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Chapter VIII - Margaret's debut as a public singer
"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
luxuriant 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,* whate'er they may be about cutting him up at after.** 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."
*Wick; alive. Anglo-Saxon, cwic. "The QUICK and the dead."
--Book of Common Prayer.
**At after; "AT AFTER souper goth this noble king."
--CHAUCER, The Squire's Tale.
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 over-borne, 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 levee, 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 gets 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* of a lad, as works till he cries for his
legs aching so, though he is right age, and better."
*Ritling; probably a corruption of "ricketling," a child that
suffers from the rickets--a weakling.
"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
under-laundry-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; 't would 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* 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, though 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."
*Cotched; caught.
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-bye 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-meetings with Mr. Carson as sure to end in her
fathers 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.
Sally Leadbitter was vulgar-minded to the last degree; never easy
unless her talk was of love and lovers; in her eyes it was an honour
to have had a long list of wooers. So constituted, it was a pity
that Sally herself was but a plain, red-haired, freckled girl; never
likely, one would have thought, to become a heroine on her own
account. But what she lacked in beauty she tried to make up for by
a kind of witty boldness, which gave her what her betters would have
called piquancy. Considerations of modesty or propriety never
checked her utterance of a good thing. She had just talent enough
to corrupt others. Her very good nature was an evil influence.
They could not hate one who was so kind; they could not avoid one
who was so willing to shield them from scrapes by any exertion of
her own; whose ready fingers would at any time make up for their
deficiencies, and whose still more convenient tongue would at any
time invent for them. The Jews, or Mohammedans (I forget which),
believe that there is one little bone of our body,--one of the
vertebrae, if I remember rightly,--which will never decay and turn
to dust, but will lie incorrupt and indestructible in the ground
until the Last Day: this is the Seed of the Soul. The most
depraved have also their Seed of the Holiness that shall one day
overcome their evil; their one good quality, lurking hidden, but
safe, among all the corrupt and bad.
Sally's seed of the future soul was her love for her mother, an aged
bedridden woman. For her she had self-denial; for her, her good-
nature rose into tenderness; to cheer her lonely bed, her spirits,
in the evenings, when her body was often woefully tired, never
flagged, but were ready to recount the events of the day, to turn
them into ridicule, and to mimic, with admirable fidelity, any
person gifted with an absurdity who had fallen under her keen eye.
But the mother was lightly principled like Sally herself; nor was
there need to conceal from her the reason why Mr. Carson gave her so
much money. She chuckled with pleasure, and only hoped that the
wooing would be long a-doing.
Still neither she, nor her daughter, nor Harry Carson liked this
resolution of Mary, not to see him during her father's absence.
One evening (and the early summer evenings were long and bright
now), Sally met Mr. Carson by appointment, to be charged with a
letter for Mary, imploring her to see him, which Sally was to back
with all her powers of persuasion. After parting from him she
determined, as it was not so very late, to go at once to Mary's, and
deliver the message and letter.
She found Mary in great sorrow. She had just heard of George
Wilson's sudden death: her old friend, her father's friend, Jem's
father--all his claims came rushing upon her. Though not guarded
from unnecessary sight or sound of death, as the children of the
rich are, yet it had so often been brought home to her this last
three or four months. It was so terrible thus to see friend after
friend depart. Her father, too, who had dreaded Jane Wilson's death
the evening before he set off. And she, the weakly, was left
behind, while the strong man was taken. At any rate the sorrow her
father had so feared for him was spared. Such were the thoughts
which came over her.
She could not go to comfort the bereaved, even if comfort were in
her power to give; for she had resolved to avoid Jem; and she felt
that this of all others was not the occasion on which she could keep
up a studiously cold manner.
And in this shock of grief, Sally Leadbitter was the last person she
wished to see. However, she rose to welcome her, betraying her
tear-swollen face.
"Well, I shall tell Mr. Carson to-morrow how you're fretting for
him; it's no more nor he's doing for you, I can tell you."
"For him, indeed!" said Mary, with a toss of her pretty head.
"Ay, miss, for him! You've been sighing as if your heart would
break now for several days, over your work; now arn't you a little
goose not to go and see one who I am sure loves you as his life, and
whom you love; 'How much, Mary?' 'This much,' as the children say"
(opening her arms very wide).
"Nonsense," said Mary, pouting; "I often think I don't love him at
all."
"And I'm to tell him that, am I, next time I see him?" asked Sally.
"If you like," replied Mary. "I'm sure I don't care for that or
anything else now"; weeping afresh.
But Sally did not like to be the bearer of any such news. She saw
she had gone on the wrong tack, and that Mary's heart was too full
to value either message or letter as she ought. So she wisely
paused in their delivery and said, in a more sympathetic tone than
she had hitherto used--
"Do tell me, Mary, what's fretting you so? You know I never could
abide to see you cry."
"George Wilson's dropped down dead this afternoon," said Mary,
fixing her eyes for one minute on Sally, and the next hiding her
face in her apron as she sobbed anew.
"Dear, dear! All flesh is grass; here to-day and gone tomorrow, as
the Bible says. Still he was an old man, and not good for much;
there's better folk than him left behind. Is th' canting old maid
as was his sister alive yet?"
"I don't know who you mean," said Mary sharply; for she did know,
and did not like to have her dear, simple Alice so spoken of.
"Come, Mary, don't be so innocent. Is Miss Alice Wilson alive,
then; will that please you? I haven't seen her hereabouts lately."
"No, she's left living here. When the twins died, she thought she
could, maybe, be of use to her sister, who was sadly cast down, and
Alice thought she could cheer her up; at any rate she could listen
to her when her heart grew overburdened; so she gave up her cellar
and went to live with them."
"Well, good go with her. I'd no fancy for her, and I'd no fancy for
her making my pretty Mary into a Methodee."
"She wasn't a Methodee; she was Church o' England."
"Well, well, Mary, you're very particular. You know what I meant.
Look, who is this letter from?" holding up Henry Carson's letter.
"I don't know, and don't care," said Mary, turning very red.
"My eye! as if I didn't know you did know and did care."
"Well, give it me," said Mary impatiently, and anxious in her
present mood for her visitor's departure.
Sally relinquished it unwillingly. She had, however, the pleasure
of seeing Mary dimple and blush as she read the letter, which seemed
to say the writer was not indifferent to her.
"You must tell him I can't come," said Mary, raising her eyes at
last. "I have said I won't meet him while father is away, and I
won't."
"But, Mary, he does so look for you. You'd be quite sorry for him,
he's so put out about not seeing you. Besides, you go when your
father's at home, without letting on* to him, and what harm would
there be in going now?"
*Letting on; informing. In Anglo-Saxon one meaning of "laetan"
was "to admit," and we say "to let out the secret."
"Well, Sally, you know my answer, I won't; and I won't."
"I'll tell him to come and see you himself some evening, instead o'
sending me; he'd maybe find you not so hard to deal with."
Mary flashed up.
"If he dares to come here while father's away, I'll call the
neighbours in to turn him out, so don't be putting him up to that."
"Mercy on us! one would think you were the first girl that ever had
a lover; have you never heard what other girls do and think no shame
of?"
"Hush, Sally! that's Margaret Jennings at the door."
And in an instant Margaret was in the room. Mary had begged Job
Legh to let her come and sleep with her. In the uncertain firelight
you could not help noticing that she had the groping walk of a blind
person.
"Well, I must go, Mary," said Sally. "And that's your last word?"
"Yes, yes; good-night." She shut the door gladly on her unwelcome
visitor--unwelcome at that time at least.
"O Margaret, have ye heard this sad news about George Wilson?"
"Yes, that I have. Poor creatures, they've been so tried lately.
Not that I think sudden death so bad a thing; it's easy, and there's
no terrors for him as dies. For them as survives it's very hard.
Poor George! he were such a hearty-looking man."
"Margaret," said Mary, who had been closely observing her friend,
"thou'rt very blind to-night, arn't thou? Is it wi' crying? Your
eyes are so swollen and red."
"Yes, dear! but not crying for sorrow. Han ye heard where I was
last night?"
"No; where?"
"Look here." She held up a bright golden sovereign. Mary opened
her large grey eyes with astonishment.
"I'll tell you all and how about it. You see there's a gentleman
lecturing on music at th' Mechanics', and he wants folk to sing his
songs. Well, last night the counter got a sore throat and couldn't
make a note. So they sent for me. Jacob Butterworth had said a
good word for me, and they asked me would I sing? You may think I
was frightened, but I thought, Now or never, and said I'd do my
best. So I tried o'er the songs wi' th' lecturer, and then th'
managers told me I were to make myself decent and be there by
seven."
"And what did you put on?" asked Mary. "Oh, why didn't you come in
for my pretty pink gingham?"
"I did think on't; but you had na come home then. No! I put on my
merino, as was turned last winter, and my white shawl, and did my
hair pretty tidy; it did well enough. Well, but as I was saying, I
went at seven. I couldn't see to read my music, but I took th'
paper in wi' me, to ha' something to do wi' my fingers. Th' folks'
heads danced, as I stood as right afore 'em all as if I'd been going
to play at ball wi' 'em. You may guess I felt squeamish, but mine
weren't the first song, and th' music sounded like a friend's voice
telling me to take courage. So, to make a long story short, when it
were all o'er th' lecturer thanked me, and th' managers said as how
there never was a new singer so applauded (for they'd clapped and
stamped after I'd done, till I began to wonder how many pair o'
shoes they'd get through a week at that rate, let alone their
hands). So I'm to sing again o' Thursday; and I got a sovereign
last night, and am to have half-a-sovereign every night th' lecturer
is at th' Mechanics'."
"Well, Margaret, I'm right glad to hear it."
"And I don't think you've heard the best bit yet. Now that a way
seemed open to me, of not being a burden to any one, though it did
please God to make me blind, I thought I'd tell grandfather. I only
tell'd him about the singing and the sovereign last night, for I
thought I'd not send him to bed wi' a heavy heart; but this morning
I telled him all."
"And how did he take it?"
"He's not a man of many words; and it took him by surprise like."
"I wonder at that; I've noticed it in your ways ever since you
telled me."
"Ay, that's it! If I'd not telled you, and you'd seen me every day,
you'd not ha' noticed the little mite o' difference fra' day to
day."
"Well, but what did your grandfather say?"
"Why, Mary," said Margaret, half smiling, "I'm a bit loth to tell
yo, for unless yo knew grandfather's ways like me, yo'd think it
strange. He was taken by surprise, and he said: 'Damn yo!' Then
he began looking at his book as it were, and were very quiet, while
I telled him all about it; how I'd feared, and how downcast I'd
been; and how I were now reconciled to it, if it were th' Lord's
will; and how I hoped to earn money by singing; and while I were
talking, I saw great big tears come dropping on th' book; but in
course I never let on that I saw 'em. Dear grandfather! and all day
long he's been quietly moving things out o' my way, as he thought
might trip me up, and putting things in my way as he thought I might
want; never knowing I saw and felt what he were doing; for, yo see,
he thinks I'm out and out blind, I guess--as I shall be soon."
Margaret sighed in spite of her cheerful and relieved tone.
Though Mary caught the sigh, she felt it was better to let it pass
without notice, and began, with the tact which true sympathy rarely
fails to supply, to ask a variety of questions respecting her
friend's musical debut, which tended to bring out more distinctly
how successful it had been.
"Why, Margaret," at length she exclaimed, "thou'lt become as famous,
maybe, as that grand lady fra' London as we see'd one night driving
up to th' concert-room door in her carriage."
"It looks very like it," said Margaret, with a smile. "And be sure,
Mary, I'll not forget to give thee a lift now and then when that
comes about. Nay, who knows, if thou'rt a good girl, but may-happen
I may make thee my lady's maid! Wouldn't that be nice? So I e'en
sing to myself th' beginning o' one o' my songs--
'An' ye shall walk in silk attire,
An' siller hae to spare.'"
"Nay, don't stop; or else give me something rather more new, for
somehow I never quite liked that part about thinking o' Donald
mair?"
"Well, though I'm a bit tired I don't care if I do. Before I come I
were practising well-nigh upon two hours this one which I'm to sing
o' Thursday. The lecturer said he were sure it would just suit me,
and I should do justice to it; and I should be right sorry to
disappoint him, he were so nice and encouraging like to me. Eh!
Mary, what a pity there isn't more o' that way, and less scolding
and rating i' th' world! It would go a vast deal further. Beside,
some o' th' singers said, they were a'most certain that it were a
song o' his own, because he were so fidgety and particular about it,
and so anxious I should give it th' proper expression. And that
makes me care still more. Th' first verse, he said, were to be sung
'tenderly, but joyously!' I'm afraid I don't quite hit that, but
I'll try.
'What a single word can do!
Thrilling all the heart-strings through,
Calling forth fond memories,
Raining round hope's melodies,
Steeping all in one bright hue--
What a single word can do !'
"Now it falls into th' minor key, and must be very sad-like. I feel
as if I could do that better than t'other.
'What a single word can do!
Making life seem all untrue,
Driving joy and hope away,
Leaving not one cheering ray,
Blighting every flower that grew--
What a single word can do!'"
Margaret certainly made the most of this little song. As a factory
worker, listening outside, observed, "She spun it reet* fine!" And
if she only sang it at the Mechanics' with half the feeling she put
into it that night, the lecturer must have been hard to please if he
did not admit that his expectations were more than fulfilled.
When it was ended, Mary's looks told more than words could have done
what she thought of it; and partly to keep in a tear which would
fain have rolled out, she brightened into a laugh, and said, "For
certain th' carriage is coming. So let us go and dream on it."
*Reet; right; often used for "very."
Content of Chapter VIII - Margaret's debut as a public singer
_
Read next: Chapter IX - Barton's London experiences.
Read previous: Chapter VII - Jem Wilson's repulse.
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