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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 th’ shop. They’n getten a large order fra’ forrin parts; and yo know, Jem mun work, though his heart’s well nigh breaking for these poor laddies.’
Again they were silent in thought, and again Alice spoke first.
‘I sometimes think the Lord is against planning. Whene’er I plan over-much, He is sure to send and mar all my plans, as if He would ha’ me put the future into His hands. Afore Christmas-time I was as full as full could be, of going home for good and all; yo han heard 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 awhile she had a Sunday out, and she comes to me, and tells me some cousins o’ mine bid her find me out, and say how glad they should be to ha’ me to bide wi’ ’em, and look after th’ childer, for they’n getten a big farm, and she’s a deal to do among th’ cows. So many’s a winter’s night did I lie awake and think, that please God, come summer, I’d bid George and his wife good-bye, 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 hitherto. Here’s George out of work, and more cast down than ever I seed him; wanting every chip o’ comfort he can get, e’en afore this 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”, it’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 Jem came in, all grimed and dirty from his night-work, his soiled apron wrapped round 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 dinner-time, 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 and fast coursing tears.
‘They’re both gone,’ said she.
‘Dead!’
‘Ay! poor fellows. They took worse about two o’clock. Joe went first, as easy as a lamb, and Will died harder like.’
‘Both!’
‘Ay, lad! both. The Lord has ta’en them from some evil to come, or He would na’ ha’ made choice o’ them. Ye may rest sure o’ that.’
Jem 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 Jem’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:
‘O Jem, don’t give way so; I cannot bear to see you.’
Jem 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 hand’s touch 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 yet was happiness, was bliss, to be so spoken to by Mary.
‘Don’t Jem, 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 Jem 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 Jem, 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 morn than ours.’
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 Jem’s manner and 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.
‘O dear,’ said she to herself, ‘I wish he would not mistake me so; I never dare to speak a common word o’ kindness, but his eye brightens and his cheek flushes. It’s very hard on me; for father and George Wilson are old friends; and Jem and I ha’ 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 wi’ 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 cross 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 Jem; only I think I like Jem’s face best for all that; liking’s liking, and there’s no help for it. Well, when I’m Mrs Harry Carson, may happen I can put some good fortune in Jem’s way. But will he thank me for 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 wi’ 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 for ever, 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 Simmonds’ 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 the elegant nothings appertaining to ladyhood. It was a comfort to her, when scolded by Miss Simmonds, 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 Carsons, acknowledged beauties in ball-room 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! Every one who had shown her kindness in her low estate should then be repaid a hundredfold.
Such were the castles in air, the Alnaschar-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.
(#ulink_c24d8fd2-9e7e-51b5-91b8-a967c598ab53) ‘Lile’, a north-country word for ‘little’. ‘Wit leil labour to live.’ – Piers Plowman.
(#ulink_c50d6868-52d4-5e78-b606-11cb007a81f3) ‘May happen’, perhaps.
CHAPTER 8 (#ulink_ea0a37da-2019-5d28-b9dd-92f23f6e98cb)
Margaret’s Début as a Public Singer (#ulink_ea0a37da-2019-5d28-b9dd-92f23f6e98cb)
‘Deal gently with them, they have much endured.
Scoff not at their fond hopes and earnest plans,
Though they may seem to thee wild dreams and fancies.
Perchance, in the rough school of stern Experience,
They’ve something learned which Theory does not teach;
Or if they greatly err, deal gently still,
And let their error but the stronger plead
“Give us the light and guidance that we need!”’
‘LOVE THOUGHTS’
One Sunday afternoon, about three weeks after that mournful night, Jem Wilson set out with the ostensible purpose of calling on John Barton. He was dressed in his best, his Sunday suit of course; while his face glittered with the scrubbing he had bestowed on it. His dark black hair had been arranged and rearranged before the household looking-glass, and in his button-hole he stuck a narcissus (a sweet Nancy is its pretty Lancashire name), hoping it would attract Mary’s notice, so that he might have the delight of giving it her.
It was a bad beginning of his visit of happiness that Mary saw him some minutes before he came into her father’s house. She was sitting at the end of the dresser, with the little window-blind drawn on one side, in order that she might see the passers-by, in the intervals of reading her Bible, which lay open before her. So she watched all the greeting a friend gave Jem; she saw the face of condolence, the sympathetic shake of the hand, and had time to arrange her own face and manner before Jem came in, which he did, as if he had eyes for no one but her father, who sat smoking his pipe by the fire, while he read an old Northern Star, borrowed from a neighbouring public-house.
Then he turned to Mary, who, he felt through the sure instinct of love, by which almost his body thought, was present. Her hands were busy adjusting her dress; a forced and unnecessary movement, Jem could not help thinking. Her accost was quiet and friendly, if grave; she felt that she reddened like a rose, and wished she could prevent it, while Jem wondered if her blushes arose from fear, or anger, or love.
She was very cunning, I am afraid. She pretended to read diligently, and not to listen to a word that was said, while in fact she heard all sounds, even to Jem’s long, deep sighs, which wrung her heart. At last she took up her Bible, and as if their conversation disturbed her, went upstairs to her little room. And she had scarcely spoken a word to Jem; scarcely looked at him; never noticed his beautiful sweet Nancy, which only awaited her least word of praise to be hers! He did not know – that pang was spared – that in her little dingy bedroom stood a white jug filled with a luxurious bunch of early spring roses, making the whole room fragrant and bright. They were the gift of her richer lover. So Jem had to go on sitting with John Barton, fairly caught in his own trap, and had to listen to his talk, and answer him as best he might.
‘There’s the right stuff in this here Star and no mistake. Such a right-down piece for short hours.’
‘At the same rate of wages as now?’ asked Jem.
‘Aye, aye! else where’s the use? It’s only taking out o’ the masters’ pocket what they can well afford. Did I ever tell yo what th’ Infirmary chap let me into many a year agone?’
‘No,’ said Jem listlessly.
‘Well! yo must know I were in th’ Infirmary for a fever, and times were rare and bad, and there be good chaps there to a man, while he’s wick,
(#ulink_814bd503-81c1-5f0b-867e-b431a40a41b2) whate’er they may be about cutting him up at after.
(#ulink_dee6855f-e8f6-5dc4-bc6b-cfca0ba5e19f) So when I were better o’ th’ fever, but weak as water, they says to me, says they, “If yo can write, you may stay in a week longer, and help our surgeon wi’ sorting his papers; and we’ll take care yo’ve your bellyful of meat and drink. Yo’ll be twice as strong in a week.” So there wanted but one word to that bargain. So I were set to writing and copying; th’ writing I could do well enough, but they’d such queer ways o’ spelling, that I’d ne’er been used to, that I’d to look first at th’ copy and then at my letters, for all the world like a cock picking up grains o’ corn. But one thing startled me e’en then, and I thought I’d make bold to ask the surgeon the meaning o’t. I’ve getten no head for numbers, but this I know, that by far th’ greater part o’ the accidents as comed in happened in th’ last two hours o’ work, when folk getten tired and careless. Th’ surgeon said it were all true, and that he were going to bring that fact to light.’
Jem was pondering Mary’s conduct; but the pause made him aware he ought to utter some civil listening noise; so he said:
‘Very true.’
‘Ay, it’s true enough, my lad, that we’re sadly overborne, and worse will come of it afore long. Block-printers is going to strike; they’n getten a bang-up’ Union, as won’t let ’em be put upon. But there’s many a thing will happen afore long, as folk don’t expect. Yo may take my word for that, Jem.’
Jem was very willing to take it, but did not express the curiosity he should have done. So John Barton thought he’d try another hint or two.
‘Working folk won’t be ground to the dust much longer. We’n a’ had as much to bear as human nature can bear. So if th’ masters can’t do us no good, and they say they can’t, we mun try higher folk.’
Still Jem was not curious. He gave up hope of seeing Mary again by her own good free-will; and the next best thing would be, to be alone to think of her. So muttering something which he meant to serve as an excuse for his sudden departure, he hastily wished John good-afternoon, and left him to resume his pipe and his politics.
For three years past trade had been getting worse and worse, and the price of provisions higher and higher. This disparity between the amount of the earnings of the working classes and the price of their food, occasioned, in more cases than could well be imagined, disease and death. Whole families went through a gradual starvation. They only wanted a Dante to record their sufferings. And yet even his words would fall short of the awful truth; they could only present an outline of the tremendous facts of the destitution that surrounded thousands upon thousands in the terrible years 1839, 1840, and 1841. Even philanthropists who had studied the subject, were forced to own themselves perplexed in their endeavour to ascertain the real causes of the misery; the whole matter was of so complicated a nature, that it became next to impossible to understand it thoroughly. It need excite no surprise, then, to learn that a bad feeling between working men and the upper classes became very strong in this season of privation. The indigence and sufferings of the operatives induced a suspicion in the minds of many of them, that their legislators, their magistrates, their employers, and even the ministers of religion, were, in general, their oppressors and enemies; and were in league for their prostration and enthralment. The most deplorable and enduring evil that arose out of the period of commercial depression to which I refer, was this feeling of alienation between the different classes of society. It is so impossible to describe, or even faintly to picture, the state of distress which prevailed in the town at that time, that I will not attempt it; and yet I think again that surely, in a Christian land, it was not known even so feebly as words could tell it, or the more happy and fortunate would have thronged with their sympathy and their aid. In many instances the sufferers wept first, and then they cursed. Their vindictive feelings exhibited themselves in rabid politics. And when I hear, as I have heard, of the sufferings and privations of the poor, of provision shops where ha’porths of tea, sugar, butter, and even flour, were sold to accommodate the indigent, – of parents sitting in their clothes by the fireside during the whole night for seven weeks together, in order that their only bed and bedding might be reserved for the use of their large family, – of others sleeping upon the cold hearthstone for weeks in succession, without adequate means of providing themselves with food or fuel (and this in the depth of winter), – of others being compelled to fast for days together, uncheered by any hope of better fortune, living, moreover, or rather starving, in a crowded garret, or damp cellar, and gradually sinking under the pressure of want and despair into a premature grave; and when this has been confirmed by the evidence of their careworn looks, their excited feelings, and their desolate homes, – can I wonder that many of them, in such times of misery and destitution, spoke and acted with ferocious precipitation?
An idea was now springing up among the operatives, that originated with the Chartists, but which came at last to be cherished as a darling child by many and many a one. They could not believe that Government knew of their misery: they rather chose to think it possible that men could voluntarily assume the office of legislators for a nation who were ignorant of its real state; as who should make domestic rules for the pretty behaviour of children without caring to know that those children had been kept for days without food. Besides, the starving multitudes had heard, that the very existence of their distress had been denied in Parliament; and though they felt this strange and inexplicable, yet the idea that their misery had still to be revealed in all its depths, and that then some remedy would be found, soothed their aching hearts, and kept down their rising fury.
So a petition was framed, and signed by thousands in the bright spring days of 1839, imploring Parliament to hear witnesses who could testify to the unparalleled destitution of the manufacturing districts. Nottingham, Sheffield, Glasgow, Manchester, and many other towns, were busy appointing delegates to convey this petition, who might speak, not merely of what they had seen, and had heard, but from what they had borne and suffered. Life-worn, gaunt, anxious, hunger-stamped men, were those delegates.
One of them was John Barton. He would have been ashamed to own the flutter of spirits his appointment gave him. There was the childish delight of seeing London – that went a little way, and but a little way. There was the vain idea of speaking out his notions before so many grand folk – that went a little further; and last, there was the really pure gladness of heart arising from the idea that he was one of those chosen to be instruments in making known the distresses of the people, and consequently in procuring them some grand relief, by means of which they should never suffer want or care any more. He hoped largely, but vaguely, of the results of his expedition. An argosy of the precious hopes of many otherwise despairing creatures, was that petition to be heard concerning their sufferings.
The night before the morning on which the Manchester delegates were to leave for London, Barton might be said to hold a levée, so many neighbours came dropping in. Job Legh had early established himself and his pipe by John Barton’s fire, not saying much, but puffing away, and imagining himself of use in adjusting the smoothing-irons that hung before the fire, ready for Mary when she should want them. As for Mary, her employment was the same as that of Beau Tibbs’ wife, ‘just washing her father’s two shirts,’ in the pantry back-kitchen; for she was anxious about his appearance in London. (The coat had been redeemed, though the silk handkerchief was forfeited.) The door stood open, as usual, between the house-place and back-kitchen, so she gave her greeting to their friends as they entered.
‘So, John, yo’re bound for London, are yo?’ said one.
‘Ay, I suppose I mun go,’ answered John, yielding to necessity as it were.
‘Well, there’s many a thing I’d like yo to speak on to the Parliament people. Thou’lt not spare ’em, John, I hope. Tell ’em our minds; how we’re thinking we’n been clemmed long enough, and we donnot see whatten good they’n been doing, if they can’t give us what we’re all crying for sin’ the day we were born.’
‘Ay, ay! I’ll tell ’em that, and much more to it, when it gets to my turn; but thou knows there’s many will have their word afore me.’
‘Well, thou’lt speak at last. Bless thee, lad, do ask ’em to make th’ masters to break th’ machines. There’s never been good times sin’ spinning-jennies came up.’
‘Machines is th’ ruin of poor folk,’ chimed in several voices.
‘For my part,’ said a shivering, half-clad man, who crept near the fire, as if ague-stricken, ‘I would like thee to tell ’em to pass th’ Short-hours Bill. Flesh and blood get wearied wi’ so much work; why should factory hands work so much longer nor other trades? Just ask ’em that, Barton, will ye?’
Barton was saved the necessity of answering, by the entrance of Mrs Davenport, the poor widow he had been so kind to; she looked half-fed, and eager, but was decently clad. In her hand she brought a little newspaper parcel, which she took to Mary, who opened it, and then called out, dangling a shirt collar from her soapy fingers:
‘See, father, what a dandy you’ll be in London! Mrs Davenport has brought you this; made new cut, all after the fashion. Thank you for thinking on him.’
‘Eh, Mary!’ said Mrs Davenport in a low voice, ‘whatten’s all I can do, to what he’s done for me and mine? But, Mary, sure I can help ye, for you’ll be busy wi’ this journey.’
‘Just help me wring these out, and then I’ll take ’em to the mangle.’
So Mrs Davenport became a listener to the conversation; and after a while joined in.
‘I’m sure, John Barton, if yo are taking messages to the Parliament folk, yo’ll not object to telling ’em what a sore trial it is, this law o’ theirs, keeping childer fra’ factory work, whether they be weakly or strong. There’s our Ben: why, porridge seems to go no way wi’ him, he eats so much; and I han gotten no money to send him t’ school, as I would like; and there he is, rampaging about the streets a’ day, getting hungrier and hungrier, and picking up a’ manner o’ bad ways; and th’ inspector won’t let him in to work in th’ factory, because he’s not right age; though he’s twice as strong as Sankey’s little ritling
(#ulink_936cd8ab-e0f0-5c88-8571-3d7aab5dce11) of a lad, as works till he cries for his legs aching so, though he is right age, and better.’
‘I’ve one plan I wish to tell John Barton,’ said a pompous, careful-speaking man, ‘and I should like him for to lay it afore the Honourable House. My mother comed out o’ Oxfordshire, and were underlaundry-maid in Sir Francis Dashwood’s family; and when we were little ones, she’d tell us stories of their grandeur: and one thing she named were, that Sir Francis wore two shirts a day. Now he were all as one as a Parliament man; and many on ’em, I han no doubt, are like extravagant. Just tell ’em, John, do, that they’d be doing the Lancashire weavers a great kindness, if they’d ha’ their shirts a’ made o’ calico; ’twould make trade brisk, that would, wi’ the power o’ shirts they wear.’
Job Legh now put in his word. Taking the pipe out of his mouth, and addressing the last speaker, he said:
‘I’ll tell ye what, Bill, and no offence, mind ye; there’s but hundreds of them Parliament folk as wear so many shirts to their back; but there’s thousands and thousands o’ poor weavers as han only gotten one shirt i’ the world; ay, and don’t know where t’ get another when that rag’s done, though they’re turning out miles o’ calico every day; and many a mile o’t is lying in warehouses, stopping up trade for want o’ purchasers. Yo take my advice, John Barton, and ask Parliament to set trade free, so as workmen can earn a decent wage, and buy their two, ay and three, shirts a year; that would make weaving brisk.’
He put his pipe in his mouth again, and redoubled his puffing, to make up for lost time.
‘I’m afeard, neighbours,’ said John Barton, ‘I’ve not much chance o’ telling ’em all yo say; what I think on, is just speaking out about the distress that they say is nought. When they hear o’ children born on wet flags, without a rag t’ cover ’em or a bit o’ food for th’ mother; when they hear of folk lying down to die i’ th’ streets, or hiding their want i’ some hole o’ a cellar till death come to set ’em free; and when they hear o’ all this plague, pestilence, and famine, they’ll surely do somewhat wiser for us than we can guess at now. Howe’er, I han no objection, if so be there’s an opening, to speak up for what yo say; anyhow, I’ll do my best, and yo see now, if better times don’t come after Parliament knows all.’
Some shook their heads, but more looked cheery: and then one by one dropped off, leaving John and his daughter alone.
‘Didst thou mark how poorly Jane Wilson looked?’ asked he, as they wound up their hard day’s work by a supper eaten over the fire, which glowed and glimmered through the room, and formed their only light.
‘No, I can’t say as I did. But she’s never rightly held up her head since the twins died; and all along she has never been a strong woman.’
‘Never sin’ her accident. Afore that I mind her looking as fresh and likely a girl as e’er a one in Manchester.’
‘What accident, father?’
‘She cotched
(#ulink_a54a380a-0862-5ed6-a690-b22b759172fc) her side again a wheel. It were afore wheels were boxed up. It were just when she were to have been married, and many a one thought George would ha’ been off his bargain; but I knew he wern’t the chap for that trick. Pretty near the first place she went to when she were able to go about again, was th’ Oud Church; poor wench, all pale and limping she went up the aisle, George holding her up as tender as a mother, and walking as slow as e’er he could, not to hurry her, thought there were plenty enow of rude lads to cast their jests at him and her. Her face were white like a sheet when she came in church, but afore she got to th’ altar she were all one flush. But for a’ that it’s been a happy marriage, and George has stuck by me through life like a brother. He’ll never hold up his head again if he loses Jane. I didn’t like her looks to-night.’
And so he went to bed, the fear of forthcoming sorrow to his friend mingling with his thoughts of to-morrow, and his hopes for the future. Mary watched him set off, with her hands over her eyes to shade them from the bright slanting rays of the morning sun, and then she turned into the house to arrange its disorder before going to her work. She wondered if she should like or dislike the evening and morning solitude; for several hours when the clock struck she thought of her father, and wondered where he was; she made good resolutions according to her lights; and by-and-by came the distractions and events of the broad full day to occupy her with the present, and to deaden the memory of the absent.
One of Mary’s resolutions was, that she would not be persuaded or induced to see Mr Harry Carson during her father’s absence. There was something crooked in her conscience after all: for this very resolution seemed an acknowledgment that it was wrong to meet him at any time; and yet she had brought herself to think her conduct quite innocent and proper, for although unknown to her father, and certain, even did he know it, to fail of obtaining his sanction, she esteemed her love-meeting with Mr Carson as sure to end in her father’s good and happiness. But now that he was away, she would do nothing that he would disapprove of; no, not even though it was for his own good in the end.
Now, amongst Miss Simmonds’ young ladies was one who had been from the beginning a confidante in Mary’s love affair, made so by Mr Carson himself. He had felt the necessity of some third person to carry letters and messages, and to plead his cause when he was absent. In a girl named Sally Leadbitter he had found a willing advocate. She would have been willing to have embarked in a love affair herself (especially a clandestine one), for the mere excitement of the thing; but her willingness was strengthened by sundry half-sovereigns, which from time to time Mr Carson bestowed upon her.
