Mary Barton Part 15

"'We should na ha' set out so like gentlefolk a top o' the coach yesterday.'

*Baggin-time; time of the evening meal.

**Dree; long and tedious. Anglo-Saxon, "dreogan," to suffer, to endure.

"'Nay, lad! We should ha' had more to walk if we had na ridden, and I'm sure both you and I'se* weary o' tramping.'

*"I have not been, nor IS, nor never schal."--Wickliffe's Apology, p. I.

"So he were quiet a bit. But he were one o' them as were sure to find out somewhat had been done amiss when there were no going back to undo it. So presently he coughs, as if he were going to speak, and I says to myself, 'At it again, my lad.' Says he--

"'I ax pardon, neighbour, but it strikes me it would ha' been better for my son if he had never begun to keep company wi' your daughter.'

"Well! that put me up, and my heart got very full, and but that I were carrying HER babby, I think I should ha' struck him. At last I could hold in no longer, and says I--

"'Better say at once it would ha' been better for G.o.d never to ha'

made th' world, for then we'd never ha' been in it, to have had th'

heavy hearts we have now.'

"Well! he said that were rank blasphemy; but I thought his way of casting up again th' events G.o.d had pleased to send, were worse blasphemy. Howe'er, I said nought more angry, for th' little babby's sake, as were th' child o' his dead son, as well as o' my dead daughter.

"Th' longest lane will have a turning, and that night came to an end at last; and we were footsore and tired enough, and to my mind the babby were getting weaker and weaker, and it wrung my heart to hear its little wail! I'd ha' given my right hand for one of yesterday's hearty cries. We were wanting our breakfasts, and so were it too, motherless babby! We could see no public-houses, so about six o'clock (only we thought it were later) we stopped at a cottage, where a woman were moving about near th' open door. Says I, 'Good woman, may we rest us a bit?' 'Come in,' says she, wiping a chair, as looked bright enough afore, wi' her ap.r.o.n. It were a cheery, clean room; and we were glad to sit down again, though I thought my legs would never bend at th' knees. In a minute she fell a noticing th' babby, and took it in her arms, and kissed it again and again.

'Missis,' says I, 'we're not without money and if yo'd give us somewhat for breakfast, we'd pay yo honest, and if yo would wash and dress that poor babby, and get some pobbies down its throat, for it's well-nigh clemmed, I'd pray for you till my dying day.' So she said nought but gived me th' babby back, and afore you could say Jack Robinson, she'd a pan on th' fire, and bread and cheese on th'

table. When she turned round, her face looked red, and her lips were tight pressed together. Well! we were right down glad on our breakfast, and G.o.d bless and reward that woman for her kindness that day! She fed th' poor babby as gently and softly, and spoke to it as tenderly as its own poor mother could ha' done. It seemed as if that stranger and it had known each other afore, maybe in heaven, where folk's spirits come from, they say; th' babby looked up so lovingly in her eyes, and made little noises more like a dove than aught else. Then she undressed it (poor darling! it were time), touching it so softly; and washed it from head to foot; and as many on its clothes were dirty, and what bits o' things its mother had gotten ready for it had been sent by th' carrier fra' London, she put 'em aside; and wrapping little naked babby in her ap.r.o.n, she pulled out a key, as were fastened to a black ribbon, and hung down her breast, and unlocked a drawer in th' dresser. I were sorry to be prying, but I could na help seeing in that drawer some little child's clothes, all strewed wi' lavender, and lying by 'em a little whip an' a broken rattle. I began to have an insight into that woman's heart then. She took out a thing or two and locked the drawer, and went on dressing babby. Just about then come her husband down, a great big fellow as didn't look half awake, though it were getting late; but he'd heard all as had been said downstairs, as were plain to be seen; but he were a gruff chap.

We'd finished our breakfast, and Jennings were looking hard at th'

woman as she were getting the babby to sleep wi' a sort of rocking way. At length says he, 'I ha' learnt th' way now; it's two jiggits and a shake, two jiggits and a shake. I can get that babby asleep now mysel.'

"The man had nodded cross enough to us, and had gone to th' door, and stood there, whistling wi' his hands in his breeches-pockets, looking abroad. But at last he turns and says, quite sharp--

"'I say, missis, I'm to have no breakfast to-day, I s'pose.'

"So wi' that she kissed th' child, a long, soft kiss, and looking in my face to see if I could take her meaning, gave me th' babby without a word. I were loath to stir, but I saw it were better to go. So giving Jennings a sharp nudge (for he'd fallen asleep), I says, 'Missis, what's to pay?' pulling out my money wi' a jingle that she might na guess we were at all bare o' cash. So she looks at her husband, who said ne'er a word, but were listening with all his ears nevertheless; and when she saw he would na say, she said, hesitating, as if pulled two ways, by her fear o' him, 'Should you think sixpence over much?' It were so different to public-house reckoning, for we'd eaten a main deal afore the chap came down. So says I, 'And, missis, what should we gi' you for the babby's bread and milk?' (I had it once in my mind to say 'and for a' your trouble with it,' but my heart would na let me say it, for I could read in her ways how it had been a work o' love). So says she, quite quick, and stealing a look at her husband's back, as looked all ear, if ever a back did, 'Oh, we could take nought for the little babby's food, if it had eaten twice as much, bless it.' Wi'

that he looked at her; such a scowling look! She knew what he meant, and stepped softly across the floor to him, and put her hand on his arm. He seem'd as though he'd shake it off by a jerk on his elbow, but she said quite low, 'For poor little Johnnie's sake, Richard.' He did not move or speak again, and after looking in his face for a minute, she turned away, swallowing deep in her throat.

She kissed th' sleeping babby as she pa.s.sed, when I paid her. To quieten th' gruff husband, and stop him if he rated her, I could na help slipping another sixpence under th' loaf, and then we set off again. Last look I had o' that woman she were quietly wiping her eyes wi' the corner of her ap.r.o.n, as she went about her husband's breakfast. But I shall know her in heaven."

He stopped to think of that long ago May morning, when he had carried his grand-daughter under the distant hedgerows and beneath the flowering sycamores.

"There's nought more to say, wench," said he to Margaret, as she begged him to go on. "That night we reached Manchester, and I'd found out that Jennings would be glad enough to give up babby to me, so I took her home at once, and a blessing she's been to me."

They were all silent for a few minutes; each following out the current of their thoughts. Then, almost simultaneously, their attention fell upon Mary. Sitting on her little stool, her head resting on her father's knee, and sleeping as soundly as any infant, her breath (still like an infant's) came and went as softly as a bird steals to her leafy nest. Her half-open mouth was as scarlet as the winter-berries, and contrasted finely with the clear paleness of her complexion, where the eloquent blood flushed carnation at each motion. Her black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, which was still more shaded by the ma.s.ses of her golden hair, that seemed to form a nest-like pillar for her as she lay. Her father in fond pride straightened one glossy curl, for an instant, as if to display its length and silkiness.

The little action awoke her, and, like nine out of ten people in similar circ.u.mstances, she exclaimed, opening her eyes to their fullest extent--

"I'm not asleep. I've been awake all the time."

Even her father could not keep from smiling, and Job Legh and Margaret laughed outright.

"Come, wench," said Job, "don't look so gloppened* because thou'st fallen asleep while an oud chap like me was talking on oud times.

It were like enough to send thee to sleep. Try if thou canst keep thine eyes open while I read thy father a bit on a poem as is written by a weaver like oursel. A rare chap I'll be bound is he who could weave verse like this."

*Gloppened; amazed, frightened.

So adjusting his spectacles on nose, c.o.c.king his chin, crossing his legs, and coughing to clear his voice, he read aloud a little poem of Samuel Bamford's* he had picked up somewhere.

*The fine-spirited author of 'Pa.s.sages in the Life of a Radical'-- a man who ill.u.s.trates his order, and shows what n.o.bility may be in a cottage.

G.o.d help the poor, who, on this wintry morn, Come forth from alleys dim and courts obscure.

G.o.d help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn, And meekly her affliction doth endure; G.o.d help her, outcast lamb; she trembling stands, All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands Her sunken eyes are modestly downcast, Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast; Her bosom, pa.s.sing fair, is half revealed, And oh! so cold, the snow lies there congealed; Her feet benumbed, her shoes all rent and worn, G.o.d help thee, outcast lamb, who standst forlorn!

G.o.d help the poor!

G.o.d help the poor! An infant's feeble wail Comes from yon narrow gateway, and behold!

A female crouching there, so deathly pale, Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold; Her vesture scant, her bonnet crushed and torn; A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold.

And so she 'bides the ruthless gale of morn, Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold.

And now she, sudden, darts a ravening look, As one, with new hot bread, goes past the nook; And, as the tempting load is onward borne, She weeps. G.o.d help thee, helpless one, forlorn!

G.o.d help the poor!

G.o.d help the poor! Behold yon famished lad, No shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect; With limping gait, and looks so dreamy sad, He wanders onward, stopping to inspect Each window stored with articles of food.

He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal; Oh! to the hungry palate viands rude Would yield a zest the famished only feel!

He now devours a crust of mouldy bread; With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn Unmindful of the storm that round his head Impetuous sweeps. G.o.d help thee, child forlorn!

G.o.d help the poor!

G.o.d help the poor! Another have I found-- A bowed and venerable man is he; His slouch-ed hat with faded c.r.a.pe is bound; His coat is grey, and threadbare too, I see.

"The rude winds" seem "to mock his h.o.a.ry hair": His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare.

Anon he turns and casts a wistful eye, And with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray, And looks around, as if he fain would spy Friends he had feasted in his better day: Ah! some are dead: and some have long forborne To know the poor; and he is left forlorn!

G.o.d help the poor!

G.o.d help the poor, who in lone valleys dwell, Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow; Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell; Yet little cares the world, and less 't would know About the toil and want men undergo.

The wearying loom doth call them up at morn; They work till worn-out nature sinks to sleep; They taste, but are not fed. The snow drifts deep Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door; The night-storm howls a dirge across the moor; And shall they perish thus--oppressed and lorn?

Shall toil and famine, hopeless, still be borne?

No! G.o.d will yet arise and help the poor!

"Amen!" said Barton, solemnly and sorrowfully. "Mary! wench, couldst thou copy me them lines, dost think?--that's to say, if Job there has no objection."

"Not I. More they're heard and read and the better, say I."

So Mary took the paper. And the next day, on a blank half-sheet of a valentine, all bordered with hearts and darts--a valentine she had once suspected to come from Jem Wilson--she copied Bamford's beautiful little poem.

X. RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.

"My heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarled With gloating on the ills I cannot cure."

--ELLIOTT.

"Then guard and shield her innocence, Let her not fall like me; 'T were better, oh! a thousand times, She in her grave should be."

--The Outcast.

Despair settled down like a heavy cloud; and now and then, through the dead calm of sufferings, came pipings of stormy winds, foretelling the end of these dark prognostics. In times of sorrowful or fierce endurance, we are often soothed by the mere repet.i.tion of old proverbs which tell the experience of our forefathers; but now, "it's a long lane that has no turning," "the weariest day draws to an end," etc., seemed false and vain sayings, so long and so weary was the pressure of the terrible times. Deeper and deeper still sank the poor. It showed how much lingering suffering it takes to kill men, that so few (in comparison) died during those times. But remember! we only miss those who do men's work in their humble sphere; the aged, the feeble, the children, when they die, are hardly noted by the world; and yet to many hearts, their deaths make a blank which long years will never fill up. Remember, too, that though it may take much suffering to kill the able-bodied and effective members of society, it does NOT take much to reduce them to worn, listless, diseased creatures, who thenceforward crawl through life with moody hearts and pain-stricken bodies.