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Mary looked round on the odd, strange things 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 has taken him for such. He is only fond of such things as most folks know nothing about.’
‘And do you know aught about them too?’
‘I know a bit about some of the things grandfather is fond on; just because he’s fond on ’em, I tried to learn about them.’
‘What things are these?’ said Mary, struck with the weird-looking creatures that sprawled around the room in their roughly-made glass cases.
But she was not prepared for the technical names which Job Legh pattered down on 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 me such a fright: I am all of a twitter yet when I think of it. Grandfather went to Liverpool one Whitsun-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 physic-bottle; and says grandfather, “What have ye gotten there?” So the sailor holds it up, and grandfather knew it was a rare kind o’ 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 bag of rice, and he thought the cold had killed him, for he was not squashed nor 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 enow who would give him something for him. So grandfather gives him a shilling.’
‘Two shillings,’ interrupted Job Legh; ‘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 th’ scorpion were doubled up, and grandfather thought I couldn’t 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 left off ironing and stooped down over 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 ha’ 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! why, I jumped first on a chair, and then on 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 ha’ 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 hopped round the room as if he were sore afraid, for all he begged me not to injure it. At last he goes to th’ 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 had lifted the creature up by th’ leg, and dropped him into the boiling water.’
‘And did that kill him?’ said Mary.
‘Ay, 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 above a twelvemonth.’
‘What brought him to life at first?’ asked Mary.
‘Why, you see, he were never really dead, only torpid – that is, dead asleep with the 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 leave-taking, and she went home with the feeling that she had that night made the acquaintance of two of the strangest people she 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 any one 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 history of the evening to her father, who was interested by her account, and curious to see and judge for himself. Opportunities are not often wanting where inclination goes before, and ere the end of that 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 Legh 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 you 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 diminish. 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 any one. Most of her foibles also were made known to Margaret, but not all. There was one cherished weakness still concealed from every one. It concerned a lover, not beloved, but favoured by fancy. A gallant, handsome young man; but – not beloved. Yet 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. Jem 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 to any end of all this; the present, so that he saw her, touched the hem of her garment, was enough. Surely, in time, such deep love 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 nobbut
(#ulink_1e1f772d-25f8-5fac-8130-743f9263ec2f) 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 married 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, than marry 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’ in him.
It was towards the end of February, in that year, and a bitter black frost had lasted for many weeks. The keen east wind had long since swept the streets clean, though in a gusty day the dust would rise like pounded ice, and make 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 dun looks of the landscape; for soft water had become an article not even to be purchased; and the poor washerwomen might be seen vainly trying to procure a little by breaking the thick grey ice that coated the ditches and ponds in the neighbourhood. 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 Miss Simmonds’, with her shawl 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’ve a job of work to finish to-night; mourning, as must be in time for the funeral to-morrow; and grandfather has been out moss-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 beside the mother; and what with trying on and matching the stuff (for there was not enough in the piece they chose first), I’m above a bit behindhand. 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 missis 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 t’other clear up to notice the set of her gown. They weren’t to be misfits, I promise you, though 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 Simmonds’.’
By this time Mary had broken up the raking coal, and lighted her candle; and Margaret settled herself to her 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 breadths and began to run them together.
‘Who’s it all for, for if you told me I’ve forgotten?’
‘Why, for Mrs Ogden as keeps the greengrocer’s 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 him 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’m much afeard there’s but little, and there’s several young children, besides the three Miss Ogdens.’
‘I should have thought girls like them would ha’ 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 Mrs Ogden to make all the piece o’ work. Such a smell of ham boiling and fowls roasting while I waited in the kitchen; it seemed more like a wedding nor
(#ulink_fa9a14c7-40f4-5475-9a6d-761f50bb2320) a funeral. They said she’d spend a matter o’ sixty pound on th’ burial.’
‘I thought you said she was but badly off,’ said Mary.
‘Ay, I know she’s asked for credit at several places, saying her husband laid hands on every farthing he could get for drink. But th’ undertakers urge 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 t’other thing, till the poor woman has no will o’ 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 it 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
(#ulink_42596b67-4451-5ec1-967c-7d6b3d9fa26d) on him. I cannot see what good comes out o’ wearing 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 ’em for more directions than usual, that they might have something to talk over and fix about; and I left ’em my fashion-book (though it were two months old) just a purpose.’
‘I don’t think every one would grieve a 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 me. 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.” O Mary, I have so often checked my grumbling sin’
(#ulink_1894825a-661a-5ca5-b271-243d6540751b) 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 mourning?’
‘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 secret’s on the tip of my tongue. Mary, do you know I sometimes think I’m growing a little blind, and then what would 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 botanising or going after insects, and he’ll think little enough of four or five shillings for a specimen; dear grandfather! And I’m so loath 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 was only weakness,” and gived me a bottle of lotion; but I’ve used three bottles (and each of ’em 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 th’ other?’
‘Yes, pretty near as well as ever. Th’ only difference is, that if I sew a long time together, a bright spot like th’ 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 o’ 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? Folk mun live; and I think I should go blind any way, and I darn’t tell grandfather, else I would leave it off; but he will so fret.’
Margaret rocked herself backward and forward to still her emotion.
‘O 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 know’d him a bit, so I went to him, and said how I wished he’d teach me the right way o’ singing; and he says I’ve a rare fine voice, and I go once a week, and take a lesson fra’ 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 th’ hand before the Oud Church
(#ulink_6cd350de-caf9-50bf-87c6-253c02e7a12e) full o’ 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 curtained window.
‘Something’s up,’ said Mary. She went to the door, and stopping the first person she saw, inquired the cause of the commotion.
‘Eh, wench! donna ye see the fire-light? Carsons’ mill is blazing away like fun’; and away her informant ran.
‘Come, Margaret, on wi’ your bonnet, and let’s go to see Carsons’ mill; it’s afire, 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 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 on fire.
So in two minutes they were ready. At the threshold of the house they met John Barton, to whom they told their errand.
‘Carsons’ mill! Ay, 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 o’ water to be got. And much Carsons will care, for they’re well insured, and the machines are a’ th’ oud-fashioned kind. See if they don’t think it a fine thing for themselves. They’ll 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.
Carsons’ mill ran lengthways from east to west. Along it went one of the oldest thoroughfares in Manchester. Indeed, all that part of the town was comparatively old; it was there that the first cotton mills were built, and the crowded alleys and back streets of the neighbourhood 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 been once 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 squalid 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 neighbour in the crowd, as she caught a few words, clear and distinct from the general murmur.
‘There never is any one 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, whither the raging flames were driven by the wind, was crowned and turreted with triumphant fire. It sent forth its infernal tongues from every window hole, licking the black walls with amorous 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 the yet more powerful wind, but where yet black smoke gushed out from every aperture – there, at one of the windows on the fourth storey, 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 that 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 neighbour.
‘They’re coming, no doubt; but bless you, I think it’s bare ten minutes since we first found out th’ fire; it rages so wi’ this wind, and all so 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.
‘Ay, Wilson’s son and another man were off like a shot, wellnigh five minutes ago. But th’ 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 Carsons; 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! ye won’t hanker after a fire again. Hark! listen!’
For through the hushed 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 neighbour, ‘the engine’s come.’
