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Chapter I - A mysterious disappearance.
"Oh! 't is hard, 't is hard to be working
The whole of the live-long day,
When all the neighbours about one
Are off to their jaunts and play.
"There's Richard he carries his baby,
And Mary takes little Jane,
And lovingly they'll be wandering
Through fields and briery lane."
--MANCHESTER SONG.
There are some fields near Manchester, well known to the inhabitants
as "Green Heys Fields," through which runs a public footpath to a
little village about two miles distant. In spite of these fields
being flat, and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great
and usual recommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm
about them which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous
district, who sees and feels the effect of contrast in these
commonplace but thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling
manufacturing town he left but half-an-hour ago. Here and there an
old black and white farmhouse, with its rambling outbuildings,
speaks of other times and other occupations than those which now
absorb the population of the neighbourhood. Here in their seasons
may be seen the country business of haymaking, ploughing, etc.,
which are such pleasant mysteries for townspeople to watch: and
here the artisan, deafened with noise of tongues and engines, may
come to listen awhile to the delicious sounds of rural life: the
lowing of cattle, the milkmaid's call, the clatter and cackle of
poultry in the farmyards. You cannot wonder, then, that these
fields are popular places of resort at every holiday time; and you
would not wonder, if you could see, or I properly describe, the
charm of one particular stile, that it should be, on such occasions,
a crowded halting place. Close by it is a deep, clear pond,
reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy trees that bend over
it to exclude the sun. The only place where its banks are shelving
is on the side next to a rambling farmyard, belonging to one of
those old world, gabled, black and white houses I named above,
overlooking the field through which the public footpath leads. The
porch of this farmhouse is covered by a rose-tree; and the little
garden surrounding it is crowded with a medley of old-fashioned
herbs and flowers, planted long ago, when the garden was the only
druggist's shop within reach, and allowed to grow in scrambling and
wild luxuriance--roses, lavender, sage, balm (for tea), rosemary,
pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most republican and
indiscriminate order. This farmhouse and garden are within a
hundred yards of the stile of which I spoke, leading from the large
pasture field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge of hawthorn and
blackthorn; and near this stile, on the further side, there runs a
tale that primroses may often be found, and occasionally the blue
sweet violet on the grassy hedge bank.
I do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, or
a holiday seized in right of Nature and her beautiful spring time by
the workmen, but one afternoon (now ten or a dozen years ago) these
fields were much thronged. It was an early May evening--the April
of the poets; for heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and the
round, soft, white clouds which were blown by a west wind over the
dark blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and more
threatening. The softness of the day tempted forth the young green
leaves, which almost visibly fluttered into life; and the willows,
which that morning had had only a brown reflection in the water
below, were now of that tender grey-green which blends so delicately
with the spring harmony of colours.
Groups of merry and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages might
range from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. They were
most of them factory girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress of
that particular class of maidens; namely, a shawl, which at midday
or in fine weather was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towards
evening, if the day was chilly, became a sort of Spanish mantilla or
Scotch plaid, and was brought over the head and hung loosely down,
or was pinned under the chin in no unpicturesque fashion.
Their faces were not remarkable for beauty; indeed, they were below
the average, with one or two exceptions; they had dark hair, neatly
and classically arranged, dark eyes, but sallow complexions and
irregular features. The only thing to strike a passer-by was an
acuteness and intelligence of countenance, which has often been
noticed in a manufacturing population.
There were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, rambling among
these fields, ready to bandy jokes with any one, and particularly
ready to enter into conversation with the girls, who, however, held
themselves aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent way,
assuming an indifferent manner to the noisy wit or obstreperous
compliments of the lads. Here and there came a sober, quiet couple,
either whispering lovers, or husband and wife, as the case might be;
and if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by an infant,
carried for the most part by the father, while occasionally even
three or four little toddlers had been carried or dragged thus far,
in order that the whole family might enjoy the delicious May
afternoon together.
Some time in the course of that afternoon, two working men met with
friendly greeting at the stile so often named. One was a thorough
specimen of a Manchester man; born of factory workers, and himself
bred up in youth, and living in manhood, among the mills. He was
below the middle size and slightly made; there was almost a stunted
look about him; and his wan, colourless face gave you the idea, that
in his childhood he had suffered from the scanty living consequent
upon bad times and improvident habits. His features were strongly
marked, though not irregular, and their expression was extreme
earnestness; resolute either for good or evil, a sort of latent
stern enthusiasm. At the time of which I write, the good
predominated over the bad in the countenance, and he was one from
whom a stranger would have asked a favour with tolerable faith that
it would be granted. He was accompanied by his wife, who might,
without exaggeration, have been called a lovely woman, although now
her face was swollen with crying, and often hidden behind her apron.
She had the fresh beauty of the agricultural districts; and somewhat
of the deficiency of sense in her countenance, which is likewise
characteristic of the rural inhabitants in comparison with the
natives of the manufacturing towns. She was far advanced in
pregnancy, which perhaps occasioned the overpowering and hysterical
nature of her grief. The friend whom they met was more handsome and
less sensible-looking than the man I have just described; he seemed
hearty and hopeful, and although his age was greater, yet there was
far more of youth's buoyancy in his appearance. He was tenderly
carrying a baby in arms, while his wife, a delicate, fragile-looking
woman, limping in her gait, bore another of the same age; little,
feeble twins, inheriting the frail appearance of their mother.
The last-mentioned man was the first to speak, while a sudden look
of sympathy dimmed his gladsome face. "Well, John, how goes it with
you?" and in a lower voice, he added, "Any news of Esther yet?"
Meanwhile the wives greeted each other like old friends, the soft
and plaintive voice of the mother of the twins seeming to call forth
only fresh sobs from Mrs. Barton.
"Come, women," said John Barton, "you've both walked far enough. My
Mary expects to have her bed in three weeks; and as for you, Mrs.
Wilson, you know you are but a cranky sort of a body at the best of
times." This was said so kindly, that no offence could be taken.
"Sit you down here; the grass is well nigh dry by this time; and
you're neither of you nesh* folk about taking cold. Stay," he
added, with some tenderness, "here's my pocket-handkerchief to
spread under you to save the gowns women always think so much on;
and now, Mrs. Wilson, give me the baby, I may as well carry him,
while you talk and comfort my wife; poor thing, she takes on sadly
about Esther."
*Nesh; Anglo-Saxon, nesc, tender.
These arrangements were soon completed; the two women sat down on
the blue cotton handkerchiefs of their husbands, and the latter,
each carrying a baby, set off for a further walk; but as soon as
Barton had turned his back upon his wife, his countenance fell back
into an expression of gloom.
"Then you've heard nothing of Esther, poor lass?" asked Wilson.
"No, nor shan't, as I take it. My mind is, she's gone off with
somebody. My wife frets and thinks she's drowned herself, but I
tell her, folks don't care to put on their best clothes to drown
themselves; and Mrs. Bradshaw (where she lodged, you know) says the
last time she set eyes on her was last Tuesday, when she came
downstairs, dressed in her Sunday gown, and with a new ribbon in her
bonnet, and gloves on her hands, like the lady she was so fond of
thinking herself."
"She was as pretty a creature as ever the sun shone on."
"Ay, she was a farrantly* lass; more's the pity now," added Barton,
with a sigh. "You see them Buckinghamshire people as comes to work
here has quite a different look with them to us Manchester folk.
You'll not see among the Manchester wenches such fresh rosy cheeks,
or such black lashes to grey eyes (making them look like black), as
my wife and Esther had. I never seed two such pretty women for
sisters; never. Not but what beauty is a sad snare. Here was
Esther so puffed up, that there was no holding her in. Her spirit
was always up, if I spoke ever so little in the way of advice to
her; my wife spoiled her, it is true, for you see she was so much
older than Esther, she was more like a mother to her, doing
everything for her."
*Farrantly; comely, pleasant-looking.
"I wonder she ever left you," observed his friend.
"That's the worst of factory work for girls. They can earn so much
when work is plenty, that they can maintain themselves anyhow. My
Mary shall never work in a factory, that I'm determined on. You see
Esther spent her money in dress, thinking to set off her pretty
face; and got to come home so late at night, that at last I told her
my mind; my missis thinks I spoke crossly, but I meant right, for I
loved Esther, if it was only for Mary's sake. Says I, 'Esther, I
see what you'll end at with your artificials, and your fly-away
veils, and stopping out when honest women are in their beds:
you'll be a street-walker, Esther, and then, don't you go to think
I'll have you darken my door, though my wife is your sister?' So
says she, 'Don't trouble yourself, John, I'll pack up and be off
now, for I'll never stay to hear myself called as you call me.' She
flushed up like a turkey-cock, and I thought fire would come out of
her eyes; but when she saw Mary cry (for Mary can't abide words in a
house), she went and kissed her, and said she was not so bad as I
thought her. So we talked more friendly, for, as I said, I liked
the lass well enough, and her pretty looks, and her cheery ways.
But she said (and at that time I thought there was sense in what she
said) we should be much better friends if she went into lodgings,
and only came to see us now and then."
"Then you still were friendly. Folks said you'd cast her off, and
said you'd never speak to her again."
"Folks always make one a deal worse than one is," said John Barton
testily. "She came many a time to our house after she left off
living with us. Last Sunday se'nnight--no! it was this very last
Sunday, she came to drink a cup of tea with Mary; and that was the
last time we set eyes on her."
"Was she any ways different in her manner?" asked Wilson.
"Well, I don't know. I have thought several times since, that she
was a bit quieter, and more womanly-like; more gentle, and more
blushing, and not so riotous and noisy. She comes in towards four
o'clock, when afternoon church was loosing, and she goes and hangs
her bonnet up on the old nail we used to call hers, while she lived
with us. I remember thinking what a pretty lass she was, as she sat
on a low stool by Mary, who was rocking herself, and in rather a
poor way. She laughed and cried by turns, but all so softly and
gently, like a child, that I couldn't find in my heart to scold her,
especially as Mary was fretting already. One thing I do remember I
did say, and pretty sharply too. She took our little Mary by the
waist and"--
"Thou must leave off calling her 'little' Mary, she's growing up
into as fine a lass as one can see on a summer's day; more of her
mother's stock than thine," interrupted Wilson.
"Well, well, I call her 'little' because her mother's name is Mary.
But, as I was saying, she takes Mary in a coaxing sort of way, and
'Mary,' says she, 'what should you think if I sent for you some day
and made a lady of you?' So I could not stand such talk as that to
my girl, and I said, 'Thou'd best not put that nonsense i' the
girl's head I can tell thee; I'd rather see her earning her bread by
the sweat of brow, as the Bible tells her she should do, ay, though
she never got butter to her bread, than be like a do-nothing lady,
worrying shopmen all morning, and screeching at her pianny all
afternoon, and going to bed without having done a good turn to any
one of God's creatures but herself.'"
"Thou never could abide the gentlefolk," said Wilson, half amused at
his friend's vehemence.
"And what good have they ever done me that I should like them?"
asked Barton, the latent fire lighting up his eye: and bursting
forth he continued, "If I am sick do they come and nurse me? If my
child lies dying (as poor Tom lay, with his white wan lips
quivering, for want of better food than I could give him), does the
rich man bring the wine or broth that might save his life? If I am
out of work for weeks in the bad times, and winter comes, with black
frost, and keen east wind, and there is no coal for the grate, and
no clothes for the bed, and the thin bones are seen through the
ragged clothes, does the rich man share his plenty with me, as he
ought to do, if his religion wasn't a humbug? When I lie on my
death-bed and Mary (bless her!) stands fretting, as I know she will
fret," and here his voice faltered a little, "will a rich lady come
and take her to her own home if need be, till she can look round,
and see what best to do? No, I tell you it's the poor, and the poor
only, as does such things for the poor. Don't think to come over me
with th' old tale, that the rich know nothing of the trials of the
poor; I say, if they don't know, they ought to know. We're their
slaves as long as we can work; we pile up their fortunes with the
sweat of our brows, and yet we are to live as separate as if we were
in two worlds; ay, as separate as Dives and Lazarus, with a great
gulf betwixt us: but I know who was best off then," and he wound
up his speech with a low chuckle that had no mirth in it.
"Well, neighbour," said Wilson, "all that may be very true, but what
I want to know now is about Esther--when did you last hear of her?"
"Why, she took leave of us that Sunday night in a very loving way,
kissing both wife Mary, and daughter Mary (if I must not call her
'little'), and shaking hands with me; but all in a cheerful sort of
manner, so we thought nothing about her kisses and shakes. But on
Wednesday night comes Mrs. Bradshaw's son with Esther's box, and
presently Mrs. Bradshaw follows with the key; and when we began to
talk, we found Esther told her she was coming back to live with us,
and would pay her week's money for not giving notice; and on Tuesday
night she carried off a little bundle (her best clothes were on her
back, as I said before) and told Mrs. Bradshaw not to hurry herself
about the big box, but bring it when she had time. So, of course,
she thought she should find Esther with us; and when she told her
story, my missis set up such a screech, and fell down in a dead
swoon. Mary ran up with water for her mother, and I thought so much
about my wife, I did not seem to care at all for Esther. But the
next day I asked all the neighbours (both our own and Bradshaw's)
and they'd none of 'em heard or seen nothing of her. I even went to
a policeman, a good enough sort of man, but a fellow I'd never
spoken to before because of his livery, and I asks him if his
'cuteness could find anything out for us. So I believe he asks
other policemen; and one on 'em had seen a wench, like our Esther,
walking very quickly, with a bundle under her arm, on Tuesday night,
toward eight o'clock, and get into a hackney coach, near Hulme
Church, and we don't know th' number, and can't trace it no further.
I'm sorry enough for the girl, for bad's come over her, one way or
another, but I'm sorrier for my wife. She loved her next to me and
Mary, and she's never been the same body since poor Tom's death.
However, let's go back to them; your old woman may have done her
good."
As they walked homewards with a brisker pace, Wilson expressed a
wish that they still were the near neighbours they once had been.
"Still our Alice lives in the cellar under No. 14, in Barber Street,
and if you'd only speak the word she'd be with you in five minutes
to keep your wife company when she's lonesome. Though I'm Alice's
brother, and perhaps ought not to say it, I will say there's none
more ready to help with heart or hand than she is. Though she may
have done a hard day's wash, there's not a child ill within the
street, but Alice goes to offer to sit up, and does sit up, too,
though may be she's to be at her work by six next morning."
"She's a poor woman, and can feel for the poor, Wilson," was
Barton's reply; and then he added, "Thank you kindly for your offer,
and mayhap I may trouble her to be a bit with my wife, for while I'm
at work, and Mary's at school, I know she frets above a bit. See,
there's Mary!" and the father's eye brightened, as in the distance,
among a group of girls, he spied his only daughter, a bonny lass of
thirteen or so, who came bounding along to meet and to greet her
father, in a manner that showed that the stern-looking man had a
tender nature within. The two men had crossed the last stile, while
Mary loitered behind to gather some buds of the coming hawthorn,
when an overgrown lad came past her, and snatched a kiss,
exclaiming, "For old acquaintance sake, Mary."
"Take that for old acquaintance sake, then," said the girl, blushing
rosy red, more with anger than shame, as she slapped his face. The
tones of her voice called back her father and his friend, and the
aggressor proved to be the eldest son of the latter, the senior by
eighteen years of his little brothers.
"Here, children, instead o' kissing and quarrelling, do ye each take
a baby, for if Wilson's arms be like mine they are heartily tired."
Mary sprang forward to take her father's charge, with a girl's
fondness for infants, and with some little foresight of the event
soon to happen at home; while young Wilson seemed to lose his rough,
cubbish nature as he crowed and cooed to his little brother.
"Twins is a great trial to a poor man, bless 'em," said the half-
proud, half-weary father, as he bestowed a smacking kiss on the babe
ere he parted with it.
Content of Chapter I - A mysterious disappearance.
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