XXXV. "FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES."
"Oh, had he lived, Replied Rusilla, never penitence Had equalled his! full well I knew his heart, Vehement in all things. He would on himself Have wreaked such penance as had reached the height Of fleshy suffering,--yea, which being told, With its portentous rigour should have made The memory of his fault o'erpowered and lost, In shuddering pity and astonishment, Fade like a feeble horror." --SOUTHEY'S Roderick.
As Mary was turning into the street where the Wilsons lived, Jemovertook her. He came upon her suddenly, and she started. "You'regoing to see mother?" he asked tenderly, placing her arm within his,and slackening his pace.
"Yes, and you too. O Jem, is it true? tell me."
She felt rightly that he would guess the meaning of her onlyhalf-expressed inquiry. He hesitated a moment before he answeredher.
"Darling, it is; it's no use hiding it--if you mean that I'm nolonger to work at Duncombe's foundry. It's no time (to my mind) tohave secrets from each other, though I did not name it yesterday,thinking you might fret. I shall soon get work again, never fear."
"But why did they turn you off, when the jury had said you wereinnocent?"
"It was not just to say turned off, though I don't think I couldhave well stayed on. A good number of the men managed to let outthey should not like to work under me again; there were some few whoknew me well enough to feel I could not have done it, but more weredoubtful; and one spoke to young Mr. Duncombe, hinting at what theythought."
"O Jem! what a shame!" said Mary, with mournful indignation.
"Nay, darling! I'm not for blaming them. Poor fellows like themhave nought to stand upon and be proud of but their character, andit's fitting they should take care of that, and keep that free fromsoil and taint."
"But you--what could they get but good from you? They might haveknown you by this time."
"So some do; the overlooker, I'm sure, would know I'm innocent.Indeed, he said as much to-day; and he said he had had some talkwith old Mr. Duncombe, and they thought it might be better if I leftManchester for a bit; they'd recommend me to some other place."
But Mary could only shake her head in a mournful way, and repeat herwords--
"They might have known thee better, Jem."
Jem pressed the little hand he held between his own work-hardenedones. After a minute or two, he asked--
"Mary, art thou much bound to Manchester? Would it grieve thee soreto quit the old smoke-jack?"
"With thee?" she asked, in a quiet, glancing way.
"Ay, lass! Trust me, I'll never ask thee to leave Manchester whileI'm in it. Because I have heard fine things of Canada; and ouroverlooker has a cousin in the foundry line there. Thou knowestwhere Canada is, Mary?"
"Not rightly--not now, at any rate;--but with thee, Jem," her voicesunk to a soft, low whisper, "anywhere"--
What was the use of a geographical description?
"But father!" said Mary, suddenly breaking that delicious silencewith the one sharp discord in her present life.
She looked up at her lover's grave face; and then the message herfather had sent flashed across her memory.
"O Jem, did I tell you? Father sent word he wished to speak withyou. I was to bid you come to him at eight to-night. What can hewant, Jem?"
"I cannot tell," replied he. "At any rate, I'll go. It's no usetroubling ourselves to guess," he continued, after a pause for a fewminutes, during which they slowly and silently paced up and down theby-street, into which he had led her when their conversation began."Come and see mother, and then I'll take thee home, Mary. Thou wertall in a tremble when first I came up to thee; thou'rt not fit to betrusted home by thyself," said he, with fond exaggeration of herhelplessness.
Yet a little more lovers' loitering! a few more words, in themselvesnothing--to you nothing--but to those two, what tender passionatelanguage can I use to express the feelings which thrilled throughthat young man and maiden, as they listened to the syllables madedear and lovely through life by that hour's low-whispered talk.
It struck the half-hour past seven.
"Come and speak to mother; she knows you're to be her daughter,Mary, darling."
So they went in. Jane Wilson was rather chafed at her son's delayin returning home, for as yet he had managed to keep her inignorance of his dismissal from the foundry; and it was her way toprepare some little pleasure, some little comfort for those sheloved; and if they, unwittingly, did not appear at the proper timeto enjoy her preparation, she worked herself up into a state offretfulness which found vent in upbraidings as soon as ever theobjects of her care appeared, thereby marring the peace which shouldever be the atmosphere of a home, however humble; and causing afeeling almost amounting to loathing to arise at the sight of the"stalled ox," which, though an effect and proof of careful love, hasbeen the cause of so much disturbance.
Mrs. Wilson at first sighed, and then grumbled to herself, over theincreasing toughness of the potato-cakes she had made for her son'stea.
The door opened, and he came in; his face brightening into proudsmiles, Mary Barton hanging on his arm, blushing and dimpling, witheyelids veiling the happy light of her eyes--there was around theyoung couple a radiant atmosphere--a glory of happiness.
Could his mother mar it? Could she break into it with herMartha-like cares? Only for one moment did she remember her senseof injury,--her wasted trouble,--and then her whole woman's heartheaving with motherly love and sympathy, she opened her arms, andreceived Mary into them, as shedding tears of agitated joy, shemurmured in her ear--
"Bless thee, Mary, bless thee! Only make him happy, and God blessthee for ever!"
It took some of Jem's self-command to separate those whom he so muchloved, and who were beginning, for his sake, to love one another sodearly. But the time for his meeting John Barton drew on: and itwas a long way to his house.
As they walked briskly thither they hardly spoke; though manythoughts were in their minds.
The sun had not long set, but the first faint shade of twilight wasover all; and when they opened the door, Jem could hardly perceivethe objects within by the waning light of day, and the flickeringfire-blaze.
But Mary saw all at a glance.
Her eye, accustomed to what was usual in the aspect of the room, sawinstantly what was unusual,--saw and understood it all.
Her father was standing behind his habitual chair; holding by theback of it as if for support. And opposite to him there stood Mr.Carson the dark outline of his stern figure looming large againstthe light of the fire in that little room.
Behind her father sat Job Legh, his head in his hands, and restinghis elbow on the little family table, listening evidently; but asevidently deeply affected by what he heard.
There seemed to be some pause in the conversation. Mary and Jemstood at the half-open door, not daring to stir; hardly to breathe.
"And have I heard you aright?" began Mr. Carson, with his deepquivering voice. "Man! have I heard you aright? Was it you, then,that killed my boy? my only son?"--(he said these last few wordsalmost as if appealing for pity, and then he changed his tone to onemore vehement and fierce). "Don't dare to think that I shall bemerciful, and spare you, because you have come forward to accuseyourself. I tell you I will not spare you the least pang the lawcan inflict,--you, who did not show pity on my boy, shall have nonefrom me."
"I did not ask for any," said John Barton, in a low voice.
"Ask, or not ask, what care I? You shall be hanged--hanged--man!"said he, advancing his face, and repeating the word with slow,grinding emphasis, as if to infuse some of the bitterness of hissoul into it.
John Barton gasped, but not with fear. It was only that he felt itterrible to have inspired such hatred, as was concentrated intoevery word, every gesture of Mr. Carson's.
"As for being hanged, sir, I know it's all right and proper. I daresay it's bad e
nough; but I tell you what, sir," speaking with anoutburst, "if you'd hanged me the day after I'd done the deed, Iwould have gone down on my knees and blessed you. Death! Lord,what is it to Life? To such a life as I've been leading thisfortnight past. Life at best is no great thing; but such a life asI have dragged through since that night," he shuddered at thethought. "Why, sir, I've been on the point of killing myself thismany a time to get away from my own thoughts. I didn't! and I'lltell you why. I didn't know but that I should be more haunted thanever with the recollection of my sin. Oh! God above only can tellthe agony with which I've repented me of it, and part perhapsbecause I feared He would think I were impatient of the misery Hesent as punishment--far, far worse misery than any hanging, sir."
He ceased from excess of emotion.
Then he began again.
"Sin' that day (it may be very wicked, sir, but it's the truth) I'vekept thinking and thinking if I were but in that world where theysay God is, He would, maybe, teach me right from wrong, even if itwere with many stripes. I've been sore puzzled here. I would gothrough hell-fire if I could but get free from sin at last, it'ssuch an awful thing. As for hanging, that's just nought at all."
His exhaustion compelled him to sit down. Mary rushed to him. Itseemed as if till then he had been unaware of her presence.
"Ay, ay, wench!" said he feebly, "is it thee? Where's Jem Wilson?"
Jem came forward.
John Barton spoke again, with many a break and gasping pause--
"Lad! thou hast borne a deal for me. It's the meanest thing I everdid to leave thee to bear the brunt. Thou, who wert as innocent ofany knowledge of it as the babe unborn. I'll not bless thee for it.Blessing from such as me would not bring thee any good. Thou'ltlove Mary, though she is my child."
He ceased, and there was a pause for a few seconds.
Then Mr. Carson turned to go.
When his hand was on the latch of the door, he hesitated for aninstant.
"You can have no doubt for what purpose I go. Straight to thepolice-office, to send men to take care of you, wretched man, andyour accomplice. To-morrow morning your tale shall be repeated tothose who can commit you to gaol, and before long you shall have theopportunity of trying how desirable hanging is."
"O sir!" said Mary, springing forward, and catching hold of Mr.Carson's arm, "my father is dying. Look at him, sir. If you wantDeath for Death you have it. Don't take him away from me these lasthours. He must go alone through Death, but let me be with him aslong as I can. O sir! if you have any mercy in you, leave him hereto die."
John himself stood up, stiff and rigid, and replied--
"Mary, wench! I owe him summit. I will go die, where, and as hewishes me. Thou hast said true, I am standing side by side withDeath; and it matters little where I spend the bit of time left oflife. That time I must pass wrestling with my soul for a characterto take into the other world. I'll go where you see fit, sir. He'sinnocent," faintly indicating Jem, as he fell back in his chair.
"Never fear! They cannot touch him," said Job Legh, in a low voice.
But as Mr. Carson was on the point of leaving the house with no signof relenting about him, he was again stopped by John Barton, who hadrisen once more from his chair, and stood supporting himself on Jem,while he spoke.
"Sir, one word! My hairs are grey with suffering, and yours withyears"--
"And have I had no suffering?" asked Mr. Carson, as if appealing forsympathy, even to the murderer of his child.
And the murderer of his child answered to the appeal, and groaned inspirit over the anguish he had caused.
"Have I had no inward suffering to blanch these hairs? Have not Itoiled and struggled even to these years with hopes in my heart thatall centred in my boy? I did not speak of them, but were they notthere? I seemed hard and cold; and so I might be to others, but notto him!--who shall ever imagine the love I bore to him? Even henever dreamed how my heart leapt up at the sound of his footstep,and how precious he was to his poor old father. And he is gone--killed--out of the hearing of all loving words--out of my sight forever. He was my sunshine, and now it is night! Oh, my God! comfortme, comfort me!" cried the old man aloud.
The eyes of John Barton grew dim with tears.
Rich and poor, masters and men, were then brothers in the deepsuffering of the heart; for was not this the very anguish he hadfelt for little Tom, in years so long gone by, that they seemed likeanother life!
The mourner before him was no longer the employer; a being ofanother race, eternally placed in antagonistic attitude; goingthrough the world glittering like gold, with a stony heart within,which knew no sorrow but through the accidents of Trade; no longerthe enemy, the oppressor, but a very poor and desolate old man.
The sympathy for suffering, formerly so prevalent a feeling withhim, again filled John Barton's heart, and almost impelled him tospeak (as best he could) some earnest, tender words to the sternman, shaking in his agony.
But who was he, that he should utter sympathy or consolation? Thecause of all this woe.
Oh, blasting thought! Oh, miserable remembrance! He had forfeitedall right to bind up his brother's wounds.
Stunned by the thought, he sank upon the seat, almost crushed withthe knowledge of the consequences of his own action for he had nomore imagined to himself the blighted home, and the miserableparents, than does the soldier, who discharges his musket, pictureto himself the desolation of the wife, and the pitiful cries of thehelpless little ones, who are in an instant to be made widowed andfatherless.
To intimidate a class of men, known only to those below them asdesirous to obtain the greatest quantity of work for the lowestwages--at most to remove an overbearing partner from an obnoxiousfirm, who stood in the way of those who struggled as well as theywere able to obtain their rights--this was the light in which JohnBarton had viewed his deed; and even so viewing it, after theexcitement had passed away, the Avenger, the sure Avenger, had foundhim out.
But now he knew that he had killed a man, and a brother--now he knewthat no good thing could come out of this evil, even to thesufferers whose cause he had so blindly espoused.
He lay across the table, broken-hearted. Every fresh quivering sobof Mr. Carson's stabbed him to his soul.
He felt execrated by all; and as if he could never lay bare theperverted reasonings which had made the performance of undoubted sinappear a duty. The longing to plead some faint excuse grew strongerand stronger. He feebly raised his head, and looking at Job Legh,he whispered out--
"I did not know what I was doing, Job Legh; God knows I didn't! Osir!" said he wildly, almost throwing himself at Mr. Carson's feet,"say you forgive me the anguish I now see I have caused you. I carenot for pain, or death, you know I don't; but oh, man! forgive methe trespass I have done!"
"Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass againstus," said Job, solemnly and low, as if in prayer: as if the wordswere suggested by those John Barton had used.
Mr. Carson took his hands away from his face. I would rather seedeath than the ghastly gloom which darkened that countenance.
"Let my trespasses be unforgiven, so that I may have vengeance formy son's murder."
There are blasphemous actions as well as blasphemous words: allunloving, cruel deeds, are acted blasphemy.
Mr. Carson left the house. And John Barton lay on the ground as onedead.
They lifted him up, and almost hoping that that deep trance might beto him the end of all earthly things, they bore him to his bed.
For a time they listened with divided attention to his faintbreathings; for in each hasty hurried step that echoed in the streetoutside, they thought they heard the approach of the officers ofjustice.
When Mr. Carson left the house he was dizzy with agitation the hotblood went careering through his frame. He could not see the deepblue of the night-heavens for the fierce pulses which throbbed inhis head. And partly to steady and calm himself, he leaned againsta railing, and lo
oked up into those calm majestic depths with alltheir thousand stars.
And by-and-by his own voice returned upon him, as if the last wordshe had spoken were being uttered through all that infinite space;but in their echoes there was a tone of unutterable sorrow.
"Let my trespasses be unforgiven, so that I may have vengeance formy son's murder."
He tried to shake off the spiritual impression made by thisimagination. He was feverish and ill,--and no wonder.
So he turned to go homewards; not, as he had threatened, to thepolice-office. After all (he told himself), that would do in themorning. No fear of the man's escaping, unless he escaped to thegrave.
So he tried to banish the phantom voices and shapes which cameunbidden to his brain, and to recall his balance of mind by walkingcalmly and slowly, and noticing everything which struck his senses.
It was a warm soft evening in spring, and there were many persons inthe streets. Among others a nurse with a little girl in her charge,conveying her home from some children's gaiety; a dance most likely,for the lovely little creature was daintily decked out in soft,snowy muslin; and her fairy feet tripped along by her nurse's sideas if to the measure of some tune she had lately kept time to.
Suddenly up behind her there came a rough, rude errand-boy, nine orten years of age; a giant he looked by the fairy-child, as shefluttered along. I don't know how it was, but in some awkward wayhe knocked the poor little girl down upon the hard pavement as hebrushed rudely past, not much caring whom he hurt, so that he gotalong.
The child arose, sobbing with pain; and not without cause, for bloodwas dropping down from the face, but a minute before so fair andbright--dropping down on the pretty frock, making those scarletmarks so terrible to little children.
The nurse, a powerful woman, had seized the boy, just as Mr. Carson(who had seen the whole transaction) came up.
"You naughty little rascal! I'll give you to a policeman, that Iwill! Do you see how you've hurt the little girl? Do you?"accompanying every sentence with a violent jerk of passionate anger.
The lad looked hard and defying; but withal terrified at the threatof the policeman, those ogres of our streets to all unlucky urchins.The nurse saw it, and began to drag him along, with a view of makingwhat she called "a wholesome impression."
His terror increased and with it his irritation when the littlesweet face, choking away its sobs, pulled down nurse's head andsaid--
"Please, dear nurse, I'm not much hurt; it was very silly to cry,you know. He did not mean to do it. HE DID NOT KNOW WHAT HE WASDOING, did you, little boy? Nurse won't call a policeman, so don'tbe frightened." And she put up her little mouth to be kissed by herinjurer, just as she had been taught to do at home to "make peace."
"That lad will mind, and be more gentle for the time to come, I'llbe bound, thanks to that little lady," said a passer-by, half tohimself, and half to Mr. Carson, whom he had observed to notice thescene.
The latter took no apparent heed of the remark, but passed on. Butthe child's pleading reminded him of the low, broken voice he had solately heard, penitently and humbly urging the same extenuation ofhis great guilt.
"I did not know what I was doing."
He had some association with those words; he had heard, or read ofthat plea somewhere before. Where was it?
"Could it be?"--
He would look when he got home. So when he entered his house hewent straight and silently upstairs to his library, and took downthe great, large, handsome Bible, all grand and golden, with itsleaves adhering together from the bookbinder's press, so little hadit been used.
On the first page (which fell open to Mr. Carson's view) werewritten the names of his children, and his own.
"Henry John, son of the above John and Elizabeth Carson. Born Sept. 29th, 1815."
To make the entry complete, his death should now be added. But thepage became hidden by the gathering mist of tears.
Thought upon thought, and recollection upon recollection camecrowding in, from the remembrance of the proud day when he hadpurchased the costly book, in order to write down the birth of thelittle babe of a day old.
He laid his head down on the open page, and let the tears fallslowly on the spotless leaves.
His son's murderer was discovered; had confessed his guilt, and yet(strange to say) he could not hate him with the vehemence of hatredhe had felt, when he had imagined him a young man, full of lustylife, defying all laws, human and divine. In spite of his desire toretain the revengeful feeling he considered as a duty to his deadson, something of pity would steal in for the poor, wasted skeletonof a man, the smitten creature, who had told him of his sin, andimplored his pardon that night.
In the days of his childhood and youth, Mr. Carson had beenaccustomed to poverty; but it was honest, decent poverty; not thegrinding squalid misery he had remarked in every part of JohnBarton's house, and which contrasted strangely with the pompoussumptuousness of the room in which he now sat. Unaccustomed wonderfilled his mind at the reflection of the different lots of thebrethren of mankind.
Then he roused himself from his reverie, and turned to the object ofhis search--the Gospel, where he half expected to find the tenderpleading: "They know not what they do."
It was murk midnight by this time, and the house was still andquiet. There was nothing to interrupt the old man in his unwontedstudy.
Years ago, the Gospel had been his task-book in learning to read.So many years ago, that he had become familiar with the eventsbefore he could comprehend the Spirit that made the Life.
He fell to the narrative now afresh, with all the interest of alittle child. He began at the beginning, and read on almostgreedily, understanding for the first time the full meaning of thestory. He came to the end; the awful End. And there were thehaunting words of pleading.
He shut the book, and thought deeply.
All night long, the Archangel combated with the Demon.
All night long, others watched by the bed of Death. John Barton hadrevived to fitful intelligence. He spoke at times with evensomething of his former energy; and in the racy Lancashire dialecthe had always used when speaking freely.
"You see I've so often been hankering after the right way; and it'sa hard one for a poor man to find. At least it's been so to me. Noone learned me, and no one telled me. When I was a little chap theytaught me to read, and then they never gave no books; only I heardsay the Bible was a good book. So when I grew thoughtful, andpuzzled, I took to it. But you'd never believe black was black, ornight was night, when you saw all about you acting as if black waswhite, and night was day. It's not much I can say for myself int'other world. God forgive me; but I can say this, I would fainhave gone after the Bible rules if I'd seen folk credit it; they allspoke up for it, and went and did clean contrary. In those days Iwould ha' gone about wi' my Bible, like a little child, my finger inth' place, and asking the meaning of this or that text, and no onetold me. Then I took out two or three texts as clear as glass, andI tried to do what they bid me do. But I don't know how it was,masters and men, all alike cared no more for minding those texts,than I did for th' Lord Mayor of London so I grew to think it mustbe a sham put upon poor ignorant folk, women, and such like.
"It was not long I tried to live Gospel-wise, but it was likerheaven than any other bit of earth has been. I'd old Alice tostrengthen me; but every one else said, 'Stand up for thy rights, orthou'lt never get 'em'; and wife and children never spoke, but theirhelplessness cried aloud, and I was driven to do as others did--andthen Tom died. You know all about that--I'm getting scant o'breath, and blind-like."
Then again he spoke, after some minutes of hushed silence.
"All along it came natural to love folk, though now I am what I am.I think one time I could e'en have loved the masters if they'd ha'letten me; that was in my Gospel-days, afore my child died o'hunger. I was tore in two oftentimes, between my sorrow for poorsuffering folk, and my trying to love them as caused theirsufferings
(to my mind).
"At last I gave it up in despair, trying to make folks' actionssquare wi' th' Bible; and I thought I'd no longer labour atfollowing th' Bible mysel. I've said all this afore, maybe. Butfrom that time I've dropped down, down--down."
After that he only spoke in broken sentences.
"I did not think he'd been such an old man,--oh! that he had butforgiven me,"--and then came earnest, passionate, broken words ofprayer.
Job Legh had gone home like one struck down with the unexpectedshock.
Mary and Jem together waited the approach of death; but as the finalstruggle drew on, and morning dawned, Jem suggested some alleviationto the gasping breath, to purchase which he left the house in searchof a druggist's shop, which should be open at that early hour.
During his absence, Barton grew worse; he had fallen across the bed,and his breathing seemed almost stopped; in vain did Mary strive toraise him, her sorrow and exhaustion had rendered her too weak.
So, on hearing some one enter the house-place below, she cried outfor Jem to come to her assistance.
A step, which was not Jem's, came up the stairs.
Mr. Carson stood in the doorway. In one instant he comprehended thecase.
He raised up the powerless frame; and the departing soul looked outof the eyes with gratitude. He held the dying man propped in hisarms.
John Barton folded his hands as if in prayer.
"Pray for us," said Mary, sinking on her knees, and forgetting inthat solemn hour all that had divided her father and Mr. Carson.
No other words would suggest themselves than some of those he hadread only a few hours before--
"God be merciful to us sinners.--Forgive us our trespasses as weforgive them that trespass against us!"
And when the words were said, John Barton lay a corpse in Mr.Carson's arms.
So ended the tragedy of a poor man's life.
Mary knew nothing more for many minutes. When she recoveredconsciousness, she found herself supported by Jem on the "settle" inthe house-place. Job and Mr. Carson were there, talking togetherlowly and solemnly. Then Mr. Carson bade farewell and left thehouse; and Job said aloud, but as if speaking to himself--
"God has heard that man's prayer. He has comforted him."
Mary Barton Page 36