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Chapter III - John Barton's great trouble
"But when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed--she had
Another morn than ours."
--HOOD.
In the middle of that same night a neighbour of the Bartons was
roused from her sound, well-earned sleep, by a knocking, which had
at first made part of her dream; but starting up, as soon as she
became convinced of its reality, she opened the window, and asked
who was there?
"Me--John Barton," answered he, in a voice tremulous with agitation.
"My missis is in labour, and, for the love of God, step in while I
run for th' doctor, for she's fearful bad."
While the woman hastily dressed herself, leaving the window still
open, she heard the cries of agony, which resounded in the little
court in the stillness of the night. In less than five minutes she
was standing by Mrs. Barton's bedside, relieving the terrified Mary,
who went about where she was told like an automaton; her eyes
tearless, her face calm, though deadly pale, and uttering no sound,
except when her teeth chattered for very nervousness.
The cries grew worse.
The doctor was very long in hearing the repeated rings at his
night-bell, and still longer in understanding who it was that made
this sudden call upon his services; and then he begged Barton just
to wait while he dressed himself, in order that no time might be
lost in finding the court and house. Barton absolutely stamped with
impatience, outside the doctor's door, before he came down; and
walked so fast homewards, that the medical man several times asked
him to go slower.
"Is she so very bad?" asked he.
"Worse, much worser than I ever saw her before," replied John.
No! she was not--she was at peace. The cries were still for ever.
John had no time for listening. He opened the latched door, stayed
not to light a candle for the mere ceremony of showing his companion
up the stairs, so well known to himself; but, in two minutes, was in
the room, where lay the dead wife, whom he had loved with all the
power of his strong heart. The doctor stumbled upstairs by the
fire-light, and met the awe-struck look of the neighbour, which at
once told him the state of things. The room was still, as he, with
habitual tiptoe step, approached the poor frail body, that nothing
now could more disturb. Her daughter knelt by the bedside, her face
buried in the clothes, which were almost crammed into her mouth, to
keep down the choking sobs. The husband stood like one stupefied.
The doctor questioned the neighbour in whispers, and then
approaching Barton, said, "You must go downstairs. This is a great
shock, but bear it like a man. Go down."
He went mechanically and sat down on the first chair. He had no
hope. The look of death was too clear upon her face. Still, when
he heard one or two unusual noises, the thought burst on him that it
might only be a trance, a fit, a--he did not well know what--but not
death! Oh, not death! And he was starting up to go up-stairs
again, when the doctor's heavy cautious creaking footstep was heard
on the stairs. Then he knew what it really was in the chamber
above.
"Nothing could have saved her--there has been some shock to the
system"--and so he went on, but to unheeding ears, which yet
retained his words to ponder on; words not for immediate use in
conveying sense, but to be laid by, in the store-house of memory,
for a more convenient season. The doctor, seeing the state of the
case, grieved for the man; and, very sleepy, thought it best to go,
and accordingly wished him good-night--but there was no answer, so
he let himself out; and Barton sat on, like a stock or a stone, so
rigid, so still. He heard the sounds above, too, and knew what they
meant. He heard the stiff unseasoned drawer, in which his wife kept
her clothes, pulled open. He saw the neighbour come down, and
blunder about in search of soap and water. He knew well what she
wanted, and WHY she wanted them, but he did not speak nor offer to
help. At last she went, with some kindly meant words (a text of
comfort, which fell upon a deafened ear), and something about
"Mary," but which Mary, in his bewildered state, he could not tell.
He tried to realise it--to think it possible. And then his mind
wandered off to other days, to far different times. He thought of
their courtship; of his first seeing her, an awkward beautiful
rustic, far too shiftless for the delicate factory work to which she
was apprenticed; of his first gift to her, a bead necklace, which
had long ago been put by, in one of the deep drawers of the dresser,
to be kept for Mary. He wondered if it was there yet, and with a
strange curiosity he got up to feel for it; for the fire by this
time was well nigh out, and candle he had none. His groping hand
fell on the piled-up tea-things, which at his desire she had left
unwashed till morning--they were all so tired. He was reminded of
one of the daily little actions, which acquire such power when they
have been performed for the last time by one we love. He began to
think over his wife's daily round of duties: and something in the
remembrance that these would never more be done by her, touched the
source of tears, and he cried aloud. Poor Mary, meanwhile, had
mechanically helped the neighbour in all the last attentions to the
dead; and when she was kissed and spoken to soothingly, tears stole
quietly down her cheeks; but she reserved the luxury of a full burst
of grief till she should be alone. She shut the chamber-door
softly, after the neighbour was gone, and then shook the bed by
which she knelt with her agony of sorrow. She repeated, over and
over again, the same words; the same vain, unanswered address to her
who was no more. "Oh, mother! mother, are you really dead! Oh,
mother, mother!"
At last she stopped, because it flashed across her mind that her
violence of grief might disturb her father. All was still below.
She looked on the face so changed, and yet so strangely like. She
bent down to kiss it. The cold unyielding flesh struck a shudder to
her heart, and hastily obeying her impulse, she grasped the candle,
and opened the door. Then she heard the sobs of her father's grief;
and quickly, quietly stealing down the steps, she knelt by him, and
kissed his hand. He took no notice at first; for his burst of grief
would not be controlled. But when her shriller sobs, her terrified
cries (which she could not repress), rose upon his ear, he checked
himself.
"Child, we must be all to one another, now SHE is gone," whispered
he.
"Oh, father, what can I do for you? Do tell me! I'll do anything."
"I know thou wilt. Thou must not fret thyself ill, that's the first
thing I ask. Thou must leave me and go to bed now, like a good girl
as thou art."
"Leave you, father! oh, don't say so."
"Ay, but thou must: thou must go to bed, and try and sleep;
thou'lt have enough to do and to bear, poor wench, tomorrow."
Mary got up, kissed her father, and sadly went upstairs to the
little closet, where she slept. She thought it was of no use
undressing, for that she could never, never sleep, so threw herself
on her bed in her clothes, and before ten minutes had passed away,
the passionate grief of youth had subsided into sleep.
Barton had been roused by his daughter's entrance, both from his
stupor and from his uncontrollable sorrow. He could think on what
was to be done, could plan for the funeral, could calculate the
necessity of soon returning to his work, as the extravagance of the
past night would leave them short of money if he long remained away
from the mill. He was in a club, so that money was provided for the
burial. These things settled in his own mind, he recalled the
doctor's words, and bitterly thought of the shock his poor wife had
so recently had, in the mysterious disappearance of her cherished
sister. His feelings towards Esther almost amounted to curses. It
was she who had brought on all this sorrow. Her giddiness, her
lightness of conduct had wrought this woe. His previous thoughts
about her had been tinged with wonder and pity, but now he hardened
his heart against her for ever.
One of the good influences over John Barton's life had departed that
night. One of the ties which bound him down to the gentle
humanities of earth was loosened, and henceforward the neighbours
all remarked he was a changed man. His gloom and his sternness
became habitual instead of occasional. He was more obstinate. But
never to Mary. Between the father and the daughter there existed in
full force that mysterious bond which unites those who have been
loved by one who is now dead and gone. While he was harsh and
silent to others, he humoured Mary with tender love: she had more
of her own way than is common in any rank with girls of her age.
Part of this was the necessity of the case; for of course all the
money went through her hands, and the household arrangements were
guided by her will and pleasure. But part was her father's
indulgence, for he left her, with full trust in her unusual sense
and spirit, to choose her own associates, and her own times for
seeing them.
With all this, Mary had not her father's confidence in the matters
which now began to occupy him, heart and soul; she was aware that he
had joined clubs, and become an active member of the Trades' Union,
but it was hardly likely that a girl of Mary's age (even when two or
three years had elapsed since her mother's death) should care much
for the differences between the employers and the employed--an
eternal subject for agitation in the manufacturing districts, which,
however it may be lulled for a time, is sure to break forth again
with fresh violence at any depression of trade, showing that in its
apparent quiet, the ashes had still smouldered in the breasts of a
few.
Among these few was John Barton. At all times it is a bewildering
thing to the poor weaver to see his employer removing from house to
house, each one grander than the last, till he ends in building one
more magnificent than all, or withdraws his money from the concern,
or sells his mill, to buy an estate in the country, while all the
time the weaver, who thinks he and his fellows are the real makers
of this wealth, is struggling on for bread for his children, through
the vicissitudes of lowered wages, short hours, fewer hands
employed, etc. And when he knows trade is bad, and could understand
(at least partially) that there are not buyers enough in the market
to purchase the goods already made, and consequently that there is
no demand for more; when he would bear and endure much without
complaining, could he also see that his employers were bearing their
share; he is, I say, bewildered and (to use his own word)
"aggravated" to see that all goes on just as usual with the
millowners. Large houses are still occupied, while spinners' and
weavers' cottages stand empty, because the families that once filled
them are obliged to live in rooms or cellars. Carriages still roll
along the streets, concerts are still crowded by subscribers, the
shops for expensive luxuries still find daily customers, while the
workman loiters away his unemployed time in watching these things,
and thinking of the pale, uncomplaining wife at home, and the
wailing children asking in vain for enough of food--of the sinking
health, of the dying life of those near and dear to him. The
contrast is too great. Why should he alone suffer from bad times?
I know that this is not really the case; and I know what is the
truth in such matters; but what I wish to impress is what the
workman feels and thinks. True, that with child-like improvidence,
good times will often dissipate his grumbling, and make him forget
all prudence and foresight.
But there are earnest men among these people, men who have endured
wrongs without complaining, but without ever forgetting or forgiving
those whom (they believe) have caused all this woe.
Among these was John Barton. His parents had suffered; his mother
had died from absolute want of the necessaries of life. He himself
was a good, steady workman, and, as such, pretty certain of steady
employment. But he spent all he got with the confidence (you may
also call it improvidence) of one who was willing, and believed
himself able, to supply all his wants by his own exertions. And
when his master suddenly failed, and all hands in the mill were
turned back, one Tuesday morning, with the news that Mr. Hunter had
stopped, Barton had only a few shillings to rely on; but he had good
heart of being employed at some other mill, and accordingly, before
returning home, he spent some hours in going from factory to
factory, asking for work. But at every mill was some sign of
depression of trade! some were working short hours, some were
turning off hands, and for weeks Barton was out of work, living on
credit. It was during this time that his little son, the apple of
his eye, the cynosure of all his strong power of love, fell ill of
the scarlet fever. They dragged him through the crisis, but his
life hung on a gossamer thread. Everything, the doctor said,
depended on good nourishment, on generous living, to keep up the
little fellow's strength, in the prostration in which the fever had
left him. Mocking words! when the commonest food in the house would
not furnish one little meal. Barton tried credit; but it was worn
out at the little provision shops, which were now suffering in their
turn. He thought it would be no sin to steal, and would have
stolen; but he could not get the opportunity in the few days the
child lingered. Hungry himself, almost to an animal pitch of
ravenousness, but with the bodily pain swallowed up in anxiety for
his little sinking lad, he stood at one of the shop windows where
all edible luxuries are displayed; haunches of venison, Stilton
cheeses, moulds of jelly--all appetising sights to the common
passer-by. And out of this shop came Mrs. Hunter! She crossed to
her carriage, followed by the shopman loaded with purchases for a
party. The door was quickly slammed to, and she drove away; and
Barton returned home with a bitter spirit of wrath in his heart to
see his only boy a corpse!
You can fancy, now, the hoards of vengeance in his heart against the
employers. For there are never wanting those who, either in speech
or in print, find it their interest to cherish such feelings in the
working classes; who know how and when to rouse the dangerous power
at their command; and who use their knowledge with unrelenting
purpose to either party.
So while Mary took her own way, growing more spirited every day, and
growing in her beauty too, her father was chairman at many a Trades'
Union meeting; a friend of delegates, and ambitious of being a
delegate himself; a Chartist, and ready to do anything for his
order.
But now times were good; and all these feelings were theoretical,
not practical. His most practical thought was getting Mary
apprenticed to a dressmaker; for he had never left off disliking a
factory life for a girl, on more accounts than one.
Mary must do something. The factories being, as I said, out of the
question, there were two things open--going out to service and the
dressmaking business; and against the first of these, Mary set
herself with all the force of her strong will. What that will might
have been able to achieve had her father been against her, I cannot
tell; but he disliked the idea of parting with her, who was the
light of his hearth; the voice of his otherwise silent home.
Besides, with his ideas and feelings towards the higher classes, he
considered domestic servitude as a species of slavery; a pampering
of artificial wants on the one side, a giving up of every right of
leisure by day and quiet rest by night on the other. How far his
strong exaggerated feelings had any foundation in truth, it is for
you to judge. I am afraid that Mary's determination not to go to
service arose from far less sensible thoughts on the subject than
her father's. Three years of independence of action (since her
mother's death such a time had now elapsed) had little inclined her
to submit to rules as to hours and associates, to regulate her dress
by a mistress's ideas of propriety, to lose the dear feminine
privileges of gossiping with a merry neighbour, and working night
and day to help one who was sorrowful. Besides all this, the
sayings of her absent, the mysterious aunt Esther, had an
unacknowledged influence over Mary. She knew she was very pretty;
the factory people as they poured from the mills, and in their
freedom told the truth (whatever it might be) to every passer-by,
had early let Mary into the secret of her beauty. If their remarks
had fallen on an unheeding ear, there were always young men enough,
in a different rank from her own, who were willing to compliment the
pretty weaver's daughter as they met her in the streets. Besides,
trust a girl of sixteen for knowing it well if she is pretty;
concerning her plainness she may be ignorant. So with this
consciousness she had early determined that her beauty should make
her a lady; the rank she coveted the more for her father's abuse;
the rank to which she firmly believed her lost aunt Esther had
arrived. Now, while a servant must often drudge and be dirty, must
be known as his servant by all who visited at her master's house, a
dressmaker's apprentice must (or so Mary thought) be always dressed
with a certain regard to appearances; must never soil her hands, and
need never redden or dirty her face with hard labour. Before my
telling you so truly what folly Mary felt or thought, injures her
without redemption in your opinion, think what are the silly fancies
of sixteen years of age in every class, and under all circumstances.
The end of all the thoughts of father and daughter was, as I said
before, Mary was to be a dressmaker; and her ambition prompted her
unwilling father to apply at all the first establishments, to know
on what terms of painstaking and zeal his daughter might be admitted
into ever so humble a workwoman's situation. But high premiums were
asked at all; poor man! he might have known that without giving up a
day's work to ascertain the fact. He would have been indignant,
indeed, had he known that if Mary had accompanied him, the case
might have been rather different, as her beauty would have made her
desirable as a show-woman. Then he tried second-rate places; at all
the payment of a sum of money was necessary, and money he had none.
Disheartened and angry, he went home at night, declaring it was time
lost; that dressmaking was at all events a troublesome business, and
not worth learning. Mary saw that the grapes were sour, and the
next day she set out herself, as her father could not afford to lose
another day's work; and before night (as yesterday's experience had
considerably lowered her ideas) she had engaged herself as
apprentice (so called, though there were no deeds or indentures to
the bond) to a certain Miss Simmonds, milliner and dressmaker, in a
respectable little street leading off Ardwick Green, where her
business was duly announced in gold letters on a black ground,
enclosed in a bird's-eye maple frame, and stuck in the front-parlour
window; where the workwomen were called "her young ladies"; and
where Mary was to work for two years without any remuneration, on
consideration of being taught the business; and where afterwards she
was to dine and have tea, with a small quarterly salary (paid
quarterly because so much more genteel than by the week), a VERY
small one, divisible into a minute weekly pittance. In summer she
was to be there by six, bringing her day's meals during the first
two years; in winter she was not to come till after breakfast. Her
time for returning home at night must always depend upon the
quantity of work Miss Simmonds had to do.
And Mary was satisfied; and seeing this, her father was contented
too, although his words were grumbling and morose; but Mary knew his
ways, and coaxed and planned for the future so cheerily, that both
went to bed with easy if not happy hearts.
Content of Chapter III - John Barton's great trouble.
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Read next: Chapter IV - Old Alice's history.
Read previous: Chapter II - A Manchester tea-party.
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