Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell

by Elizabeth Gaskell

  Meanwhile, the power-loom weavers living in the more remote parts of Lancashire, and the neighbouring counties, heard of the masters’ advertisements for workmen; and in their solitary dwellings grew weary of starvation, and resolved to come to Manchester. Foot-sore, way-worn, half-starved looking men they were, as they tried to steal into town in the early dawn, before people were astir, or in the dusk of the evening. And now began the real wrong-doing of the Trades’ Unions. As to their decision to work, or not, at such a particular rate of wages, that was either wise or unwise; all error of judgment at the worst. But they had no right to tyrannise over others, and tie them down to their own Procrustean bed. Abhorring what they considered oppression in the masters, why did they oppress others? Because, when men get excited, they know not what they do. Judge, then, with something of the mercy of the Holy One, whom we all love.

  In spite of policemen set to watch over the safety of the poor country weavers — in spite of magistrates, and prisons, and severe punishments — the poor depressed men tramping in from Burnley, Padiham, and other places, to work at the condemned “Starvation Prices,” were waylaid, and beaten, and left by the roadside almost for dead. The police broke up every lounging knot of men: — they separated quietly, to reunite half-a-mile out of town.

  Of course the feeling between the masters and workmen did not improve under these circumstances.

  Combination is an awful power. It is like the equally mighty agency of steam; capable of almost unlimited good or evil. But to obtain a blessing on its labours, it must work under the direction of a high and intelligent will; incapable of being misled by passion or excitement. The will of the operatives had not been guided to the calmness of wisdom.

  So much for generalities. Let us now return to individuals.

  A note, respectfully worded, although its tone of determination was strong, had been sent by the power-loom weavers, requesting that a “deputation” of them might have a meeting with the masters, to state the conditions they must have fulfilled before they would end the turn-out. They thought they had attained a sufficiently commanding position to dictate. John Barton was appointed one of the deputation.

  The masters agreed to this meeting, being anxious to end the strife, although undetermined among themselves how far they should yield, or whether they should yield at all. Some of the old, whose experience had taught them sympathy, were for concession. Others, white-headed men too, had only learnt hardness and obstinacy from the days of the years of their lives, and sneered at the more gentle and yielding. The younger men were one and all for an unflinching resistance to claims urged with so much violence. Of this party Harry Carson was the leader.

  But like all energetic people, the more he had to do the more time he seemed to find. With all his letter-writing, his calling, his being present at the New Bailey, when investigations of any case of violence against knob-sticks* were going on, he beset Mary more than ever. She was weary of her life for him. From blandishments he had even gone to threats — threats that whether she would or not she should be his; he showed an indifference that was most insulting to everything which might attract attention and injure her character.

  *Knob-sticks; those who consent to work at lower wages.

  And still she never saw Jem. She knew he had returned home. She heard of him occasionally through his cousin, who roved gaily from house to house, finding and making friends everywhere. But she never saw him. What was she to think? Had he given her up? Were a few hasty words, spoken in a moment of irritation, to stamp her lot through life? At times she thought that she could bear this meekly, happy in her own constant power of loving. For of change or of forgetfulness she did not dream. Then at other times her state of impatience was such, that it required all her self-restraint to prevent her from going and seeking him out, and (as man would do to man, or woman to woman) begging him to forgive her hasty words, and allow her to retract them, and bidding him accept of the love that was filling her whole heart. She wished Margaret had not advised her against such a manner of proceeding; she believed it was her friend’s words that seemed to make such a simple action impossible, in spite of all the internal urgings. But a friend’s advice is only thus powerful, when it puts into language the secret oracle of our souls. It was the whisperings of her womanly nature that caused her to shrink from any unmaidenly action, not Margaret’s counsel.

  All this time, this ten days or so, of Will’s visit to Manchester, there was something going on which interested Mary even now, and which, in former times, would have exceedingly amused and excited her. She saw as clearly as if told in words, that the merry, random, boisterous sailor had fallen deeply in love with the quiet, prim, somewhat plain Margaret: she doubted if Margaret was aware of it, and yet, as she watched more closely, she began to think some instinct made the blind girl feel whose eyes were so often fixed upon her pale face; that some inner feeling made the delicate and becoming rose-flush steal over her countenance. She did not speak so decidedly as before; there was a hesitation in her manner, that seemed to make her very attractive; as if something softer, more lovable than excellent sense, were coming in as a motive for speech; her eyes had always been soft, and were in no ways disfigured by her blindness, and now seemed to have a new charm, as they quivered under their white, downcast lids. She must be conscious, thought Mary — heart answering to heart.

  Will’s love had no blushings, no downcast eyes, no weighing of words; it was as open and undisguised as his nature; yet he seemed afraid of the answer its acknowledgment might meet with. It was Margaret’s angelic voice that had entranced him, and which made him think of her as a being of some other sphere, that he feared to woo. So he tried to propitiate Job in all manner of ways. He went over to Liverpool to rummage in his great sea-chest for the flying-fish (no very odorous present, by the way). He hesitated over a child’s caul for some time, which was, in his eyes, a far greater treasure than any Exocetus. What use could it be of to a landsman? Then Margaret’s voice rang in his ears; and he determined to sacrifice it, his most precious possession, to one whom she loved as she did her grandfather.

  It was rather a relief to him, when, having put it and the flying- fish together in a brown paper parcel, and sat upon them for security all the way in the railroad, he found that Job was so indifferent to the precious caul that he might easily claim it again. He hung about Margaret, till he had received many warnings and reproaches from his conscience in behalf of his dear aunt Alice’s claims upon his time. He went away, and then he bethought him of some other little word with Job. And he turned back, and stood talking once more in Margaret’s presence, door in hand, only waiting for some little speech of encouragement to come in and sit down again. But as the invitation was not given, he was forced to leave at last, and go and do his duty.

  Four days had Jem Wilson watched for Mr. Harry Carson without success; his hours of going and returning to his home were so irregular, owing to the meetings and consultations among the masters, which were rendered necessary by the turn-out. On the fifth, without any purpose on Jem’s part, they met.

  It was the workmen’s dinner-hour, the interval between twelve and one; when the streets of Manchester are comparatively quiet, for a few shopping ladies and lounging gentlemen count for nothing in that busy, bustling, living place. Jem had been on an errand for his master, instead of returning to his dinner; and in passing along a lane, a road (called, in compliment to the intentions of some future builder, a street), he encountered Harry Carson, the only person, as far as he saw, beside himself, treading the unfrequented path. Along one side ran a high broad fence, blackened over by coal-tar, and spiked and stuck with pointed nails at the top, to prevent any one from climbing over into the garden beyond. By this fence was the footpath. The carriage-road was such as no carriage, no, not even a cart, could possibly have passed along without Hercules to assist in lifting it out of the deep clay ruts. On the other side of the way was a dead brick wall; and a field after that, where there was a saw-pit
and joiner’s shed.

  Jem’s heart beat violently when he saw the gay, handsome young man approaching, with a light buoyant step. This, then, was he whom Mary loved. It was, perhaps, no wonder; for he seemed to the poor smith so elegant, so well appointed, that he felt the superiority in externals, strangely and painfully, for an instant. Then something uprose within him, and told him, that “a man’s a man for a’ that, for ‘a that, and twice as much as a’ that.” And he no longer felt troubled by the outward appearance of his rival.

  Harry Carson came on, lightly bounding over the dirty places with almost a lad’s buoyancy. To his surprise the dark, sturdy-looking artisan stopped him by saying respectfully —

  “May I speak a word wi’ you, sir?”

  “Certainly, my good man,” looking his astonishment; then finding that the promised speech did not come very quickly, he added, “But make haste, for I’m in a hurry.”

  Jem had cast about for some less abrupt way of broaching the subject uppermost in his mind than he now found himself obliged to use. With a husky voice that trembled as he spoke, he said —

  “I think, sir, yo’re keeping company wi’ a young woman called Mary

  Barton?”

  A light broke in upon Henry Carson’s mind, and he paused before he gave the answer for which the other waited.

  Could this man be a lover of Mary’s? And (strange stinging thought) could he be beloved by her, and so have caused her obstinate rejection of himself? He looked at Jem from head to foot, a black, grimy mechanic, in dirty fustian clothes, strongly built, and awkward (according to the dancing-master); then he glanced at himself, and recalled the reflection he had so lately quitted in his bedroom. It was impossible. No woman with eyes could choose the one when the other wooed. It was Hyperion to a Satyr. That quotation came aptly; he forgot “That a man’s a man for a’ that.” And yet here was a clue, which he had often wanted, to her changed conduct towards him. If she loved this man — if — he hated the fellow, and longed to strike him. He would know all.

  “Mary Barton! let me see. Ay, that is the name of the girl. An arrant flirt the little hussy is; but very pretty. Ay, Mary Barton is her name.”

  Jem bit his lips. Was it then so; that Mary was a flirt; the giddy creature of whom he spoke? He would not believe it, and yet how he wished the suggestive words unspoken. That thought must keep now, though. Even if she were, the more reason for there being some one to protect her; poor faulty darling,

  “She’s a good girl, sir, though maybe a bit set up with her beauty; but she’s her father’s only child, sir, and” — he stopped; he did not like to express suspicion, and yet he was determined he would be certain there was ground for none. What should he say?

  “Well, my fine fellow, and what have I to do with that? It’s but loss of my time, and yours, too, if you’ve only stopped me to tell me Mary Barton is very pretty; I know that well enough.”

  He seemed as though he would have gone on, but Jem put his black, working, right hand upon his arm to detain him. The haughty young man shook it off, and with his glove pretended to brush away the sooty contamination that might be left upon his light greatcoat sleeve. The little action aroused Jem.

  “I will tell you in plain words, what I have got to say to you, young man. It’s been telled me by one as knows, and has seen, that you walk with this same Mary Barton, and are known to be courting her; and her as spoke to me about it, thinks as how Mary loves you. That may be or may not. But I’m an old friend of hers and her father’s; and I just wished to know if you mean to marry the girl. Spite of what you said of her lightness, I ha’ known her long enough to be sure she’ll make a noble wife for any one, let him be what he may; and I mean to stand by her like a brother; and if you mean rightly, you’ll not think the worse on me for what I’ve now said; and if — but no, I’ll not say what I’ll do to the man who wrongs a hair of her head. He shall rue it to the longest day he lives, that’s all. Now, sir, what I ask of you is this. If you mean fair and honourable by her, well and good: but if not, for your own sake as well as hers, leave her alone, and never speak to her more.” Jem’s voice quivered with the earnestness with which he spoke, and he eagerly waited for some answer.

  Harry Carson, meanwhile, instead of attending very particularly to the purpose the man had in addressing him, was trying to gather from his speech what was the real state of the case. He succeeded so far as to comprehend that Jem inclined to believe that Mary loved his rival; and consequently, that if the speaker were attached to her himself, he was not a favoured admirer. The idea came into Mr. Carson’s mind, that perhaps, after all, Mary loved him in spite of her frequent and obstinate rejections; and that she had employed this person (whoever he was) to bully him into marrying her. He resolved to try and ascertain more correctly the man’s relation to her. Either he was a lover, and if so, not a favoured one (in which case Mr. Carson could not at all understand the man’s motives for interesting himself in securing her marriage); or he was a friend, an accomplice, whom she had employed to bully him. So little faith in goodness have the mean and selfish!

  “Before I make you into my confidant, my good man,” said Mr. Carson, in a contemptuous tone, “I think it might be as well to inquire your right to meddle with our affairs. Neither Mary, nor I, as I conceive, called you in as a mediator.” He paused: he wanted a distinct answer to this last supposition. None came; so he began to imagine he was to be threatened into some engagement, and his angry spirit rose.

  “And so, my fine fellow, you will have the kindness to leave us to ourselves, and not to meddle with what does not concern you. If you were a brother or father of hers, the case might have been different. As it is, I can only consider you an impertinent meddler.”

  Again he would have passed on, but Jem stood in a determined way before him, saying —

  “You say if I had been her brother, or her father, you’d have answered me what I ask. Now, neither father nor brother could love her as I have loved her — ay, and as I love her still; if love gives a right to satisfaction, it’s next to impossible any one breathing can come up to my right. Now, sir, tell me! do you mean fair by Mary or not? I’ve proved my claim to know, and, by G — , I will know.”

  “Come, come, no impudence,” replied Mr. Carson, who, having discovered what he wanted to know (namely, that Jem was a lover of Mary’s, and that she was not encouraging his suit), wished to pass on. “Father, brother, or rejected lover” (with an emphasis on the word rejected) “no one has a right to interfere between my little girl and me. No one shall. Confound you, man! get out of my way, or I’ll make you,” as Jem still obstructed his path with dogged determination.

  “I won’t, then, till you’ve given me your word about Mary,” replied the mechanic, grinding his words out between his teeth, and the livid paleness of the anger he could no longer keep down covering his face till he looked ghastly.

  “Won’t you?” (with a taunting laugh), “then I’ll make you.” The young man raised his slight cane, and smote the artisan across the face with a stinging stroke. An instant afterwards he lay stretched in the muddy road, Jem standing over him, panting with rage. What he would have done next in his moment of ungovernable passion, no one knows; but a policeman from the main street, into which this road led, had been sauntering about for some time, unobserved by either of the parties, and expecting some kind of conclusion like the present to the violent discussion going on between the two young men. In a minute he had pinioned Jem, who sullenly yielded to the surprise.

  Mr. Carson was on his feet directly, his face glowing with rage or shame.

  “Shall I take him to the lock-ups for assault, sir?” said the policeman.

  “No, no,” exclaimed Mr. Carson. “I struck him first. It was no assault on his side: though,” he continued, hissing out his words to Jem, who even hated freedom procured for him, however justly, at the intervention of his rival, “I will never forgive or forget insult. Trust me,” he gasped the words in excess of passion, “
Mary shall fare no better for your insolent interference.” He laughed, as if with the consciousness of power.

  Jem replied with equal excitement —

  “And if you dare to injure her in the least, I will await you where no policeman can step in between. And God shall judge between us two.”

  The policeman now interfered with persuasions and warnings. He locked his arm in Jem’s to lead him away in an opposite direction to that in which he saw Mr. Carson was going. Jem submitted gloomily, for a few steps, then wrenched himself free. The policeman shouted after him —

  “Take care, my man! there’s no girl on earth worth what you’ll be bringing on yourself if you don’t mind.”

  But Jem was out of hearing.

  XVI. MEETING BETWEEN MASTERS AND WORKMEN.

  ”Not for a moment take the scorner’s chair;

  While seated there, thou know’st not how a word,

  A tone, a look, may gall thy brother’s heart,

  And make him turn in bitterness against thee.”

  — ”LOVE-TRUTHS.”

  The day arrived on which the masters were to have an interview with a deputation of the workpeople. The meeting was to take place in a public room, at an hotel; and there, about eleven o’clock, the mill-owners, who had received the foreign orders, began to collect.