Mary Barton

by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

  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 JohnBarton. 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 thehousehold looking-glass, and in his button-hole he stuck a narcissus(a sweet Nancy is its pretty Lancashire name), hoping it wouldattract Mary's notice, so that he might have the delight of givingit her.

  It was a bad beginning of his visit of happiness that Mary saw himsome minutes before he came into her father's house. She wassitting at the end of the dresser, with the little window-blinddrawn on one side, in order that she might see the passers-by, inthe intervals of reading her Bible, which lay open before her. Soshe watched all the greeting a friend gave Jem; she saw the face ofcondolence, the sympathetic shake of the hand, and had time toarrange her own face and manner before Jem came in, which he did, asif he had eyes for no one but her father, who sat smoking his pipeby the fire, while he read an old Northern Star, borrowed from aneighbouring public-house.

  Then he turned to Mary, who, he felt through the sure instinct oflove, by which almost his body thought, was present. Her hands werebusy adjusting her dress; a forced and unnecessary movement Jemcould not help thinking. Her accost was quiet and friendly, ifgrave; she felt that she reddened like a rose, and wished she couldprevent it, while Jem wondered if her blushes arose from fear, oranger, or love.

  She was very cunning, I am afraid. She pretended to readdiligently, and not to listen to a word that was said, while in factshe heard all sounds, even to Jem's long, deep sighs, which wrungher heart. At last she took up her Bible, and as if theirconversation disturbed her, went upstairs to her little room. Andshe had scarcely spoken a word to Jem; scarcely looked at him; nevernoticed his beautiful sweet Nancy, which only awaited her least wordof praise to be hers! He did not know--that pang was spared--thatin her little dingy bedroom stood a white jug, filled with aluxuriant bunch of early spring roses, making the whole roomfragrant and bright. They were the gift of her richer lover. SoJem had to go on sitting with John Barton, fairly caught in his owntrap, and had to listen to his talk, and answer him as best hemight.

  "There's the right stuff in this here Star, and no mistake. Such aright-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' themasters' pocket what they can well afford. Did I ever tell yo whatth' 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 timeswere rare and bad, and there be good chaps there to a man while he'swick,* whate'er they may be about cutting him up at after.** Sowhen 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 helpour surgeon wi' sorting his papers; and we'll take care yo've yourbellyful 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 towriting and copying; th' writing I could do well enough, but they'dsuch queer ways o' spelling, that I'd ne'er been used to, that I'dto look first at th' copy and then at my letters, for all the worldlike a cock picking up grains o' corn. But one thing startled mee'en then, and I thought I'd make bold to ask the surgeon themeaning o't. I've getten no head for numbers, but this I know, thatby FAR TH' GREATER PART O' THE ACCIDENTS AS COMED IN, HAPPENED INTH' LAST TWO HOURS O' WORK, when folk getten tired and careless.Th' surgeon said it were all true, and that he were going to bringthat 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 heought to utter some civil listening noise; so he said--

  "Very true."

  "Ay, it's true enough, my lad, that we're sadly over-borne, andworse will come of it afore long. Block-printers is going tostrike; 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'texpect. Yo may take my word for that, Jem."

  Jem was very willing to take it, but did not express the curiosityhe should have done. So John Barton thought he'd try another hintor two.

  "Working folk won't be ground to the dust much longer. We'n a' hadas much to bear as human nature can bear. So, if th' masters can'tdo 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 byher own good free-will; and the next best thing would be, to bealone to think of her. So muttering something which he meant toserve as an excuse for his sudden departure, he hastily wished Johngood-afternoon, and left him to resume his pipe and his politics.

  For three years past trade had been getting worse and worse, and theprice of provisions higher and higher. This disparity between theamount of the earnings of the working classes and the price of theirfood, occasioned, in more cases than could well be imagined, diseaseand death. Whole families went through a gradual starvation. Theyonly wanted a Dante to record their sufferings. And yet even hiswords would fall short of the awful truth; they could only presentan outline of the tremendous facts of the destitution thatsurrounded 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 toascertain the real causes of the misery; the whole matter was of socomplicated a nature, that it became next to impossible tounderstand it thoroughly. It need excite no surprise, then, tolearn that a bad feeling between working-men and the upper classesbecame very strong in this season of privation. The indigence andsufferings of the operatives induced a suspicion in the minds ofmany of them, that their legislators, their magistrates, theiremployers, and even the ministers of religion, were, in general,their oppressors and enemies; and were in league for theirprostration and enthralment. The most deplorable and enduring evilthat arose out of the period of commercial depression to which Irefer, was this feeling of alienation between the different classesof society. It is so impossible to describe, or even faintly topicture, the state of distress which prevailed in the town at thattime, 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 couldtell it, or the more happy and fortunate would have thronged withtheir sympathy and their aid. In many instances the sufferers weptfirst, and then they cursed. Their vindictive feelings exhibitedthemselves in rabid politics. And when I hear, as I have heard, ofthe sufferings and privations of the poor, of provision shops whereha'porths of tea, sugar, butter, and even flour, were sold toaccommodate the indigent--of parents sitting in their clothes by thefireside during the whole night, for seven weeks together, in orderthat their only bed and bedding might be reserved for the use oftheir large family--of others sleeping upon the cold hearthstone forweeks in succession, without adequate means of providing themselveswith food or fuel (and this in the depth of winter)--of others beingcompelled to fast for days together, uncheered by any hope of betterfortune, living, moreover, or rather starving, in a crowded garret,or damp cellar, and gradually sinking under the pressure of want anddespair into a premature grave; and when this has been confirmed bythe evidence of their careworn looks, their excited feelings, andtheir
desolate homes--can I wonder that many of them, in such timesof misery and destitution, spoke and acted with ferociousprecipitation?

  An idea was now springing up among the operatives, that originatedwith the Chartists, but which came at last to be cherished as adarling child by many and many a one. They could not believe thatGovernment knew of their misery; they rather chose to think itpossible that men could voluntarily assume the office of legislatorsfor a nation who were ignorant of its real state; as who should makedomestic rules for the pretty behaviour of children without caringto know that those children had been kept for days without food.Besides, the starving multitudes had heard, that the very existenceof their distress had been denied in Parliament; and though theyfelt this strange and inexplicable, yet the idea that their miseryhad still to be revealed in all its depths, and that then someremedy would be found, soothed their aching hearts, and kept downtheir rising fury.

  So a petition was framed, and signed by thousands in the brightspring days of 1839, imploring Parliament to hear witnesses whocould testify to the unparalleled destitution of the manufacturingdistricts. Nottingham, Sheffield, Glasgow, Manchester, and manyother 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 theflutter of spirits his appointment gave him. There was the childishdelight of seeing London--that went a little way, and but a littleway. There was the vain idea of speaking out his notions before somany grand folk--that went a little further; and last, there was thereally pure gladness of heart arising from the idea that he was oneof those chosen to be instruments in making known the distresses ofthe people, and consequently in procuring them some grand relief, bymeans of which they should never suffer want or care any more. Hehoped largely, but vaguely, of the results of his expedition. Anargosy 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 wereto leave for London, Barton might be said to hold a levee, so manyneighbours came dropping in. Job Legh had early established himselfand his pipe by John Barton's fire, not saying much, but puffingaway, and imagining himself of use in adjusting the smoothing-ironsthat 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 pantryback-kitchen; for she was anxious about his appearance in London.(The coat had been redeemed, though the silk handkerchief wasforfeited.) The door stood open, as usual, between the house-placeand back-kitchen, so she gave her greeting to their friends as theyentered.

  "So, John, yo're bound for London, are yo?" said one.

  "Ay, I suppose I mun go," answered John, yielding to necessity as itwere.

  "Well, there's many a thing I'd like yo to speak on to theParliament people. Thou'lt not spare 'em, John, I hope. Tell 'emour minds: how we're thinking we'n been clemmed long enough, andwe donnot see whatten good they'n been doing, if they can't give uswhat 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 myturn; 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 maketh' masters to break th' machines. There's never been good timessin' 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 thefire, as if ague-stricken, "I would like thee to tell 'em to passth' Short-hours Bill. Flesh and blood gets wearied wi' so muchwork; 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 lookedhalf-fed, and eager, but was decently clad. In her hand she broughta 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 hasbrought you this; made new cut, all after the fashion. Thank youfor thinking on him."

  "Eh, Mary!" said Mrs. Davenport in a low voice, "whatten's all I cando, to what he's done for me and mine? But, Mary, sure I can helpye, for you'll be busy wi' this journey."

  "Just help me wring these out, and then I'll take 'em to themangle."

  So Mrs. Davenport became a listener to the conversation and after awhile joined in.

  "I'm sure, John Barton, if yo are taking messages to the Parliamentfolk, yo'll not object to telling 'em what a sore trial it is, thislaw o' theirs, keeping childer fra' factory work, whether they beweakly or strong. There's our Ben; why, porridge seems to go no waywi' 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 thestreets a' day, getting hungrier and hungrier, and picking up a'manner o' bad ways; and th' inspector won't let him in to work inth' factory, because he's not right age; though he's twice as strongas Sankey's little ritling* of a lad, as works till he cries for hislegs 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 theHonourable House. My mother comed out o' Oxfordshire, and wereunder-laundry-maid in Sir Francis Dashwood's family; and when wewere little ones, she'd tell us stories of their grandeur: and onething she named were, that Sir Francis wore two shirts a day. Nowhe were all as one as a Parliament man; and many on 'em, I han nodoubt, are like extravagant. Just tell 'em, John, do, that they'dbe doing the Lancashire weavers a great kindness, if they'd ha'their shirts a' made o' calico; 't would make trade brisk, thatwould, wi' the power o' shirts they wear."

  Job Legh now put in his word. Taking the pipe out of his mouth, andaddressing the last speaker, he said--

  "I'll tell ye what, Bill, and no offence, mind ye; there's buthundreds of them Parliament folk as wear so many shirts to theirback; but there's thousands and thousands o' poor weavers as hanonly gotten one shirt i' the world; ay, and don't know where t' getanother 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, JohnBarton, and ask Parliament to set trade free, so as workmen can earna decent wage, and buy their two, ay and three, shirts a year; thatwould make weaving brisk."

  He put his pipe in his mouth again, and redoubled his puffing, tomake 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 aboutthe distress that they say is nought. When they hear o' childrenborn on wet flags, without a rag t' cover 'em or a bit o' food forth' 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, andfamine, they'll surely do somewhat wiser for us than we can guess atnow. Howe'er, I han no objection, if so be there's an opening, tospeak 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 byone dropped off, leaving John and his daughter alone.

  "Didst thou mark how poorly Jane Wilson looked?" asked he, as theywound up their hard day's work by a supper eaten over the fire,which glowed and glimmered through the room, and formed their onlylight.

  "No, I can't say as I did. But she's never rightly held up her headsince the twins died; and all along she has never been a strongwoman."

&
nbsp; "Never sin' her accident. Afore that I mind her looking as freshand likely a girl as e'er a one in Manchester."

  "What accident, father?"

  "She cotched* her side again a wheel. It were afore wheels wereboxed up. It were just when she were to have been married, and manya one thought George would ha' been off his bargain; but I knew hewern't the chap for that trick. Pretty near the first place shewent to when she were able to go about again, was th' Oud Church;poor wench, all pale and limping, she went up the aisle, Georgeholding her up as tender as a mother, and walking as slow as e'er hecould, not to hurry her, though there were plenty enow of rude ladsto cast their jests at him and her. Her face were white like asheet when she came in church, but afore she got to th' altar shewere all one flush. But for a' that it's been a happy marriage, andGeorge has stuck by me through life like a brother. He'll neverhold up his head again if he loses Jane. I didn't like her looksto-night."

  *Cotched; caught.

  And so he went to bed, the fear of forthcoming sorrow to his friendmingling with his thoughts of to-morrow, and his hopes for thefuture.

  Mary watched him set off, with her hands over her eyes to shade themfrom the bright slanting rays of the morning sun, and then sheturned into the house to arrange its disorder before going to herwork. She wondered if she should like or dislike the evening andmorning solitude; for several hours when the clock struck shethought of her father, and wondered where he was; she made goodresolutions according to her lights; and by-and-bye came thedistractions and events of the broad full day to occupy her with thepresent, and to deaden the memory of the absent.

  One of Mary's resolutions was, that she would not be persuaded orinduced to see Mr. Harry Carson during her father's absence. Therewas something crooked in her conscience after all; for this veryresolution seemed an acknowledgment that it was wrong to meet him atany time; and yet she had brought herself to think her conduct quiteinnocent and proper, for although unknown to her father, andcertain, even did he know it, to fail of obtaining his sanction, sheesteemed her love-meetings with Mr. Carson as sure to end in herfathers good and happiness. But now that he was away, she would donothing that he would disapprove of; no, not even though it was forhis own good in the end.

  Now, amongst Miss Simmonds' young ladies was one who had been fromthe beginning a confidante in Mary's love affair, made so by Mr.Carson himself. He had felt the necessity of some third person tocarry letters and messages, and to plead his cause when he wasabsent. In a girl named Sally Leadbitter he had found a willingadvocate. She would have been willing to have embarked in a loveaffair herself (especially a clandestine one), for the mereexcitement of the thing; but her willingness was strengthened bysundry half-sovereigns, which from time to time Mr. Carson bestowedupon her.

  Sally Leadbitter was vulgar-minded to the last degree; never easyunless her talk was of love and lovers; in her eyes it was an honourto have had a long list of wooers. So constituted, it was a pitythat Sally herself was but a plain, red-haired, freckled girl; neverlikely, one would have thought, to become a heroine on her ownaccount. But what she lacked in beauty she tried to make up for bya kind of witty boldness, which gave her what her betters would havecalled piquancy. Considerations of modesty or propriety neverchecked her utterance of a good thing. She had just talent enoughto corrupt others. Her very good nature was an evil influence.They could not hate one who was so kind; they could not avoid onewho was so willing to shield them from scrapes by any exertion ofher own; whose ready fingers would at any time make up for theirdeficiencies, and whose still more convenient tongue would at anytime invent for them. The Jews, or Mohammedans (I forget which),believe that there is one little bone of our body,--one of thevertebrae, if I remember rightly,--which will never decay and turnto dust, but will lie incorrupt and indestructible in the grounduntil the Last Day: this is the Seed of the Soul. The mostdepraved have also their Seed of the Holiness that shall one dayovercome their evil; their one good quality, lurking hidden, butsafe, among all the corrupt and bad.

  Sally's seed of the future soul was her love for her mother, an agedbedridden 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, neverflagged, but were ready to recount the events of the day, to turnthem into ridicule, and to mimic, with admirable fidelity, anyperson gifted with an absurdity who had fallen under her keen eye.But the mother was lightly principled like Sally herself; nor wasthere need to conceal from her the reason why Mr. Carson gave her somuch money. She chuckled with pleasure, and only hoped that thewooing would be long a-doing.

  Still neither she, nor her daughter, nor Harry Carson liked thisresolution of Mary, not to see him during her father's absence.

  One evening (and the early summer evenings were long and brightnow), Sally met Mr. Carson by appointment, to be charged with aletter for Mary, imploring her to see him, which Sally was to backwith all her powers of persuasion. After parting from him shedetermined, as it was not so very late, to go at once to Mary's, anddeliver the message and letter.

  She found Mary in great sorrow. She had just heard of GeorgeWilson's sudden death: her old friend, her father's friend, Jem'sfather--all his claims came rushing upon her. Though not guardedfrom unnecessary sight or sound of death, as the children of therich are, yet it had so often been brought home to her this lastthree or four months. It was so terrible thus to see friend afterfriend depart. Her father, too, who had dreaded Jane Wilson's deaththe evening before he set off. And she, the weakly, was leftbehind, while the strong man was taken. At any rate the sorrow herfather had so feared for him was spared. Such were the thoughtswhich came over her.

  She could not go to comfort the bereaved, even if comfort were inher power to give; for she had resolved to avoid Jem; and she feltthat this of all others was not the occasion on which she could keepup a studiously cold manner.

  And in this shock of grief, Sally Leadbitter was the last person shewished to see. However, she rose to welcome her, betraying hertear-swollen face.

  "Well, I shall tell Mr. Carson to-morrow how you're fretting forhim; 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 wouldbreak now for several days, over your work; now arn't you a littlegoose not to go and see one who I am sure loves you as his life, andwhom 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 atall."

  "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 oranything else now"; weeping afresh.

  But Sally did not like to be the bearer of any such news. She sawshe had gone on the wrong tack, and that Mary's heart was too fullto value either message or letter as she ought. So she wiselypaused in their delivery and said, in a more sympathetic tone thanshe had hitherto used--

  "Do tell me, Mary, what's fretting you so? You know I never couldabide 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 herface in her apron as she sobbed anew.

  "Dear, dear! All flesh is grass; here to-day and gone tomorrow, asthe 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 maidas 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 shecould, maybe, be of use to her sister, who was sadly cast down, andAlice thought sh
e could cheer her up; at any rate she could listento her when her heart grew overburdened; so she gave up her cellarand went to live with them."

  "Well, good go with her. I'd no fancy for her, and I'd no fancy forher 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 herpresent mood for her visitor's departure.

  Sally relinquished it unwillingly. She had, however, the pleasureof seeing Mary dimple and blush as she read the letter, which seemedto say the writer was not indifferent to her.

  "You must tell him I can't come," said Mary, raising her eyes atlast. "I have said I won't meet him while father is away, and Iwon'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 yourfather's at home, without letting on* to him, and what harm wouldthere 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 theneighbours 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 hada lover; have you never heard what other girls do and think no shameof?"

  "Hush, Sally! that's Margaret Jennings at the door."

  And in an instant Margaret was in the room. Mary had begged JobLegh to let her come and sleep with her. In the uncertain firelightyou could not help noticing that she had the groping walk of a blindperson.

  "Well, I must go, Mary," said Sally. "And that's your last word?"

  "Yes, yes; good-night." She shut the door gladly on her unwelcomevisitor--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'sno 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? Youreyes are so swollen and red."

  "Yes, dear! but not crying for sorrow. Han ye heard where I waslast night?"

  "No; where?"

  "Look here." She held up a bright golden sovereign. Mary openedher large grey eyes with astonishment.

  "I'll tell you all and how about it. You see there's a gentlemanlecturing on music at th' Mechanics', and he wants folk to sing hissongs. Well, last night the counter got a sore throat and couldn'tmake a note. So they sent for me. Jacob Butterworth had said agood word for me, and they asked me would I sing? You may think Iwas frightened, but I thought, Now or never, and said I'd do mybest. 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 byseven."

  "And what did you put on?" asked Mary. "Oh, why didn't you come infor my pretty pink gingham?"

  "I did think on't; but you had na come home then. No! I put on mymerino, as was turned last winter, and my white shawl, and did myhair pretty tidy; it did well enough. Well, but as I was saying, Iwent 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 goingto play at ball wi' 'em. You may guess I felt squeamish, but mineweren't the first song, and th' music sounded like a friend's voicetelling me to take courage. So, to make a long story short, when itwere all o'er th' lecturer thanked me, and th' managers said as howthere never was a new singer so applauded (for they'd clapped andstamped 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 theirhands). So I'm to sing again o' Thursday; and I got a sovereignlast night, and am to have half-a-sovereign every night th' lectureris 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 wayseemed open to me, of not being a burden to any one, though it didplease God to make me blind, I thought I'd tell grandfather. I onlytell'd him about the singing and the sovereign last night, for Ithought I'd not send him to bed wi' a heavy heart; but this morningI 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 youtelled 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 today."

  "Well, but what did your grandfather say?"

  "Why, Mary," said Margaret, half smiling, "I'm a bit loth to tellyo, for unless yo knew grandfather's ways like me, yo'd think itstrange. He was taken by surprise, and he said: 'Damn yo!' Thenhe began looking at his book as it were, and were very quiet, whileI telled him all about it; how I'd feared, and how downcast I'dbeen; and how I were now reconciled to it, if it were th' Lord'swill; and how I hoped to earn money by singing; and while I weretalking, I saw great big tears come dropping on th' book; but incourse I never let on that I saw 'em. Dear grandfather! and all daylong he's been quietly moving things out o' my way, as he thoughtmight trip me up, and putting things in my way as he thought I mightwant; 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 passwithout notice, and began, with the tact which true sympathy rarelyfails to supply, to ask a variety of questions respecting herfriend's musical debut, which tended to bring out more distinctlyhow 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 drivingup 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 thatcomes about. Nay, who knows, if thou'rt a good girl, but may-happenI may make thee my lady's maid! Wouldn't that be nice? So I e'ensing 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, forsomehow I never quite liked that part about thinking o' Donaldmair?"

  "Well, though I'm a bit tired I don't care if I do. Before I come Iwere practising well-nigh upon two hours this one which I'm to singo' 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 todisappoint him, he were so nice and encouraging like to me. Eh!Mary, what a pity there isn't more o' that way, and less scoldingand 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 asong o' his own, because he were so fidgety and particular about it,and so anxious I should give it th' proper expression. And thatmakes 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, butI'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 w
ord can do !'

  "Now it falls into th' minor key, and must be very sad-like. I feelas 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 factoryworker, listening outside, observed, "She spun it reet* fine!" Andif she only sang it at the Mechanics' with half the feeling she putinto it that night, the lecturer must have been hard to please if hedid not admit that his expectations were more than fulfilled.

  When it was ended, Mary's looks told more than words could have donewhat she thought of it; and partly to keep in a tear which wouldfain have rolled out, she brightened into a laugh, and said, "Forcertain th' carriage is coming. So let us go and dream on it."

  *Reet; right; often used for "very."