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Chapter IV - Old Alice's history
"To envy nought beneath the ample sky;
To mourn no evil deed, no hour misspent;
And like a living violet, silently
Return in sweets to Heaven what goodness lent,
Then bend beneath the chastening shower content."
--ELLIOTT.
Another year passed on. The waves of time seemed long since to have
swept away all trace of poor Mary Barton. But her husband still
thought of her, although with a calm and quiet grief, in the silent
watches of the night: and Mary would start from her hard-earned
sleep, and think, in her half-dreamy, half-awakened state, she saw
her mother stand by her bedside, as she used to do "in the days of
long ago"; with a shaded candle and an expression of ineffable
tenderness, while she looked on her sleeping child. But Mary rubbed
her eyes and sank back on her pillow, awake, and knowing it was a
dream; and still, in all her troubles and perplexities, her heart
called on her mother for aid, and she thought, "If mother had but
lived, she would have helped me." Forgetting that the woman's
sorrows are far more difficult to mitigate than a child's, even by
the mighty power of a mother's love; and unconscious of the fact,
that she was far superior in sense and spirit to the mother she
mourned. Aunt Esther was still mysteriously absent, and people had
grown weary of wondering, and begun to forget. Barton still
attended his club, and was an active member of a Trades' Union;
indeed, more frequently than ever, since the time of Mary's return
in the evening was so uncertain; and as she occasionally, in very
busy times, remained all night. His chiefest friend was still
George Wilson, although he had no great sympathy on the questions
that agitated Barton's mind. But their hearts were bound by old
ties to one another, and the remembrance of former things gave an
unspoken charm to their meetings. Our old friend, the cub-like lad,
Jem Wilson, had shot up into the powerful, well-made young man, with
a sensible face enough; nay, a face that might have been handsome,
had it not been here and there marked by the small-pox. He worked
with one of the great firms of engineers, who send from out their
towns of workshops engines and machinery to the dominions of the
Czar and the Sultan. His father and mother were never weary of
praising Jem, at all which commendation pretty Mary Barton would
toss her head, seeing clearly enough that they wished her to
understand what a good husband he would make, and to favour his
love, about which he never dared to speak, whatever eyes and looks
revealed.
One day, in the early winter time, when people were provided with
warm substantial gowns, not likely soon to wear out, and when,
accordingly, business was rather slack at Miss Simmonds', Mary met
Alice Wilson, coming home from her half-day's work at some
tradesman's house. Mary and Alice had always liked each other;
indeed, Alice looked with particular interest on the motherless
girl, the daughter of her whose forgiving kiss had comforted her in
many sleepless hours. So there was a warm greeting between the tidy
old woman and the blooming young work-girl; and then Alice ventured
to ask if she would come in and take her tea with her that very
evening.
"You'll think it dull enough to come just to sit with an old woman
like me, but there's a tidy young lass as lives in the floor above,
who does plain work, and now and then a bit in your own line, Mary;
she's grand-daughter to old Job Legh, a spinner, and a good girl she
is. Do come, Mary! I've a terrible wish to make you known to each
other. She's a genteel-looking lass, too."
At the beginning of this speech Mary had feared the intended visitor
was to be no other than Alice's nephew; but Alice was too
delicate-minded to plan a meeting, even for her dear Jem, when one
would have been an unwilling party; and Mary, relieved from her
apprehension by the conclusion, gladly agreed to come. How busy
Alice felt! it was not often she had any one to tea; and now her
sense of the duties of a hostess were almost too much for her. She
made haste home, and lighted the unwilling fire, borrowing a pair of
bellows to make it burn the faster. For herself she was always
patient; she let the coals take their time. Then she put on her
pattens, and went to fill her kettle at the pump in the next court,
and on her way she borrowed a cup; of odd saucers she had plenty,
serving as plates when occasion required. Half an ounce of tea and
a quarter of a pound of butter went far to absorb her morning's
wages; but this was an unusual occasion. In general, she used
herb-tea for herself, when at home, unless some thoughtful mistress
made a present of tea-leaves from her more abundant household. The
two chairs drawn out for visitors, and duly swept and dusted; an old
board arranged with some skill upon two old candle boxes set on end
(rather rickety to be sure, but she knew the seat of old, and when
to sit lightly; indeed the whole affair was more for apparent
dignity of position than for any real ease); a little, very little
round table, put just before the fire, which by this time was
blazing merrily; her unlacquered ancient, third-hand tea-tray
arranged with a black tea-pot, two cups with a red and white
pattern, and one with the old friendly willow pattern, and saucers,
not to match (on one of the extra supply the lump of butter
flourished away); all these preparations complete, Alice began to
look about her with satisfaction, and a sort of wonder what more
could be done to add to the comfort of the evening. She took one of
the chairs away from its appropriate place by the table, and putting
it close to the broad large hanging shelf I told you about when I
first described her cellar-dwelling, and mounting on it, she pulled
towards her an old deal box, and took thence a quantity of the oat
bread of the north, the "clap-bread" of Cumberland and Westmoreland,
and descending carefully with the thin cakes, threatening to break
to pieces in her hand, she placed them on the bare table, with the
belief that her visitors would have an unusual treat in eating the
bread of her childhood. She brought out a good piece of a
four-pound loaf of common household bread as well, and then sat down
to rest, really to rest, and not to pretend, on one of the
rush-bottomed chairs. The candle was ready to be lighted, the
kettle boiled, the tea was awaiting its doom in its paper parcel;
all was ready.
A knock at the door! It was Margaret, the young workwoman who lived
in the rooms above, who having heard the bustle, and the subsequent
quiet, began to think it was time to pay her visit below. She was a
sallow, unhealthy, sweet-looking young woman, with a careworn look;
her dress was humble and very simple, consisting of some kind of
dark stuff gown, her neck being covered by a drab shawl or large
handkerchief, pinned down behind and at the sides in front.
The old woman gave her a hearty greeting, and made her sit down on
the chair she had just left, while she balanced herself on the board
seat, in order that Margaret might think it was quite her free and
independent choice to sit there.
"I cannot think what keeps Mary Barton. She's quite grand with her
late hours," said Alice, as Mary still delayed.
The truth was, Mary was dressing herself; yes, to come to poor old
Alice's--she thought it worth while to consider what gown she should
put on. It was not for Alice, however, you may be pretty sure; no,
they knew each other too well. But Mary liked making an impression,
and in this it must be owned she was pretty often gratified--and
there was this strange girl to consider just now. So she put on her
pretty new blue merino, made tight to her throat her little linen
collar and linen cuffs, and sallied forth to impress poor gentle
Margaret. She certainly succeeded. Alice, who never thought much
about beauty, had never told Margaret how pretty Mary was; and, as
she came in half-blushing at her own self-consciousness, Margaret
could hardly take her eyes off her, and Mary put down her long black
lashes with a sort of dislike of the very observation she had taken
such pains to secure. Can you fancy the bustle of Alice to make the
tea, to pour it out, and sweeten it to their liking, to help and
help again to clap-bread and bread and butter? Can you fancy the
delight with which she watched her piled-up clap-bread disappear
before the hungry girls and listened to the praises of her
home-remembered dainty?
"My mother used to send me some clap-bread by any north-country
person--bless her! She knew how good such things taste when far away
from home. Not but what every one likes it. When I was in service
my fellow-servants were always glad to share with me. Eh, it's a
long time ago, yon."
"Do tell us about it, Alice," said Margaret.
"Why, lass, there's nothing to tell. There was more mouths at home
than could be fed. Tom, that's Will's father (you don't know Will,
but he's a sailor to foreign parts), had come to Manchester, and
sent word what terrible lots of work was to be had, both for lads
and lasses. So father sent George first (you know George, well
enough, Mary), and then work was scarce out toward Burton, where we
lived, and father said I maun try and get a place. And George wrote
as how wages were far higher in Manchester than Milnthorpe or
Lancaster; and, lasses, I was young and thoughtless, and thought it
was a fine thing to go so far from home. So, one day, th' butcher
he brings us a letter fra George, to say he'd heard on a place--and
I was all agog to go, and father was pleased like; but mother said
little, and that little was very quiet. I've often thought she was
a bit hurt to see me so ready to go--God forgive me! But she packed
up my clothes, and some of the better end of her own as would fit
me, in yon little paper box up there--it's good for nought now, but
I would liefer live without fire than break it up to be burnt; and
yet it is going on for eighty years old, for she had it when she was
a girl, and brought all her clothes in it to father's when they were
married. But, as I was saying, she did not cry, though the tears
was often in her eyes; and I seen her looking after me down the lane
as long as I were in sight, with her hand shading her eyes--and that
were the last look I ever had on her."
Alice knew that before long she should go to that mother; and,
besides, the griefs and bitter woes of youth have worn themselves
out before we grow old; but she looked so sorrowful that the girls
caught her sadness, and mourned for the poor woman who had been dead
and gone so many years ago.
"Did you never see her again, Alice? Did you never go home while
she was alive?" asked Mary.
"No, nor since. Many a time and oft have I planned to go. I plan
it yet, and hope to go home again before it please God to take me.
I used to try and save money enough to go for a week when I was in
service; but first one thing came, and then another. First,
missis's children fell ill of the measles, just when the week I'd
asked for came, and I couldn't leave them, for one and all cried for
me to nurse them. Then missis herself fell sick, and I could go
less than ever. For, you see, they kept a little shop, and he
drank, and missis and me was all there was to mind children and shop
and all, and cook and wash besides."
Mary was glad she had not gone into service, and said so.
"Eh, lass! thou little knows the pleasure o' helping others; I was
as happy there as could be; almost as happy as I was at home. Well,
but next year I thought I could go at a leisure time, and missis
telled me I should have a fortnight then, and I used to sit up all
that winter working hard at patchwork, to have a quilt of my own
making to take to my mother. But master died, and missis went away
fra Manchester, and I'd to look out for a place again."
"Well, but," interrupted Mary, "I should have thought that was the
best time to go home."
"No, I thought not. You see it was a different thing going home for
a week on a visit, may be with money in my pocket to give father a
lift, to going home to be a burden to him. Besides, how could I
hear o' a place there? Anyways I thought it best to stay, though
perhaps it might have been better to ha' gone, for then I should ha'
seen mother again"; and the poor old woman looked puzzled.
"I'm sure you did what you thought right," said Margaret gently.
"Ay, lass, that's it," said Alice, raising her head and speaking
more cheerfully. "That's the thing, and then let the Lord send what
He sees fit; not but that I grieved sore, oh, sore and sad, when
towards spring next year, when my quilt were all done to th' lining,
George came in one evening to tell me mother was dead. I cried many
a night at after;* I'd no time for crying by day, for that missis
was terrible strict; she would not hearken to my going to th'
funeral; and indeed I would have been too late, for George set off
that very night by th' coach, and the letter had been kept or summut
(posts were not like th' posts now-a-days), and he found the burial
all over, and father talking o' flitting; for he couldn't abide the
cottage after mother was gone."
*"Come to me, Tyrrel, soon, AT AFTER supper."
--SHAKSPEARE, Richard III.
"Was it a pretty place?" asked Mary.
"Pretty, lass! I never seed such a bonny bit anywhere. You see
there are hills there as seem to go up into th' skies, not near
maybe, but that makes them all the bonnier. I used to think they
were the golden hills of heaven, about which mother sang when I was
a child--
"'Yon are the golden hills o' heaven,
Where ye sall never win.'
"Something about a ship and a lover that should hae been na lover,
the ballad was. Well, and near our cottage were rocks. Eh, lasses!
ye don't know what rocks are in Manchester! Grey pieces o' stone as
large as a house, all covered over wi' mosses of different colours,
some yellow, some brown; and the ground beneath them knee-deep in
purple heather, smelling sae sweet and fragrant, and the low music
of the humming-bee for ever sounding among it. Mother used to send
Sally and me out to gather ling and heather for besoms, and it was
such pleasant work! We used to come home of an evening loaded so as
you could not see us, for all that it was so light to carry. And
then mother would make us sit down under the old hawthorn tree
(where we used to make our house among the great roots as stood
above th' ground), to pick and tie up the heather. It seems all
like yesterday, and yet it's a long long time agone. Poor sister
Sally has been in her grave this forty year and more. But I often
wonder if the hawthorn is standing yet, and if the lasses still go
to gather heather, as we did many and many a year past and gone. I
sicken at heart to see the old spot once again. May be next summer
I may set off, if God spares me to see next summer."
"Why have you never been in all these many years?" asked Mary.
"Why, lass! first one wanted me and then another; and I couldn't go
without money either, and I got very poor at times. Tom was a
scapegrace, poor fellow, and always wanted help of one kind or
another; and his wife (for I think scapegraces are always married
long before steady folk) was but a helpless kind of body. She were
always ailing, and he were always in trouble; so I had enough to do
with my hands, and my money too, for that matter. They died within
twelvemonth of each other, leaving one lad (they had had seven, but
the Lord had taken six to Hisself), Will, as I was telling you on;
and I took him myself, and left service to make a bit of a
home-place for him, and a fine lad he was, the very spit of his
father as to looks, only steadier. For he was steady, although
nought would serve him but going to sea. I tried all I could to set
him again a sailor's life. Says I, 'Folks is as sick as dogs all
the time they're at sea. Your own mother telled me (for she came
from foreign parts, being a Manx woman) that she'd ha' thanked any
one for throwing her into the water.' Nay, I sent him a' the way to
Runcorn by th' Duke's canal, that he might know what th' sea were;
and I looked to see him come back as white as a sheet wi' vomiting.
But the lad went on to Liverpool and saw real ships, and came back
more set than ever on being a sailor, and he said as how he had
never been sick at all, and thought he could stand the sea pretty
well. So I told him he mun do as he liked; and he thanked me and
kissed me, for all I was very frabbit* with him; and now he's gone
to South America at t'other side of the sun, they tell me."
*Frabbit; peevish.
Mary stole a glance at Margaret to see what she thought of Alice's
geography; but Margaret looked so quiet and demure, that Mary was in
doubt if she were not really ignorant. Not that Mary's knowledge
was very profound, but she had seen a terrestrial globe, and knew
where to find France and the continents on a map.
After this long talking Alice seemed lost for a time in reverie; and
the girls respecting her thoughts, which they suspected had wandered
to the home and scenes of her childhood, were silent. All at once
she recalled her duties as hostess, and by an effort brought back
her mind to the present time.
"Margaret, thou must let Mary hear thee sing. I don't know about
fine music myself, but folks say Marget is a rare singer, and I know
she can make me cry at any time by singing 'Th' Owdham Weaver.' Do
sing that, Marget, there's a good lass."
With a faint smile, as if amused at Alice's choice of a song,
Margaret began.
Do you know "The Oldham Weaver?" Not unless you are Lancashire born
and bred, for it is a complete Lancashire ditty. I will copy it for
you.
THE OLDHAM WEAVER.
I.
Oi'm a poor cotton-weyver, as mony a one knoowas,
Oi've nowt for t' yeat, an' oi've worn eawt my clooas,
Yo'ad hardly gi' tuppence for aw as oi've on,
My clogs are both brosten, an' stuckings oi've none,
Yo'd think it wur hard,
To be browt into th' warld,
To be--clemmed,* an' do th' best as yo con.
II.
Owd Dicky o' Billy's kept telling me long,
Wee s'd ha' better toimes if I'd but howd my tung,
Oi've howden my tung, till oi've near stopped my breath,
Oi think i' my heeart oi'se soon clem to deeath,
Owd Dicky's weel crammed,
He never wur clemmed,
An' he ne'er picked ower i' his loife,**
III.
We tow'rt on six week--thinking aitch day wur th' last,
We shifted, an' shifted, till neaw we're quoite fast;
We lived upo' nettles, whoile nettles wur good,
An' Waterloo porridge the best o' eawr food,
Oi'm tellin' yo' true,
Oi can find folk enow,
As wur livin' na better nor me.
IV.
Owd Billy o' Dans sent th' baileys one day,
Fur a shop deebt oi eawd him, as oi could na pay,
But he wur too lat, fur owd Billy o' th' Bent,
Had sowd th' tit an' cart, an' ta'en goods for th' rent,
We'd neawt left bo' th' owd stoo',
That wur seeats fur two,
An' on it ceawred Marget an' me.
Then t' baileys leuked reawnd as sloy as a meawse,
When they seed as aw t' goods were ta'en eawt o' t' heawse;
Says one chap to th' tother, "Aws gone, theaw may see";
Says oi, "Ne'er freet, mon, yeaur welcome ta' me."
They made no moor ado
But whopped up th' eawd stoo',
An' we booath leet, whack--upo' t' flags
VI.
Then oi said to eawr Marget, as we lay upo' t' floor,
"We's never be lower i' this warld oi'm sure,
If ever things awtern, oi'm sure they mun mend,
For oi think i' my heart we're booath at t' far eend;
For meeat we ha' none,
Nor looms t' weyve on,--
Edad! they're as good lost as fund."
VII.
Eawr Marget declares had hoo clooas to put on,
Hoo'd goo up to Lunnon an' talk to th' greet mon
An' if things were na awtered when there hoo had been,
Hoo's fully resolved t' sew up meawth an' eend;
Hoo's neawt to say again t' king,
But hoo loikes a fair thing,
An' hoo says hoo can tell when hoo's hurt.
*Clem; to starve with hunger.
"Hard is the choice, when the valiant
must eat their arms or CLEM."--BEN JONSON.
**To "pick ower," means to throw the shuttle in hand-loom weaving.
The air to which this is sung is a kind of droning recitative,
depending much on expression and feeling. To read it, it may,
perhaps, seem humorous; but it is that humour which is near akin to
pathos, and to those who have seen the distress it describes it is a
powerfully pathetic song. Margaret had both witnessed the
destitution, and had the heart to feel it, and withal, her voice was
of that rich and rare order, which does not require any great
compass of notes to make itself appreciated. Alice had her quiet
enjoyment of tears. But Margaret, with fixed eye, and earnest,
dreamy look, seemed to become more and more absorbed in realising to
herself the woe she had been describing, and which she felt might at
that very moment be suffering and hopeless within a short distance
of their comparative comfort.
Suddenly she burst forth with all the power of her magnificent
voice, as if a prayer from her very heart for all who were in
distress, in the grand supplication, "Lord, remember David." Mary
held her breath, unwilling to lose a note, it was so clear, so
perfect, so imploring. A far more correct musician than Mary might
have paused with equal admiration of the really scientific knowledge
with which the poor depressed-looking young needlewoman used her
superb and flexile voice. Deborah Travis herself (once an Oldham
factory girl, and afterwards the darling of fashionable crowds as
Mrs. Knyvett) might have owned a sister in her art.
She stopped; and with tears of holy sympathy in her eyes, Alice
thanked the songstress, who resumed her calm, demure manner, much to
Mary's wonder, for she looked at her unweariedly, as if surprised
that the hidden power should not be perceived in the outward
appearance.
When Alice's little speech of thanks was over, there was quiet
enough to hear a fine, though rather quavering, male voice, going
over again one or two strains of Margaret's song.
"That's grandfather!" exclaimed she. "I must be going, for he said
he should not be at home till past nine."
"Well, I'll not say nay, for I have to be up by four for a very
heavy wash at Mrs. Simpson's; but I shall be terrible glad to see
you again at any time, lasses; and I hope you'll take to one
another."
As the girls ran up the cellar steps together, Margaret said--"Just
step in and see grandfather, I should like him to see you."
And Mary consented.
Content of Chapter IV - Old Alice's history Mary Barton]
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