Chapter 8
THE END OF A LONG JOURNEY
The train of carts and horses came and went all day from dawn tonightfall, making little or no daily impression on the heap of ashes,though, as the days passed on, the heap was seen to be slowly melting.My lords and gentlemen and honourable boards, when you in the courseof your dust-shovelling and cinder-raking have piled up a mountain ofpretentious failure, you must off with your honourable coats for theremoval of it, and fall to the work with the power of all the queen'shorses and all the queen's men, or it will come rushing down and bury usalive.
Yes, verily, my lords and gentlemen and honourable boards, adapting yourCatechism to the occasion, and by God's help so you must. For when wehave got things to the pass that with an enormous treasure at disposalto relieve the poor, the best of the poor detest our mercies, hide theirheads from us, and shame us by starving to death in the midst of us, itis a pass impossible of prosperity, impossible of continuance. It maynot be so written in the Gospel according to Podsnappery; you may not'find these words' for the text of a sermon, in the Returns of the Boardof Trade; but they have been the truth since the foundations of theuniverse were laid, and they will be the truth until the foundations ofthe universe are shaken by the Builder. This boastful handiwork ofours, which fails in its terrors for the professional pauper, the sturdybreaker of windows and the rampant tearer of clothes, strikes with acruel and a wicked stab at the stricken sufferer, and is a horror tothe deserving and unfortunate. We must mend it, lords and gentlemen andhonourable boards, or in its own evil hour it will mar every one of us.
Old Betty Higden fared upon her pilgrimage as many ruggedly honestcreatures, women and men, fare on their toiling way along the roadsof life. Patiently to earn a spare bare living, and quietly to die,untouched by workhouse hands--this was her highest sublunary hope.
Nothing had been heard of her at Mr Boffin's house since she trudgedoff. The weather had been hard and the roads had been bad, and herspirit was up. A less stanch spirit might have been subdued by suchadverse influences; but the loan for her little outfit was in no partrepaid, and it had gone worse with her than she had foreseen, and shewas put upon proving her case and maintaining her independence.
Faithful soul! When she had spoken to the Secretary of that 'deadnessthat steals over me at times', her fortitude had made too little of it.Oftener and ever oftener, it came stealing over her; darker and everdarker, like the shadow of advancing Death. That the shadow shouldbe deep as it came on, like the shadow of an actual presence, was inaccordance with the laws of the physical world, for all the Light thatshone on Betty Higden lay beyond Death.
The poor old creature had taken the upward course of the river Thames asher general track; it was the track in which her last home lay, and ofwhich she had last had local love and knowledge. She had hovered for alittle while in the near neighbourhood of her abandoned dwelling, andhad sold, and knitted and sold, and gone on. In the pleasant towns ofChertsey, Walton, Kingston, and Staines, her figure came to be quitewell known for some short weeks, and then again passed on.
She would take her stand in market-places, where there were such things,on market days; at other times, in the busiest (that was seldom verybusy) portion of the little quiet High Street; at still other times shewould explore the outlying roads for great houses, and would ask leaveat the Lodge to pass in with her basket, and would not often get it. Butladies in carriages would frequently make purchases from her triflingstock, and were usually pleased with her bright eyes and her hopefulspeech. In these and her clean dress originated a fable that she waswell to do in the world: one might say, for her station, rich. As makinga comfortable provision for its subject which costs nobody anything,this class of fable has long been popular.
In those pleasant little towns on Thames, you may hear the fall ofthe water over the weirs, or even, in still weather, the rustle of therushes; and from the bridge you may see the young river, dimpled like ayoung child, playfully gliding away among the trees, unpolluted by thedefilements that lie in wait for it on its course, and as yet out ofhearing of the deep summons of the sea. It were too much to pretend thatBetty Higden made out such thoughts; no; but she heard the tender riverwhispering to many like herself, 'Come to me, come to me! When the cruelshame and terror you have so long fled from, most beset you, come to me!I am the Relieving Officer appointed by eternal ordinance to do my work;I am not held in estimation according as I shirk it. My breast is softerthan the pauper-nurse's; death in my arms is peacefuller than among thepauper-wards. Come to me!'
There was abundant place for gentler fancies too, in her untutored mind.Those gentlefolks and their children inside those fine houses, couldthey think, as they looked out at her, what it was to be really hungry,really cold? Did they feel any of the wonder about her, that she feltabout them? Bless the dear laughing children! If they could have seensick Johnny in her arms, would they have cried for pity? If they couldhave seen dead Johnny on that little bed, would they have understood it?Bless the dear children for his sake, anyhow! So with the humbler housesin the little street, the inner firelight shining on the panes as theouter twilight darkened. When the families gathered in-doors there, forthe night, it was only a foolish fancy to feel as if it were a littlehard in them to close the shutter and blacken the flame. So with thelighted shops, and speculations whether their masters and mistressestaking tea in a perspective of back-parlour--not so far within but thatthe flavour of tea and toast came out, mingled with the glow of light,into the street--ate or drank or wore what they sold, with the greaterrelish because they dealt in it. So with the churchyard on a branch ofthe solitary way to the night's sleeping-place. 'Ah me! The dead andI seem to have it pretty much to ourselves in the dark and in thisweather! But so much the better for all who are warmly housed at home.'The poor soul envied no one in bitterness, and grudged no one anything.
But, the old abhorrence grew stronger on her as she grew weaker, andit found more sustaining food than she did in her wanderings. Now, shewould light upon the shameful spectacle of some desolate creature--orsome wretched ragged groups of either sex, or of both sexes, withchildren among them, huddled together like the smaller vermin fora little warmth--lingering and lingering on a doorstep, while theappointed evader of the public trust did his dirty office of trying toweary them out and so get rid of them. Now, she would light upon somepoor decent person, like herself, going afoot on a pilgrimage ofmany weary miles to see some worn-out relative or friend who had beencharitably clutched off to a great blank barren Union House, as far fromold home as the County Jail (the remoteness of which is always its worstpunishment for small rural offenders), and in its dietary, and inits lodging, and in its tending of the sick, a much more penalestablishment. Sometimes she would hear a newspaper read out, and wouldlearn how the Registrar General cast up the units that had within thelast week died of want and of exposure to the weather: for which thatRecording Angel seemed to have a regular fixed place in his sum, as ifthey were its halfpence. All such things she would hear discussed, aswe, my lords and gentlemen and honourable boards, in our unapproachablemagnificence never hear them, and from all such things she would flywith the wings of raging Despair.
This is not to be received as a figure of speech. Old Betty Higdenhowever tired, however footsore, would start up and be driven awayby her awakened horror of falling into the hands of Charity. It is aremarkable Christian improvement, to have made a pursuing Fury of theGood Samaritan; but it was so in this case, and it is a type of many,many, many.
Two incidents united to intensify the old unreasoningabhorrence--granted in a previous place to be unreasoning, because thepeople always are unreasoning, and invariably make a point of producingall their smoke without fire.
One day she was sitting in a market-place on a bench outside an inn,with her little wares for sale, when the deadness that she stroveagainst came over her so heavily that the scene departed from beforeher eyes; when it returned, she found herself on the ground, her headsupported by
some good-natured market-women, and a little crowd abouther.
'Are you better now, mother?' asked one of the women. 'Do you think youcan do nicely now?'
'Have I been ill then?' asked old Betty.
'You have had a faint like,' was the answer, 'or a fit. It ain't thatyou've been a-struggling, mother, but you've been stiff and numbed.'
'Ah!' said Betty, recovering her memory. 'It's the numbness. Yes. Itcomes over me at times.'
Was it gone? the women asked her.
'It's gone now,' said Betty. 'I shall be stronger than I was afore.Many thanks to ye, my dears, and when you come to be as old as I am, mayothers do as much for you!'
They assisted her to rise, but she could not stand yet, and theysupported her when she sat down again upon the bench.
'My head's a bit light, and my feet are a bit heavy,' said old Betty,leaning her face drowsily on the breast of the woman who had spokenbefore. 'They'll both come nat'ral in a minute. There's nothing more thematter.'
'Ask her,' said some farmers standing by, who had come out from theirmarket-dinner, 'who belongs to her.'
'Are there any folks belonging to you, mother?' said the woman.
'Yes sure,' answered Betty. 'I heerd the gentleman say it, but Icouldn't answer quick enough. There's plenty belonging to me. Don't yefear for me, my dear.'
'But are any of 'em near here?' said the men's voices; the women'svoices chiming in when it was said, and prolonging the strain.
'Quite near enough,' said Betty, rousing herself. 'Don't ye be afeardfor me, neighbours.'
'But you are not fit to travel. Where are you going?' was the nextcompassionate chorus she heard.
'I'm a going to London when I've sold out all,' said Betty, rising withdifficulty. 'I've right good friends in London. I want for nothing. Ishall come to no harm. Thankye. Don't ye be afeard for me.'
A well-meaning bystander, yellow-legginged and purple-faced, saidhoarsely over his red comforter, as she rose to her feet, that she'oughtn't to be let to go'.
'For the Lord's love don't meddle with me!' cried old Betty, all herfears crowding on her. 'I am quite well now, and I must go this minute.'
She caught up her basket as she spoke and was making an unsteady rushaway from them, when the same bystander checked her with his hand onher sleeve, and urged her to come with him and see the parish-doctor.Strengthening herself by the utmost exercise of her resolution, the poortrembling creature shook him off, almost fiercely, and took to flight.Nor did she feel safe until she had set a mile or two of by-road betweenherself and the marketplace, and had crept into a copse, like a huntedanimal, to hide and recover breath. Not until then for the first timedid she venture to recall how she had looked over her shoulder beforeturning out of the town, and had seen the sign of the White Lion hangingacross the road, and the fluttering market booths, and the old greychurch, and the little crowd gazing after her but not attempting tofollow her.
The second frightening incident was this. She had been again as bad, andhad been for some days better, and was travelling along by a part ofthe road where it touched the river, and in wet seasons was so oftenoverflowed by it that there were tall white posts set up to mark theway. A barge was being towed towards her, and she sat down on the bankto rest and watch it. As the tow-rope was slackened by a turn of thestream and dipped into the water, such a confusion stole into hermind that she thought she saw the forms of her dead children and deadgrandchildren peopling the barge, and waving their hands to her insolemn measure; then, as the rope tightened and came up, droppingdiamonds, it seemed to vibrate into two parallel ropes and strike her,with a twang, though it was far off. When she looked again, there was nobarge, no river, no daylight, and a man whom she had never before seenheld a candle close to her face.
'Now, Missis,' said he; 'where did you come from and where are you goingto?'
The poor soul confusedly asked the counter-question where she was?
'I am the Lock,' said the man.
'The Lock?'
'I am the Deputy Lock, on job, and this is the Lock-house. (Lock orDeputy Lock, it's all one, while the t'other man's in the hospital.)What's your Parish?'
'Parish!' She was up from the truckle-bed directly, wildly feeling abouther for her basket, and gazing at him in affright.
'You'll be asked the question down town,' said the man. 'They won't letyou be more than a Casual there. They'll pass you on to your settlement,Missis, with all speed. You're not in a state to be let come uponstrange parishes 'ceptin as a Casual.'
''Twas the deadness again!' murmured Betty Higden, with her hand to herhead.
'It was the deadness, there's not a doubt about it,' returned the man.'I should have thought the deadness was a mild word for it, if it hadbeen named to me when we brought you in. Have you got any friends,Missis?'
'The best of friends, Master.'
'I should recommend your looking 'em up if you consider 'em game to doanything for you,' said the Deputy Lock. 'Have you got any money?'
'Just a morsel of money, sir.'
'Do you want to keep it?'
'Sure I do!'
'Well, you know,' said the Deputy Lock, shrugging his shoulders with hishands in his pockets, and shaking his head in a sulkily ominous manner,'the parish authorities down town will have it out of you, if you go on,you may take your Alfred David.'
'Then I'll not go on.'
'They'll make you pay, as fur as your money will go,' pursued theDeputy, 'for your relief as a Casual and for your being passed to yourParish.'
'Thank ye kindly, Master, for your warning, thank ye for your shelter,and good night.'
'Stop a bit,' said the Deputy, striking in between her and the door.'Why are you all of a shake, and what's your hurry, Missis?'
'Oh, Master, Master,' returned Betty Higden, 'I've fought against theParish and fled from it, all my life, and I want to die free of it!'
'I don't know,' said the Deputy, with deliberation, 'as I ought to letyou go. I'm a honest man as gets my living by the sweat of my brow, andI may fall into trouble by letting you go. I've fell into trouble aforenow, by George, and I know what it is, and it's made me careful. Youmight be took with your deadness again, half a mile off--or half of halfa quarter, for the matter of that--and then it would be asked, Why didthat there honest Deputy Lock, let her go, instead of putting her safewith the Parish? That's what a man of his character ought to have done,it would be argueyfied,' said the Deputy Lock, cunningly harping on thestrong string of her terror; 'he ought to have handed her over safe tothe Parish. That was to be expected of a man of his merits.'
As he stood in the doorway, the poor old careworn wayworn woman burstinto tears, and clasped her hands, as if in a very agony she prayed tohim.
'As I've told you, Master, I've the best of friends. This letter willshow how true I spoke, and they will be thankful for me.'
The Deputy Lock opened the letter with a grave face, which underwent nochange as he eyed its contents. But it might have done, if he could haveread them.
'What amount of small change, Missis,' he said, with an abstracted air,after a little meditation, 'might you call a morsel of money?'
Hurriedly emptying her pocket, old Betty laid down on the table, ashilling, and two sixpenny pieces, and a few pence.
'If I was to let you go instead of handing you over safe to the Parish,'said the Deputy, counting the money with his eyes, 'might it be your ownfree wish to leave that there behind you?'
'Take it, Master, take it, and welcome and thankful!'
'I'm a man,' said the Deputy, giving her back the letter, and pocketingthe coins, one by one, 'as earns his living by the sweat of his brow;'here he drew his sleeve across his forehead, as if this particularportion of his humble gains were the result of sheer hard labour andvirtuous industry; 'and I won't stand in your way. Go where you like.'
She was gone out of the Lock-house as soon as he gave her thispermission, and her tottering steps were on the road again. But, afraidto go back and afraid
to go forward; seeing what she fled from, in thesky-glare of the lights of the little town before her, and leaving aconfused horror of it everywhere behind her, as if she had escaped itin every stone of every market-place; she struck off by side ways, amongwhich she got bewildered and lost. That night she took refuge from theSamaritan in his latest accredited form, under a farmer's rick; andif--worth thinking of, perhaps, my fellow-Christians--the Samaritan hadin the lonely night, 'passed by on the other side', she would have mostdevoutly thanked High Heaven for her escape from him.
The morning found her afoot again, but fast declining as to theclearness of her thoughts, though not as to the steadiness of herpurpose. Comprehending that her strength was quitting her, and that thestruggle of her life was almost ended, she could neither reason out themeans of getting back to her protectors, nor even form the idea. Theovermastering dread, and the proud stubborn resolution it engenderedin her to die undegraded, were the two distinct impressions left in herfailing mind. Supported only by a sense that she was bent on conqueringin her life-long fight, she went on.
The time was come, now, when the wants of this little life were passingaway from her. She could not have swallowed food, though a table hadbeen spread for her in the next field. The day was cold and wet, butshe scarcely knew it. She crept on, poor soul, like a criminal afraid ofbeing taken, and felt little beyond the terror of falling down while itwas yet daylight, and being found alive. She had no fear that she wouldlive through another night.
Sewn in the breast of her gown, the money to pay for her burial wasstill intact. If she could wear through the day, and then lie down todie under cover of the darkness, she would die independent. If she werecaptured previously, the money would be taken from her as a pauper whohad no right to it, and she would be carried to the accursed workhouse.Gaining her end, the letter would be found in her breast, along withthe money, and the gentlefolks would say when it was given back to them,'She prized it, did old Betty Higden; she was true to it; and while shelived, she would never let it be disgraced by falling into the handsof those that she held in horror.' Most illogical, inconsequential, andlight-headed, this; but travellers in the valley of the shadow of deathare apt to be light-headed; and worn-out old people of low estate havea trick of reasoning as indifferently as they live, and doubtlesswould appreciate our Poor Law more philosophically on an income of tenthousand a year.
So, keeping to byways, and shunning human approach, this troublesomeold woman hid herself, and fared on all through the dreary day. Yet sounlike was she to vagrant hiders in general, that sometimes, as the dayadvanced, there was a bright fire in her eyes, and a quicker beating ather feeble heart, as though she said exultingly, 'The Lord will see methrough it!'
By what visionary hands she was led along upon that journey of escapefrom the Samaritan; by what voices, hushed in the grave, she seemedto be addressed; how she fancied the dead child in her arms again, andtimes innumerable adjusted her shawl to keep it warm; what infinitevariety of forms of tower and roof and steeple the trees took; how manyfurious horsemen rode at her, crying, 'There she goes! Stop! Stop,Betty Higden!' and melted away as they came close; be these things leftuntold. Faring on and hiding, hiding and faring on, the poor harmlesscreature, as though she were a Murderess and the whole country were upafter her, wore out the day, and gained the night.
'Water-meadows, or such like,' she had sometimes murmured, on the day'spilgrimage, when she had raised her head and taken any note of the realobjects about her. There now arose in the darkness, a great building,full of lighted windows. Smoke was issuing from a high chimney inthe rear of it, and there was the sound of a water-wheel at the side.Between her and the building, lay a piece of water, in which the lightedwindows were reflected, and on its nearest margin was a plantation oftrees. 'I humbly thank the Power and the Glory,' said Betty Higden,holding up her withered hands, 'that I have come to my journey's end!'
She crept among the trees to the trunk of a tree whence she could see,beyond some intervening trees and branches, the lighted windows, both intheir reality and their reflection in the water. She placed her orderlylittle basket at her side, and sank upon the ground, supporting herselfagainst the tree. It brought to her mind the foot of the Cross, andshe committed herself to Him who died upon it. Her strength held out toenable her to arrange the letter in her breast, so as that it couldbe seen that she had a paper there. It had held out for this, and itdeparted when this was done.
'I am safe here,' was her last benumbed thought. 'When I am found deadat the foot of the Cross, it will be by some of my own sort; some ofthe working people who work among the lights yonder. I cannot see thelighted windows now, but they are there. I am thankful for all!'
The darkness gone, and a face bending down.
'It cannot be the boofer lady?'
'I don't understand what you say. Let me wet your lips again with thisbrandy. I have been away to fetch it. Did you think that I was longgone?'
It is as the face of a woman, shaded by a quantity of rich dark hair.It is the earnest face of a woman who is young and handsome. But all isover with me on earth, and this must be an Angel.
'Have I been long dead?'
'I don't understand what you say. Let me wet your lips again. I hurriedall I could, and brought no one back with me, lest you should die of theshock of strangers.'
'Am I not dead?'
'I cannot understand what you say. Your voice is so low and broken thatI cannot hear you. Do you hear me?'
'Yes.'
'Do you mean Yes?'
'Yes.'
'I was coming from my work just now, along the path outside (I was upwith the night-hands last night), and I heard a groan, and found youlying here.'
'What work, deary?'
'Did you ask what work? At the paper-mill.'
'Where is it?'
'Your face is turned up to the sky, and you can't see it. It is closeby. You can see my face, here, between you and the sky?'
'Yes.'
'Dare I lift you?'
'Not yet.'
'Not even lift your head to get it on my arm? I will do it by verygentle degrees. You shall hardly feel it.'
'Not yet. Paper. Letter.'
'This paper in your breast?'
'Bless ye!'
'Let me wet your lips again. Am I to open it? To read it?'
'Bless ye!'
She reads it with surprise, and looks down with a new expression and anadded interest on the motionless face she kneels beside.
'I know these names. I have heard them often.'
'Will you send it, my dear?'
'I cannot understand you. Let me wet your lips again, and your forehead.There. O poor thing, poor thing!' These words through her fast-droppingtears. 'What was it that you asked me? Wait till I bring my ear quiteclose.'
'Will you send it, my dear?'
'Will I send it to the writers? Is that your wish? Yes, certainly.'
'You'll not give it up to any one but them?'
'No.'
'As you must grow old in time, and come to your dying hour, my dear,you'll not give it up to any one but them?'
'No. Most solemnly.'
'Never to the Parish!' with a convulsed struggle.
'No. Most solemnly.'
'Nor let the Parish touch me, not yet so much as look at me!' withanother struggle.
'No. Faithfully.'
A look of thankfulness and triumph lights the worn old face.
The eyes, which have been darkly fixed upon the sky, turn with meaningin them towards the compassionate face from which the tears aredropping, and a smile is on the aged lips as they ask:
'What is your name, my dear?'
'My name is Lizzie Hexam.'
'I must be sore disfigured. Are you afraid to kiss me?'
The answer is, the ready pressure of her lips upon the cold but smilingmouth.
'Bless ye! NOW lift me, my love.'
Lizzie Hexam very softly raised the weather-stained grey head, andlifted her
as high as Heaven.
Our Mutual Friend Page 41