think I'm such a fool as to catch my death a cold and let the horses catch their death too, as we should have done if we'd stop there? No, I put the horses up in the stable at the spread eagle, and went myself, and got a glass or two of the fire. They're driving a good custom, them, with coachmen. There were five of us, and we'd many a quart of ale and gin with it to keep out the cold. Mercy on us, Thomas, you'll get a drunkard at last. If I do, I know whose blame it will be. It will be Missus, and not mine. Flesh and blood can't sit to be starved to death on a coach box, waiting for folks as don't know their own mind. A servant, semi-upper housemaid, semi-lady's maid, now came down with orders from her mistress. Thomas, you must ride to the fishmongers, and say Missus can't give about a half a crown to pound for salmon for Tuesday. She's grumbling because trade's so bad, and she'll want the carriage at three to go to the lecture. Thomas, at the royal execution, you know. I, I, I know. And you'd better all of you mine your peas and cues, for she's very black this morning. She's got a bad headache. It's a pity Miss Jenkins is not here to match her. Lord, has she and Missus did quirl, which had got the worst headache it was that Miss Jenkins left for. She would not give up having bad headaches, and Missus could not abide anyone to have them but herself. Missus will have her breakfast upstairs, cook and the cold partridge, as was left yesterday, and put plenty of cream in her coffee, and she thinks there's a roll left, and she would like it well buttered. So saying, the maid left the kitchen to be ready to attend to the young lady's bell when they chose to ring after their late assembly the night before. In the luxurious library, at the well-spread breakfast-table, set the two Carson's, father and son. Both were reading, the father and newspaper, the son a review, while they lazily enjoyed their nicely prepared food. The father was a prepossessing-looking, old man, perhaps self-indulgent, you might guess. The son was strikingly handsome, and knew it. His dress was neat and well-appointed, and his manners far more gentlemanly than his father's. He was the only son, and his sisters were proud of him. His father and mother were proud of him. He could not set up his judgment against theirs. He was proud of himself. The door opened, an inbounded Amy, the sweet youngest daughter of the house, a lovely girl of sixteen, fresh and glowing, and bright as a rosebud. She was too young to go to assemblies, at which her father rejoiced, for he had little Amy with her pretty jokes, and her bird-like songs, and her playful caresses, all evening to amuse him in his loneliness. And she was not too much tired, like Sophie and Helen, to give him her sweet company at breakfast the next morning. He submitted willingly, while she blinded him with her hands, and kissed his rough red face all over. She took his newspaper away, after a little pretended resistance, and would not allow her brother, Harry, to go on with his review. I'm the only lady this morning, Papa, so you know you must make a great deal of me. My darling, I think you have your own way always, whether you're the only lady or not. Yes, Papa, you're pretty good and obedient, I must say that, but I'm sorry to say Harry is very naughty, and does not do what I tell him. Do you, Harry? I'm sure I don't know what you mean to accuse me of, Amy. I expected praise and not blame, for I did get you that old Portugal from town that you could not meet with at Hughes, you little ungrateful puss. Did you? Oh, sweet Harry, you're as sweet as all the Portugal yourself. You're almost as good as Papa, but still you know you did go and forget to ask Biglin for that rose, that new rose they say he has got. No, Amy, I did not forget. I asked him, and he has got the rose. Sons reproach, but do you know, little miss extravagance, a very small one is half a guinea. Oh, I don't mind. Papa will give it me. Won't you, dear father? He knows his little daughter can't live without flowers and scents. Mr. Carson tried to refuse his darling, but she coaxed him into acquiescence, saying she must have it. It was one of her necessaries. Life was not worth having without flowers. And Amy, said her brother, try and be content with peonies and dandelions. Oh, you wretch, I don't call them flowers. Besides, you're every bit as extravagant, who gave half a crown for a bunch of lilies of the valley at Yates a month ago and then would not let his poor little sister have them, though she went on her knees to beg them. Answer me that, Master Hall? Not on compulsion, replied her brother, smiling with his mouth, while his eyes had an irritated expression, and he went first red, then pale, with vexed embarrassment. If you please, sir, said a servant entering the room, here's one of the mill people wanting to see you. His name is Wilson, he says. I'll come to him directly. Stay, tell him to come in here. Amy danced off into the conservatory, which opened out of the room before the gaunt, pale, unwashed, unshaven weaver was ushered in. There he stood at the door, sleeking his hair with old country habit, and every now and then stealing a glance around the splendor of the apartment. Well, Wilson, what do you want to-day, man? Please, sir, Davenport's ill of the fever, and I'm come to know if you've got an infirmary order for him. Davenport? Davenport, who is the fellow? I don't know the name. He's worked in your factory better nor three years, sir. Very likely. I don't pretend to know the names of the men I employ. That I leave to the overlooker. So he's ill, eh? Aye, sir, he's very bad. We want to get him in at the fever wards. I doubt if I've an inpatient order to spare at present, but I'll give you an outpatience and welcome. So saying he rose up, unlocked a drawer, pondered a minute, and then gave Wilson an outpatience order. Meanwhile, the younger Carson had ended his review, and began to listen to what was going on. He finished his breakfast, got up, and pulled five shillings out of his pocket, which he gave to Wilson as he passed him, for the poor fellow. He went past quickly, and calling for his horse, mounted gaily, and rode away. He was anxious to be in time to have a look and a smile from lovely Mary Barton as she went to Miss Simmons. But today he was to be disappointed. Wilson left the house not knowing whether to be pleased or grieved. They had all spoken kindly to him, and who could tell if they might not inquire into Davenport's case and do something for him and his family? Besides, the cook, who when she had had time to think, after breakfast was sent in, had noticed his paleness, had had meat and bread ready to put in his hand when he came out of the parlor, and a full stomach makes every one of us more hopeful. When he reached Berry Street, he had persuaded himself he bore good news, and felt almost elated in his heart. But it fell when he opened the cellar door, and saw Barton and the wife both bending over the sick man's couch, with an awestruck, saddened look. Come here, said Barton. There's a change come over him since you left. Is there not? Wilson looked. The flesh was sunk, the features prominent, bony, and rigid. The fearful clay color of death was over all. But the eyes were open and sensitive, though the films of the grave were setting upon them. He wakened from his sleep as he left him in, and began to mutter and moan, but he soon went off again, and we never knew he were awake till he called his wife, but now she's here he's gotten not to say to her. Most probably, as they all felt, he could not speak, for his strength was fast ebbing. They stood round him, still and silent. Even the wife checked her sobs, though her heart was like to break. She held her child to her breast to try to keep him quiet. Their eyes were all fixed on the yet living one, whose moments of life were passing so rapidly away. At length he brought, with jerking convulsive effort, his two hands into the attitude of prayer. They saw his lips move, and bent to catch the words which came in gasps and not in tones. Oh, Lord God, I thank thee that the hard struggle of living is over. Oh, Ben! Ben! wailed forth his wife. Have you no thought for me? Oh, Ben! Ben! Do say one word to help me through life. He could not speak again. The trump of the archangel would set his tongue free, but not a word more would it utter till then. Yet he heard, he understood, and though sight failed, he moved his hands gropingly over the covering. They knew what he meant, and guided it to her head, bowed, and hidden in her hands, when she had sunk in her woe. It rested there with a feeble pressure of endearment. The face grew beautiful as the soul neared God. A peace beyond understanding came over it. The hand was a heavy, stiff weight on the wife's head. No more grief or sorrow for him. They reverently laid out the corpse, Wilson fetching his own spare shirt to array it in. The wife still lay hidden in the clothes in a stupor of agony. There was a knock at the door, and Barton went to open it. It was Mary, who had received a message from her father through a neighbor, telling her where he was. And she set out early to come and have a word with him before her day's work, but some errands she had to do for Ms. Simmons had detained her until now. Come in, Wench, said her father. Try if thou canst comfort young poor, poor woman, kneeling down there. God help her. Mary did not know what to say or how to comfort, but she knelt down by her and put her arm around her neck, and in a little while fell to crying herself so bitterly that the source of tears was opened by sympathy in the widow, and her full heart was, for a time, relieved. And Mary forgot all purpose meeting with her gay lover, Harry Carson. Forgot Ms. Simmons' errands and her anger in the anxious desire to comfort the poor lonely woman. Never had her sweet face looked more angelic. Never had her gentle voice seemed so musical as when she murmured her broken sentences of comfort. Oh, don't cry so, dear Mrs. Davenport. Pray don't take on so. Sure, he's gone where he'll never know care again. Yes, I know how lonesome you must feel, but think of your children. Oh, we'll all help to earn food for him. Think how sorry he'd be if he sees you fretting so. Don't cry so. Please don't. And she ended by crying herself, as passionately as the poor widow. It was agreed the town must bury him. He had paid to a burial club as long as he could, but by a few weeks omission he had forfeited his claim to a sum of money now. Would Mrs. Davenport and the little child go home with Mary? The latter brightened up as she urged this plan, but no. Where the poor fondly loved remains were, there would the mourner be, and all that they could do was to make her as comfortable as their funds would allow and to beg a neighbor to look in and say a word at times. So she was left alone with her dead, and they went to work that had work, and he who had none took upon him the arrangements for the funeral. Mary had many a scolding for Miss Simmons that day for her absence of mind. To be sure Miss Simmons was much put out by Mary's non-appearance in the morning with certain bits of muslin and shades of silk which were wanted to complete a dress to be worn that night, but it was true enough that Mary did not mind what she was about. She was too busy planning how her old black gown, her best when her mother died, might be sponged and turned and lengthened into something like decent mourning for the widow, and when she went home that night, though it was very late, as a sort of retribution for her morning's negligence, she set to work at once, and was so busy and so glad over her task that she had every now and then to check herself in singing Mary Diddy's which she felt little accorded with the sewing on which she was engaged. So when the funeral day came Mrs. Davenport was neatly arrayed in black, a satisfaction to her poor heart in the midst of her sorrow. Barton and Wilson both accompanied her as she led her two elder boys and followed the coffin. It was a simple walking funeral with nothing to great on the feelings of any, far more in accordance with its purpose, to my mind, than the gorgeous herces and nodding plumes which form the grotesque funeral pomp of respectable people. There was no rattling the bones over the stones of the popper's funeral. Decently and quietly he was followed to the grave by one determined to endure her woe meekly for his sake. The only mark of popperism, attendant on the burial, concerned the living and joyous, far more than the dead or the sorrowful. When they arrived in the churchyard they halted before a raised and handsome tombstone, in reality a wooden mockery of stone respectabilities which adorned the burial ground. It was easily raised in a very few minutes and below was the grave in which the popper bodies were piled until within a foot or two of the surface. When the soil was shoveled over and stamped down the wooden cover went to do temporary duty over another hole. But little wrecked they of this who now gave up their dead. For more information or to volunteer please visit Libbervox.org. Recording by Wendy in Lehigh, Utah. Mary Barton By Elizabeth Clegg-Horn Gaskell Chapter 7 Jem Wilson's Repulse How infinite the wealth of love and hope garnered in these same tiny treasure-houses! and oh! what bankrupts in the world we feel when death, like some remorseless creditor, seizes on all we fondly thought our own. The Twins The ghoul-like fever was not to be braved with impunity, and balked of its prey. The widow had reclaimed her children, her neighbors in the good Samaritan sense of the word, had paid her little arrears of rent, and made her a few shillings beforehand with the world. She determined to flit from that cellar to another less full of painful associations, less haunted by mournful memories. The board, not so formidable as she had imagined, had inquired into her case, and, instead of sending her to stoke Claypole, her husband's Buckinghamshire parish, as she had dreaded, had agreed to pay her rent. So food for four mouths was all she was now required to find. Only for three she would have said, for herself and the unweaned child were but reckoned as one in her calculation. She had a strong heart. Now her bodily strength had been recruited by a week or two of food, and she would not despair. So she took in some little children to nurse, who brought their daily food with them, which she cooked for them, without wronging their helplessness of a crumb. And when she had restored them to their mothers at night, she set to work at plain sowing, seam and gusset and band, and sat thinking how she might best cheat the factory inspector, and persuade him that her strong big hungry Ben was above thirteen. Her plan of living was so far arranged when she heard with keen sorrow that Wilson's twin lads were ill of the fever. They had never been strong. They were like many a pair of twins, and seemed to have but one life divided between them. One life, one strength, and in this instance I might almost say one brain, for they were helpless, gentle, silly children, but not the less dear to their parents and to their strong active manly elder brother. They were late on their feet, late in talking, late in every way. Had to be nursed and cared for when other lads of their age were tumbling about in the street and losing themselves and being taken to the police office miles away from home. Still, Wont had never yet come in at the door to make love for these innocents fly out of the window. Nor was this the case even now, when Jim Wilson's earnings and his mother's occasional charrings were barely sufficient to give all the family their fill of food. But when the twins after ailing many days and carrying little for their meat fell sick on the same afternoon with the same heavy stupor of suffering, the three hearts that loved them so each felt, though none acknowledged to the other, that they had little chance for life, it was nearly a week before the tale of their illness spread as far as the court where the Wilson's had once dwelt and the Barton's yet lived. Alice had heard of the sickness of her little nephew several days before and had locked her cellar door and gone off straight to her brother's house in Ancoats. But she was often absent for days, sent for as her neighbors knew, to help in some sudden emergency of illness or distress, so that occasioned no surprise. Margaret met Jim Wilson several days after his brothers were seriously ill, and heard from him the state of things at his home. She told Mary of it as she entered the court late that evening, and Mary listened with the saddened heart to the strange contrast which such woeful tidings presented to the gay and loving words she had been hearing on her walk home. She blamed herself for being so much taken up with visions of the golden future that she had lately gone but seldom on Sunday afternoons or other leisure time to see Mrs. Wilson, her mother's friend, and with hasty purpose of amendment she only stayed to leave a message for her father with the next-door neighbor and then went off at a brisk pace on her way to the house of mourning. She stopped with her hand on the latch of the Wilson's door to still her beating heart, and listened to the hushed quiet within. She opened the door softly. There sat Mrs. Wilson in the old rocking chair, with one sick, death-like boy lying on her knee, crying without let or pause. But softly, gently, as fearing to disturb the troubled gasping child while behind her, old Alice let her fast-dropping tears fall down on the dead body of the other twin, which she was laying out on a board placed on a sort of sofa settee in the corner of the room. Over the child which yet breathed the father bent, watching anxiously for some ground of hope where hope there was none, Mary stepped slowly and lightly across to Alice. Ah, poor lad, God has taken him early, Mary. Mary could not speak. She did not know what to say. It was so much worse than she had expected. At last she ventured to whisper. Is there any chance for the other one, thank you? Alice shook her head and told with a look that she believed there was none. She next endeavored to lift the little body and carry it to its old accustomed bed in the parent's room. But earnest as the father was in watching the yet living, he had eyes and ears for all that concerned the dead, and sprang gently up, and took his dead son on his hard couch in his arms with tender strength, and carried him upstairs, as if afraid of wakening him. The other child gasped louder, longer, with more effort. Women get him away from his mother. He cannot die while she's wishing him. Wishing him, said Mary, in a tone of inquiry. I don't know you know what wishing means. There's none can die in the arms of those who are wishing them sore to stay on earth. The soul of them, as holds them, won't let the dying soul go free, so it has a hard struggle for the quiet of death. Women get him away from his mother, or he'll have a hard death, poor little fellow. So without circumlocution she went and offered to take the sinking child. But the mother would not let go of him, and looking in Alice's face with brimming and imploring eyes, offered in earnest whispers that she was not wishing him, that she would feign have him released from his suffering. Alice and Mary stood by with eyes fixed on the poor child, whose struggles seemed to increase, till at last his mother said, with a choking voice, May happen you'd better take him, Alice. I believe my heart's wishing of this while, for I cannot know I cannot bring myself to let my two children go in one day. I cannot help longing to keep him, and yet he shan't suffer longer for me. She bent down, and fondly, oh, with what passionate fondness, kissed her child, and then gave him up to Alice, who took him with tender care. Nature's struggles were soon exhausted, and he breathed his little life away in peace. Then the mother lifted up her voice and wept. Her cries brought her husband down to try with his aching heart to comfort hers. Again Alice laid out the dead, Mary helping with reverent fear. The father and mother carried him upstairs to the bed where his little brother lay in calm repose. Mary and Alice drew near the fire and stood in quiet sorrow for some time. Then Alice broke the silence by saying, It will be bad news for Jem, poor fellow, when he comes home. Where is he? asked Mary, working over hours at the shop. They had been getting a large order from foreign parts, and you know, Jem wouldn't work, though his heart's well night breaking for these poor laddies. Again they were silent in thought, and again Alice spoke first. I sometimes think the Lord is against planning. Whenever I plan over much, he is sure to send and mar all my plans as if he would have me put the future into his hands. Before Christmas time I was as full as full could be of calling home for good and all. You and her how I've wished it this terrible long time. And a young lass from behind Burton came into place in Manchester last Martinmas. So after a while she had a Sunday out, and she comes to me and tells me some cousins of mine bid her find me out, and say how glad they should be to have me bide with them and look after their children, for they ain't gettin' a big farm and she's a deal to do among the cows. So many's a winter night I did lie awake and think that please God come summer I bid George and his wife goodbye and go home at last. Little did I think how God Almighty would balk me for not leaving my days in his hands, who had led me through the wilderness hither too. Here's George out of work and more cast down than ever I'd see them. Wanting every chip o' comfort he can get, in a four his last heavy stroke, and now I'm thinking the Lord's finger points very clear to my fit abiding place. And I'm sure if George and Jane can say his will be done, that's no more than what I'm beholden to do. So saying she fell to tidying the room, removing as much as she could every vestige of sickness, making up the fire, and setting on the kettle for a cup of tea for her sister-in-law, whose low moans and sobs were occasionally heard in the room below. Mary helped her in all these little offices. They were busy in this way when the door was softly opened and gem came in, all grime and dirty from his night work. His soiled apron wrapped around his middle, in guise and apparel, in which he would have been sorry at another time to have been seen by Mary. But just now he hardly saw her. He went straight up to Alice, and asked how the little chaps were. They had been a shade better at dinnertime, and he had been working away through the long afternoon and far into the night, in the belief that they had taken the turn. He had stolen out during the half-hour, allowed at the works for tea, to buy them an orange or two, which now puffed out his jacket pocket. He would make his aunt speak. He would not understand her shake of the head in fast-coursing tears. They're both gone, said she. Dead. Hi, poor fellows. They took worse about two o'clock. Joe went first, easy as a lamb, and will died harder like. Both. I'll add both. The Lord has taken them from some evil to come, or he would not have made choice of them. He may reassure that. Gem went to the cupboard and quietly extricated from his pocket the oranges he had bought. But he stayed long there, and at last his sturdy frame shook with his strong agony. The two women were frightened, as women always are, on witnessing a man's overpowering grief. They cried afresh in company. Mary's heart melted within her as she witnessed Gem's sorrow, and she stepped gently up to the corner where he stood, with his back turned to them, and putting her hand softly on his arm said, Oh, Gem, don't give way so. I cannot bear to see you. Gem felt a strange leap of joy in his heart and knew the power she had of comforting him. He did not speak, as though fearing to destroy by sound or motion the happiness of that moment, when her soft hands touched, thrilled through his frame, and her silvery voice was whispering tenderness in his ear. Yes, it might be very wrong. He could almost hate himself for it, with death and woe so surrounding him. It was yet happiness, was bliss to be spoken to by Mary. Don't, Gem, please, don't, whispered she again, believing that his silence was only another form of grief. He could not contain himself. He took her hand in his firm, yet trembling grasp and said in tones that instantly produced a revulsion in her mood. Mary, I almost loathe myself when I feel I would not give up this minute, when my brothers lie dead and father and mother are in such trouble for all my life that's past and gone and Mary, as she tried to release her hand, you know what makes me feel so blessed. She did know he was right there, but as he turned to catch a look at her sweet face, he saw that it expressed unfeigned distress, almost amounting to vexation, a dread of him that he thought was almost repugnance. He let her hand go, and she quickly went away to Alice's side. Fool that I was, nay, wretch that I was, to let myself take this time of trouble to tell her how I loved her, no wonder that she turns away from such a selfish beast. Partly to relieve her from his presence, and partly from natural desire, and partly perhaps, from a penitent wish to share to the utmost his parents' sorrow, he soon went upstairs to the chamber of death. Mary mechanically helped Alice in all the duties she performed through the remainder of that long night, but she did not see Jim again. He remained upstairs until after the early dawn showed Mary that she need have no fear of going home through the deserted and quiet streets to try and get a little sleep before work hour. So leaving kind messages to George and Jane Wilson, and hesitating whether she might dare to send a few kind words to Jim, and deciding that she had better not, she stepped out into the bright morning light, so fresh a contrast to the darkened room where death had been. They had another mourn than hours. Mary lay down on her bed in her clothes, and whether it was this or the broad daylight that poured in through the sky window, or whether it was over excitement, it was long before she could catch a wink of sleep. Her thoughts ran on Jim's manner in words, not but what she had known the tale they told for many a day, but still she wished he had not put it so plainly. Oh, dear, she said to herself, I wish he would not mistake me so. I never dare to speak a common word of kindness, but as I brightens and his cheek flushes, it's very hard on me for Father and George Wilson are old friends, and Jim and I have known each other since we were quite children. I cannot think what possesses me, that I must always be wanting to comfort him when he's downcast, and that I must go meddling with him to-night, when sure enough it was his aunt's place to speak to him. I don't care for him, and yet, unless I'm always watching myself, I'm speaking to him in a loving voice. I think I cannot go right, for I either check myself till I'm downright crossed to him, or else I speak just natural, and that's too kind and tender by half, and I'm as good as engaged to be married to another, and another far handsomer than Jim. Only, I think I like Jim's face best for all that, liking's liking, and there's no help for it. Well, when I missus Harry Carson, may happen I can put some good fortune in Jim's way, but will he thank before it? He's rather savage at times that I can see, and perhaps kindness from me when I'm another's will only go against the grain. I'll not plague myself with thinking any more about him that I won't. So she turned on her pillow and fell asleep, and dreamt of what was often in her waking thoughts, of the day when she should ride from church, in her carriage, with wedding bells ringing, and take up her astonished father and drive away from the old dim work-a-day court, forever, to live in a grand house, where her father should have newspapers, and pamphlets, and pipes, and meat-dinners every day and all day long if he liked. Such thoughts mingled in her predilection for the handsome young Mr. Carson, who, unfettered by work-hours, let scarcely a day pass without contriving a meeting with the beautiful little milliner he had first seen, while lounging in a shop where his sisters were making some purchases, and afterwards never rested till he had freely, though respectfully, made her acquaintance in her daily walks. He was, to use his own expression to himself, quite infatuated by her, and was restless each day till the time came when he had a chance, and of late, more than a chance of meeting her. There was something of keen, practical shrewdness about her, which contrasted very bewitchingly with the simple, foolish, unworldly ideas she had picked up from the romances which Miss Simmons young ladies were in the habit of recommending to each other. Yes, Mary was ambitious, and did not favour Mr. Carson the less because he was rich and a gentleman. The old leaven infused years ago by her aunt Esther fermented in her little bosom, and perhaps all the more for her father's aversion to the rich and the gentle. Such is the contrariness of the human heart from Eve downwards, that we all, in our old Adam State, fancy things forbidden, sweetest. So Mary dwelt upon and enjoyed the idea of some day becoming a lady, and doing all of the elegant nothings appertaining to ladyhood. It was a comfort to her when scolded by Miss Simmons to think of the day when she would drive up to the door in her own carriage to order her gowns from the hasty tempered yet kind dressmaker. It was a pleasure to her to hear the general admiration of the two elder Miss Carson's acknowledged beauties in ballroom and street, on horseback and on foot, and to think of the time when she should ride and walk with them in loving sisterhood. But the best of her plans, the holiest, that which in some measure redeemed the vanity of the rest, were those relating to her father, her dear father, now oppressed with care and always a disheartened, gloomy person, how she would surround him with every comfort she could devise, of course he was to live with them, till he should acknowledge riches to be very pleasant things and bless his lady daughter. Everyone who had shown her kindness in her low estate should then be repaid a hundredfold. Such were the castles in the air, the Alnisha visions in which Mary indulged, and which she was doomed in after-days to expiate with many tears. Meanwhile her words, or even more her tones, would maintain their hold on Jem Wilson's memory. A thrill would yet come over him when he remembered how her hand had rested on his arm, the thought of her mingled with all his grief, and it was profound for the loss of his brothers.